I want to thank you all for your passionate, thoughtful, sometimes amusing and generally quite tough comments on the status of Elliot Ness/Spitzer. My favorite, somewhere down in the middle, was from one of my regular correspondents who remarked, "Your an idiot."
I suppose this situation will play itself out over the next few weeks and months, displacing, for a time, even Britney from the harsh glare of public morality. And in the end, I'm sure everything will work out as it should. At this point, however, I have to say that in spite of all the good reasons not to, even though he is, without question, a horrible hypocrite and whoremaster and all that? I feel sorry for Eliot Spitzer. Not because he deserves it. But because, if I got in trouble, I would hope that I do.
When I was nine years old, my mother and father gave me a beautiful jacket with suede elbow patches. The day after I received it, I lost it at school. I remember, more than 40 years later, the moment I realized that I had no idea where it was. I knew that when I got home, my father would say, "Where's your new jacket?" And I would have to say, "I don't know." I never got it back, by the way. But that's sort of beside the point. The thing we're talking about is the eight hours I had to endure before anybody but me knew that the jacket was lost.
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