I imagined how much better my life would be with my sister-wife Martha by my side. Our bed sheets ironed and folded into hospital corners; a perfectly labeled food pantry. Surely, these advantages would outweigh the awkwardness that might arise at bedtime.
Whether the latest allegations about John Travolta are true or not -- that he sexually harassed several men and had a secret relationship with his male private pilot for six years -- it's all pretty sad, the jokes and the snickering notwithstanding.
The lawyer from Williams & Connolly was right all those years ago: John Edwards turned his life and pursuit of higher office into a private hell that is now playing out in a courtroom where there are no angels as witnesses.
Murdoch's name is now synonymous with a perversion of the journalistic ideal, an incarnation of the profession obsessed with information at any cost and unfettered by the constraints of law, propriety and a commitment to discovering the truth legitimately.
One day, I stepped off the treadmill and picked up the phone. I didn't even know what I was doing. But I found myself calling a publication that had left a voicemail about Rielle Hunter. I was going to confirm the affair.
In an ideal world, media outlets would ignore the trivial banalities of celebrity meltdowns and focus primarily on the real world issues that concern us all. However, the media needs to give the people what they want in order to survive.