The astronaut story is Page One all over the planet, as you had to figure it would be. The diaper detail clinched it, as did, well, the fact she’s an astronaut. Decades of careful indoctrination have led us to believe that if you are trained to drive a space shuttle, you have the presence of mind not to delaminate over a kinda-sorta love affair.
Ah, well. We may make it to Mars in my lifetime, but we will never come close to discovering the fathomless mysteries of the human heart. Talk about a final frontier.
The astronaut is out on bail at the moment. I hope she’s on suicide watch as well.
Speaking of fathomless mysteries, the book I finished this week, “The Return of the Player,” is hilarious, every bit as funny as “The Player,” but everyone who’s read Michael Tolkin knows to expect that. Near the end the protagonist, Griffin Mill, has a soul-searching conversation with Bill Clinton on Martha’s Vineyard, and the former president tells him:
Like it nor not, there are things learned in bed, and only in bed, that can move a man or woman to something great within themselves. Promiscuity can focus the senses, the faculties of mind and insight. Very few of the people who make a dent on history can get enough of such wisdom from only one bed. And that’s what the American people understand, and in a moment of panic and weakness I didn’t trust them. America has one heart. The American people said all of that to me with every poll that showed them enraged with my enemies. I let them down by not respecting their intelligence. Give them as much of the truth as the world can stand without needing more, get that out of the way, and you deflate your enemies because they’ll be screaming at the American people for not being shocked. And who really wants to be screamed at? I may be depraved, but I, William Jefferson Clinton, am the pure product of America, and the truth is, so is everyone else.
A liberal fantasia, sure, but as a statement of principles, I’ll take it over Ted Haggard’s I am 300 percent heterosexual claims anytime.
The great unreported story of the ex-gay movement: The wives. (At least the ones who aren’t lesbians themselves.)
OK, then. Back to normal, today. The temperature is expected to soar into the teens, school is back in session and I have precisely one day to enjoy the peace and quiet, because tomorrow we’re having some painters come in and rip our lives to shreds. For this, the last difficult painting job in the house, we’re splurging on a pro. It’s the foyer/upstairs hallway, which involves one of those tricky all-the-way-to-the-ceiling-of-the-staircase deals. The household control freak is allowing it, but I’m sure he’ll go around and get all those switchplate screws lined up to 12 o’clock afterward, because otherwise he couldn’t sleep at night. And he’s already done a minor reno ahead of them, removing the ’50s-style doorbell chimes from their alcove, so as to make an “art nook” instead.
“Are you sure you’re heterosexual?” I asked.
He didn’t reply, “300 percent!,” for which I am very grateful. He just kept spackling.
When all this is over, we will have finally driven out the color oatmeal, once the dominant shade of our little GP castle. I can tolerate it on the walls, but when people use it on ceilings I put my foot down. An oatmeal ceiling feels like a Michigan winter sky. Death to oatmeal.
Bloggage today? Not much. I’m a tapped-out soul today, but I will second Lance’s recommendation of Newcritics as a fine new culture blog worth a check-out by all.