One of the mantras I’ve repeated from time to time is a universal truth about marriage: The only people qualified to judge a marriage are the people in it. Marriages — relationships of all sorts — are living things, like gardens. We might feel qualified to walk by and offer advice from the picket fence, but really? It’s none of our business.
So stipulated. But if Mr. and Mrs. Newt Gingrich feel confident enough about the necessity of their presence in public life to shove themselves into my newspaper, I’m not going to feel bad about judging. Right now, the word spreading through the wreckage of the clownmobile caravan of the GOP presidential field is this: It’s all her fault. Or, to put it more crudely: He’s pussywhipped.
And I gotta say, you can spend hours spinning out fantasies about what their intimate moments are like:
He: How was your day, dear?
She: Don’t you dare speak to me.
[Thirty frosty minutes pass.]
He: Look, I’m sorry. You know what lunches with the Wall Street Journal editorial board are like. It ran long!
She: WE used to have lunch together.
He: What, you think I’m having nooners with Dorothy Rabinowitz? Are you insane?
She: That’s it! Take your things to the guest room!
[One hour passes.]
He: I brought you something from Tiffany’s. I’m sorry, honey.
She: You DID fuck her! Wait, are those natural pearls? OK, you can come back.
He: Will you wear your special nightie?
She: They aren’t diamonds. Don’t press your luck.
Among the issues leading to the resignations, according to knowledgeable sources, was the two-week vacation that Gingrich and his wife, Callista, insisted upon taking against the advice of his top political staff. Coming as it did after one of the most disastrous campaign launches in recent memory, it raised questions as to whether Gingrich would be willing to “commit time to the grassroots,” said Tyler.
Well, we all knew this would happen sooner or later. Republican pockets are very deep, and while it was certain that someone would pay to keep the self-proclaimed Smartest Republican in the World out there shaking hands and writing unreadable books, it was probably not going to happen when the money was going for baubles, and the recipient pays you back by describing your next-generation star’s policy proposals as right-wing social engineering. The campaign was doomed from the get-go. The end was humiliating. I think we won’t have Newt Gingrich to kick around anymore.
But I, for one, will miss the photos of Mrs. G’s many fun outfits. Here, an obscured view of Wednesday’s turnout, in canary.
While we’re talking politics, one of our Marks asked what journalists thought of the crowd-sourcing analysis of $P’s Alaska emails. I think: [Shrug.] At some level it’s an acknowledgement of reality; people are going to do this anyway, so invite them to partner with the big boys, maybe? Ultimately, if the things are newsworthy, then let the pros do the work. God knows we need it. If nothing else, there might be some entertainment therein. I expect we’ll find out soon.
And now I have to wrap and follow Alan to the Subaru dealer, where the Outback is getting its 50K checkup. Which reminds me I’m six months late in getting my own, so maybe I should make that appointment, too.
Not much bloggage today; it’s been an exhausting week. But here’s this:
I like that girl. Also: Remember, man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return. Maybe even to a Goodwill store.
A great weekend to all.