After the Fall

Last night, my book group started talking about what I suspect is the main topic of conversation in the tri-state area: the fall of New York’s soon-to-be-ex governor Eliot Spitzer. Our discussion covered arrogance, sexual addiction, and the triumph of the id over the super-ego. We talked about how, if a man allows what is essentially a brainless, sightless organ to lead him, he will get lost.
Finally, we settled on the most compelling aspect of this unfolding drama of human fallibility, namely, what, precisely, could a twenty-two year old hooker named Ashley do to make a two-hour “date” worth $4,300? We speculated about possible sexual techniques. When does one make that leap from amateur to pro? How does a penis even know it’s being handled by an expert? Is there a sodomy training school? If so, one might assume an oral exam is a given, but how about a written one? I know we won’t need to wonder about any of the sordid details for long, because doubtless, each and every one will be examined publicly, in microscopic detail, like Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress.
Anyway, as the previous paragraph suggests, we were able to joke about it for a while. But then the conversation-like this post- took a more serious turn. When you consider the fallout from this- fallout which will land squarely on Spitzer’s wife and three teenage daughters- it stops being all that funny. Archetypical tragedy occurs when a person’s most noble characteristic results in his or her demise. In Spitzer’s case, his greatest moral failing brought him down. Tragic, maybe not, but terribly, terribly sad.