Leave Elliot Alone!

One day I was utterly starving, but I had a dinner date with Raoul. We'd be in a restaurant soon enough, I told myself, so rather than grab an emergency muffin I decided to tough it out.

"So," Raoul said as we sat in his apartment, "where do we want to eat?"

"Gosh," I said politely, "anywhere is great."

Now, say this to some men and they're fine. They'll respond with something like, "Hey, a new Hungarian place just opened up down the street. Why don't we give that a try?" You'll nod, you'll head to the car, and in ten to twelve minutes Chicken Paprikash will be coursing through your bloodstream. You'll be so impressed with your man's confidence and charisma that you're fogging up the car windshield three minutes after dessert.

Raoul, unfortunately, wasn't one of those guys. He took my politeness as indecision, which compounded his own. "Yeah," he said, ratcheting his La-Z-Boy to horizontal, "I can't decide either. Let's just chill out here and it'll work itself out."

This wasn't exactly where I wanted this conversation to go. Dinner plans don't work themselves out any more than gonorrhea does. I had to take matters in my own hands. "How about Italian?" I said. Everybody likes Italian.

"I had Italian a week ago Thursday," he said, "so that's out."

"Mexican?"

"Makes me gassy."

"Japanese?"

He made a face. "I saw this thing on the news about sushi worms -- "

I had to cut him off if I ever wanted to eat again. "Where do you want to go, then?"

He thought for a minute. "I feel like going somewhere Asian, but not entirely Asian. French fusion would be nice, but country-style rather than formal. I want the place to have small rectangular tables placed parallel to the walls, and I want a small, subservient waitress named Tatsuo to read me the specials while groups of traveling musicians entertain us with songs from their native land."

I waited for him to say he was kidding but he didn't. And ninety minutes later -- after flipping through the Zagat Guide, the Yellow Pages, and eighteen old copies of "New York" magazine -- it turned out he was more tired than hungry. I dumped a can of tuna on top of a frozen waffle and ate that while he slept.

Now, if all this sounds familiar, it's how Americans pick politicians. We want charismatic, ambitious, driven men . . . who happily go back home to their wives every night.

Riiight. Tell you what -- you find a guy who fits that order, and I'll go open up the tuna.

There are certain combinations that just don't go together, and it's stupid to pretend they do. We elect egotistical control freaks -- Bill Clinton, Michael Bloomberg, Rudy Giuliani -- and then freak out when they act egotistical and start controlling things. What, you thought guys like this actually waited for old ladies to cross the road? You thought they only slept with the chicks they're married to? Where's the challenge in bedding a woman who got a pillow embroidered with "Tonight's the night!" for a wedding gift?

We're breeding Rottweilers, and then we freak out when we find pawprints on our chintz.

Me, I like Mr. Spitzer. Born into a billionaire family, he could have ended up like Don Trump Jr., who I'm convinced -- just based on his family and the coat of arms on his suit -- spends eight hours picking out which pinky ring to wear before he collapses, exhausted, on the bed. With a chip on his shoulder even his successor can see, Mr. Spitzer wants to make something of his life.

And he's making an okay start of it, except for the personality thing.

Of course, I understand the package. Would I cry if Elliot wasn't faithful to me? Would I explode if I came home and found somebody else's plaid boxer shorts in the glove compartment of our car? How stupid do you think I am? I'm reasonably certain Steadman doesn't burst into tears when he finds strange lingerie under the couch.

Even though we don't have any victims, we have a crime. Why, he violated the Mann Act! He's transported hookers across state lines. Please. If that thing were really enforced, there'd be nobody to push the drink trolleys on airplanes. It's like ninety-eight percent of the Bible: maybe it made sense before refrigeration or lawyers, but it's all just useless crap now. Maybe years ago pimps used to saddle up the horses and drive their whores where the money was. They'd hit up all the horny gold rush dudes for a few month, then hop back in the covered wagon and head to D. C. for Chester Arthur's inauguration. Food probably ran short, tempers probably flared, and it was probably tough for the hookers to be seated for long periods of time. But, you know, we've got BIG METAL BIRDS now. Spitzer's hooker got four thousand dollars, a trip to New York, and a night in a posh hotel. Throw in a "Blades of Glory" DVD and a leg cramp and that's the hottest date I've had in twenty years.

Which is why I'm about two minutes from posting a "LEAVE ELLIOT ALONE!" video on YouTube. We need to start judging politicians on what they do for us, rather than what they do in bed. Elliot Spitzer is a good man who deserves a few happy nights with his Free Trade whore. If we're making a list of politicians who should be thrown out of office, he wouldn't even show up until page two. He's screwed exactly two women, while there's one other fellow out there who's screwed all the rest of us.