“Marxism is the opium of the intellectuals.”

- Edmund Wilson

Sadie Hawkins Day. The Shmoo. Lower Slobovia. Joe Bfstplk, Evil Eye Fleegle and General Bullmoose. Lonesome Polecat and Hairless Joe. Stupyfyin' Jones and Moonbeam McSwine. Marryin' Sam, Fearless Fosdick and Kickapoo Joy Juice.

If you still don't know what I'm talking about, here are the final clues: Dogpatch, U.S.A; Daisy Mae and Li'l Abner.

Today is the birthday of Al Capp, creator of the classic comic strip "Li'l Abner" that was the model for bringing entertainment and political commentary to the masses via daily syndication. (Don't worry, "Pogo" fans — I'm with you there, too.)

I read Li'l Abner daily in the Indianapolis Star when I was growing up (though I probably understood maybe 20% of it) and whenever I could until Capp shut the strip dowin in 1977. A highlight of my teen years was appearing in a stage production of Li'l Abner in my high school play. The director/drama teacher wanted me to be Li'l Abner or Marryin' Sam, but I could not sing. A lick. So what else was there to do with all this talent, imposing, broad shoulders and no vocal talent but to take on the role of Earthquake McGoon, who's singing was supposed to be awful. And I nailed it. Every night.

(And a happy, one-day-late birthday to you, Stupyfyin' Jones. And Mr. Fleegle, there might still be a need for your services in regards to the Mall Diva.)

If'n I had my druthers, I'd still be reading Li'l Abner. Natcherly!

Let's see, I laughed out loud several times at the over-the-top antics; smiled frequently at the clever movie parodies; giggled when the lads turned a tired cliché inside out; and had a great "aha!" moment at an especially subtle inside joke, so I guess you can say I found Hot Fuzz amusing.

Hot Fuzz is the latest collaboration from the team that brought us the comic zombie homage/thriller Shaun of the Dead. This time, instead of re-animating the undead genre, director Edgar Wright and actors Simon Pegg and Nick Frost (from a screenplay written by Wright and Pegg) buddy-up to the high-explosive Bad Boys-style cop action films, playing the mis-matched partners investigating a series of extreme murders in a quiet English village that is, of course, more than it seems.

Pegg is the no-nonsense super cop, Nicholas Angel, banished to the sticks from London because his high-performance record and capabilities were making the rest of the police force look bad. His persona is nearly the exact opposite of the character Pegg played in Shaun. Frost, meanwhile, is Danny Butterman, the bumbling, lightly-regarded local constable who yearns to be like his heroes from the hundreds of action DVDs he owns. As with Shaun, the send-up is as much a homage as a parody as you can tell the team knows its source material well and is having a blast playing fast and loose with the touchstones.

There's a lot of violence and blood in the film, but it's more in the style of Monty Python and the Holy Grail rather than Friday the 13th. The language is too strong at times for it to be family fare, but it's a lively and fun film with enough mystery to keep you guessing and a never-ending series of jokes and references to keep you laughing without turning into a farce like Police Academy. Pegg and Frost are great together, and the success of their previous film allowed them to bring in some familiar names and faces to play supporting roles (such as Jim Broadbent and the wolfish Timothy Dalton) or perform cameos (Cate Blanchett). One of the best moves was casting veteran Brit actor Edward Woodward (from the old The Equalizer TV series). I remember seeing Woodward in the '79 version of The Wicker Man where he plays a by-the-book investigator contending with a very creepy group of pagans (one of the most disturbing movies I've ever seen). In Hot Fuzz, however, Woodward gets to turn the tables on his earlier role — and seems to be having an excellent time while doing so.

As will you, I think, if you rent this movie.

Huzzah, it's football season again! That means I'm spending more time in front of the tube watching a game...and all of the commercials that go with it. By this point in my life I can pretty much tune these out (though I can't explain these strange cravings for cheese puffs, fast food and big screen TVs), but I make note of commercials I like and those that drive me crazy.

Of the latter, what's really bugging me lately are the commercials for Ford trucks. Now I like Mike Rowe a lot and his "Dirty Jobs" show is something the kids and I like to catch. He's a likable enough pitchman for Ford, but if he's getting paid for every time those commercials run he's going to have more than enough to tell someone else to do those dirty jobs. Every TV timeout this last weekend featured one of two different Ford truck commercials. I mean it, I started to count on them: a commercial break would occur and I'd think, "Let's see, last break they showed the one with the truck stopping the cargo plane so that means that this break it will be the one with the truck going through the road course backwards" — and I'd be right! And I hate it when I'm right! (About things like this anyway.) The repetition is enough to make me reject the Flomax commercials because suddenly having to go to the bathroom at every commercial break doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

This year's crop of Coors Light commercials with the hokey coach interviews (which I ripped last year) are still annoying, though I'm glad they've let poor Bill Walsh rest in peace. The only interest I've taken in these is that they fulfilled my prediction of using Denny Green's infamous "they are who we thought they were" meltdown from last year, but even that just makes me mad to think that he's still getting paid.

On the "like" side, though, I have to admit to being beguiled by the iPod Nano commercial that features a series of the little video-playing Nanos being lifted off the table like playing cards while showing a music video of a woman in an electric blue jumpsuit. Now I'm not an iPod kind of guy. My lifestyle is not such that I need to have my ears tickled non-stop by some form of musical entertainment. But the little song the woman is singing keeps growing on me, or perhaps it's the almost laughably simplistic choreography in the video that somehow reminds me of the dance scene in the Charlie Brown Christmas program. I don't know just what it was, but it drove me to find out who the singer is and the name of the song.

I succeeded:



(If the video doesn't play on your monitor you can also check it out at this link.)

Her name is Leslie Feist, a Canadian indie-fave and I've found a lot of her music on iTunes that I think I'll be downloading (but for CDs, not an iPod).

Mmmm, catchy. "1,2,3,4, tell me why you love me more..."

Update:

My first impression of the choreography for this video was based on what I could see in the Nano screen in the TV commercial. Looking at it more closely, while the dance moves are simple, the camera-work is very creative and cleverly makes use of perspective - and apparently it's done in one amazing, continuous take!

I saw this bumper-sticker today:

"The road to Hell is paved with Republicans"

My reaction:

"So, you've been there?"

...just another service he offers.

Ahh, the Crooked Spoon. We were hungry after a long hike. My feet were tired. My mom, sister, and I had left my father at the bar down the street to watch the game end. Sitting at our table, I tried not to fall asleep. We perused our menus and decided what we wanted. There were only a few people in the restaurant.

We didn't have to wait too long before my father walked in. He seemed to be in a rather jovial mood. We ordered our food and then he shared his story of the man who had "played football before" and the other who was giving himself a pedicure at the bar. *Shudder* Anyway, after a while our appetizer came. It was goat-cheese-and-spinach dip (sounds great, no?) with pita bread. Our pita bread ran out before our dip did. We asked for more pitas, but that took forever, so we were eating the dip with our forks. When our bread finally came, there pretty much wasn't any dip left...except what my dad had scooped onto his plate earlier. My mom tried to take some, which resulted in my dad getting territorial. Like an animal. Actually, like an ape. "Ooh ooh ooh!" (How do you spell what an ape says, anyways?)

My mom was taken aback, but my sister and I started laughing. She should have told us not to encourage him, because he kept it up all through dinner- playing with his food, beating his chest and scratching his butt like monkeys do. Well, maybe he didn't really go that far; but whatever. He was scaring the other customers, alright? Because by this time, the restaurant was full. I saw the people behind my dad glance over a couple times, wondering what the heck was going on. I just kept laughing. I was tired, it was funny! We were really starting to wonder just how many beers he'd actually had beforehand.

That is one family vacation memory I will not forget. I'm scarred for life. Darwin would be so proud.

Arr, mateys!!! It's National Talk Like A Pirate Day! Be sure to swab the decks or shiver me timbers or whatever pirates do.

Buy a ship!
Name it something catchy like: The Black Pearl; the Umbiquitous Unicorn; The Funky Chicken, etc.,etc...
Go raid the 7 seas (actually, I counted, and there are about 31 seas.)
Sing 'A Pirate's Life For Me!' Make it your ship's anthem.

Or to save a lot of money, just buy the Boat Game. (I hope I did that link right O_o)

Ciao for no - I mean ARRR!!! Bye, now, mateys!

I awoke easily last Sunday morning to the tramping sound of Lake Superior shoving repeatedly against the shore just 80 feet from the screened door of the cottage. It had been the same sound I had fallen asleep to the night before, and I looked at the clock and was half-stunned to realize that for the first time in months I had just spent eight glorious, uninterrupted hours dead to the world.

I also noted with some relief that the mental checklist of the day’s chores, challenges and deadlines was not, for the first time in months, floating just behind my eyes, trying to push them open. Instead the invisible slate was hanging back, humble and nearly bare like the marquis of a Dairy Queen closed for the season, the only lettering in my head a casual scrawl: Grand Marais, On Vacation.

Without much urgency I chalked the most pressing agenda item for the day: Breakfast.


On Saturday my family and I had driven up to the North Shore from the Cities. I hadn't been able to get away much this past summer and had had to miss some of the picnics and canoe trips my wife and daughters had already taken, so I was really ready for this trip. By coming this late in the season, and before the fall leaves were at their peak, we had enjoyed a less crowded road, though the cars were still packed as thick as flies around a sweet roll at Tobies in Hinckley. Instead we had a picnic lunch outside the Hinckley Fire Museum and then kept bearing north to Duluth and the southwestern tip of the great lake, whereupon we hugged its sprawling shore as we passed the familiar totems of our trip: Two Harbors, Castle Danger, Gooseberry Falls, the Split Rock Lighthouse. We turned off at Palisade Head in order to walk along the the towering cliffs that for so long have told the mighty lake, “This far and no further” (a testament that even a natural balance isn’t necessarily an easy one). Driving up the steep, narrow road up to the parking lot at the rocky edge of Palisade, the “I ride ATVs and I Vote” bumper sticker on our borrowed mini-van contrasted nicely with the many “Wellstone!” stickers already there. After some clambering around and the usual jelly-kneed sensations we were back on Hwy. 61, with the hills, woods and great root beer rivers of the Superior National Forest on our left, the lake always on our right, past the Tettegouche State Park, and the Temperance and Cascade Rivers, crashing down the gorges and over the rocks in a great foamy rush to keep their standing appointments with Gitchee-Gumee. Then we were at last into Grand Marais, and still a bit further, past 5-Mile Rock and to the Croftville Road Cottages.

After that my wife prepared some lamb stew in our kitchen for dinner. Then, in the gathering twilight, a campfire and toasted marshmallows as we watched the bats chase down the remaining insects of the season and finally into bed, the tramping sound in my ears of Superior shoving against the shore, just 80 feet from the screened door of my cottage.


Our cottage. It was beautifully remodeled and very comfortable with two gas fireplaces, and at a great price.

Sunday, when breakfast had been duly scratched off of the to-do list, we went back into Grand Marais, parking in a lot beside the harbor where I could see a yellow sailboat moored 50 yards from shore, crisp in the morning sun and nodding to us on the gentle waves. We walked through the small town, browsing at the many gift shops and quaint attractions. I’m sure that the Indians, and later the first explorers, trappers and lumbermen through this area, would be stupefied at the many opportunities available today to partake of the comforts of pie and caffeine.

While the girls admired jewelry and scarves, beneath rustically-lettered signs informing them that they were under video surveillance, I scouted around and discovered the apparently sole location where that afternoon’s Vikings-Lions football game could be seen. That was still several hours away, however, so we got back in the van and headed north to the Devil’s Kettle Falls and State Park. We “tail-gated” with chicken- and egg-salad sandwiches from our cooler before setting off on the somewhat stiff 1.4 mile hike to the falls. The path is relatively wide and well-maintained, but persistently uphill and even in the mild temperatures we got pretty warm. There are some very nice look-outs along the way, however, and we admired the cascading river and the vistas of trees still mostly green but already seasoned with explosive swathes of red and orange.

After steady climbing we were then at a series of wooden steps and railings leading us down to the titular “Devil’s Kettle.” The relief in the descent was greatly mitigated by the knowledge that every one of the 179 steps would have to be negotiated in reverse order and direction on our way back. On the way back up, however, we did get to see an eagle circling directly above us (though at first I thought it might be a buzzard). The girls dropped me back at the bar in time for the game and then they headed for the bay with their sketch books.

I thought the bar would have more than a few tourists inside to catch the game, but it was all locals who knew each other and didn't seem to mind my presence. It was a congenial, cozy group. One of the patrons sitting at the bar, who was wearing open-toed flip-flop sandals, apparently felt so at home that he started picking at his toenails, dropping his scrapings on the carpet. Well, I wasn't planning on eating anyway, as I only wanted to watch the game, but I ordered a draft Bock for medicinal purposes. The pedicurist and one of the female customers were soon intent on a discussion about why the TV kept showing a "DET 6, MIN 3" score from time to time in the upper corner of the screen, especially when the current score was Lions 7, Vikings 0. I cautiously submitted for their consideration that the strange score might, in fact, be the score of the Tigers-Twins game that was also going on that afternoon. Their reaction gave credence to the adage that the definition of "expert" means someone who lives more than 50 miles away. A little later I felt comfortable enough to take sides between two groups disputing the interpretation of a certain play. One of the members of the "other" group, an older gentleman, loudly insisted his version was correct because he "used to play this game." To which I replied, "And did they wear helmets back then?" Fortunately, this was well received by the group as a whole and the gentleman in particular, and while I was on a "one-beer-per-half" pace, a third Bock appeared in front of me in the fourth quarter.

I'd nursed my way through about a third of it with about a minute and a half to go in the game, when my wife pulled up in the parking lot and sent the kids in to get me. "Paw," they said, "Ma says it's time to come home!" Well, actually, they didn't say anything like that, but they did let me know that they and my supper were waiting for me down the street a little ways at a place called the Crooked Spoon. Therefore, even though the game looked to be heading for overtime, I settled my tab and left after Longwell's kick clanked off the upright. Besides, with two 16-oz. glasses of beer, plus a little bit more, in me I was starting to feel a little tingly in my extremities. A brisk walk in the cool evening air was the perfect remedy, however, and I arrived at the restaurant hungry and invigorated. The Crooked Spoon had been recommended to us by friends who admired its sophisticated menu. I believe I acquitted myself with grace and aplomb while dining — an opinion that the Mall Diva threatens to dispute in a post of her very own if I'm not careful (or she gets the slightest encouragement from anyone).

Whatever. The food was absolutely delicious, from the melted cheese and spinach appetizer, through the pulled pork with beans and greens soup and the barbequed ribs, and including two delectable pieces of carrot cake — each the size of some of the boulders we'd seen along the shore earlier — that my family fell upon with flashing cutlery like ninjas. We left the restaurant well satisfied with the meal and the day, but even more "dessert" was in store: an enormous crescent moon, looking so perfect that if you saw it in a movie you'd think it was a painted backdrop for sure, had risen over the bay and was reflecting a golden beam across the still waters directly at us, and the beam followed us nearly all the way to the car.

Yep, it had been a great day.

I wrote this essay for another publication, back in September, 2001.

Ultimately, America’s secular façade crumbled even before its material symbols collapsed. I first turned on my radio — and heard the first words regarding Tuesday’s disaster — moments before the second tower was struck. The voices of the national news team were already urging Americans to pray for the safety of those involved. It sounded almost glib at first, but as the unreal became real and the horror increased by the minute, the references became more heart-felt, even desperate.

As our true helplessness and vulnerability became apparent, the call to pray was in every report and every story. And pray we did: alone, with our families, and in special services and vigils that themselves became news. All of this flying in the face of a culture and media that has said for years that faith and divine intervention are, at best, inappropriate if not impossible. It must have been like discovering that the kooky old aunt you’ve been keeping in the attic is the only one who knows where the family silver is buried.

But which is the true picture of America? Are we a secular society that merely pays lip service to faith when a crisis looms, or are we a nation of quiet faithful who allow ourselves to be cowed by society until circumstances give us a chance to break out? I know how our attackers would describe us.

Make no mistake, this is a spiritual and religious war. Those who attacked us chose as their main target what they perceived to be the symbolic spiritual center of our nation. Perhaps we need to ask why the most recognizable symbol — and target — of a country founded on Christian principles should turn out to be the World Trade Center.

My opinion, however, is that we are primarily a nation of faith even if the cultural spin obscures this. There are just too many blessings in our lives and too few fruitful external assaults on our freedom and security for it to be otherwise. Our country could not have developed the abundance we experience (or manage our enormous debt) without God’s favor and the generally well-intentioned (if unfocused) spiritual character of our people. The vicious and ungodly in-fighting of our leaders and factions in an attempt to garner power and divvy up the fruit from our foundational blessings is both sad and laughable in comparison to the desperation that much of the rest of the world lives in: we’re fleas fighting over the dog, but our biting and scratching just may drive the dog crazy (to which the dyslexic, atheistic flea shouts "there is no dog!")

But if we’re stronger spiritually than we realize, what is the meaning of the September 11 attacks?

...is my cousin!!!!

Yes, that's right. Tonight, for the first time in 25 years, Inver Grove Heights has crowned a queen for itself. I went to the coronation, the audience of which was largely made up of Lindsay Irish supporters. Who's that you say? Oh, why that is just my cousin THE QUEEN.

You know, coronations are actually pretty boring except for about the last eight minutes. Then it's nail-biting suspense, and then either a sharp sense of disappointment and loss or one of overwhelming and exceeding joy and excitement; and all just for a (very, incredibly) sparkly crown. It almost makes me want to run. Almost.

Here we are, the two/thirds royalties:

She also won the community award. Every candidate had a box that their constituents filled with non-perishable food items, and the candidate with the most non-perishable food items won. Yay for the constituents!! I think she should also get the award for the loudest cheerers (read: screamers). The MC told her "Wow, it sounds like you brought your whole neighborhood tonight". Heck yeah. And I can say I knew her way back when:

*Sniff, sniff* Now I probably won't see her for a whole year, til the next coronation when she does the crowning.

MoveOn.org takes out full page ad in the New York Times: General Petraeus or General Betray Us?

True North has this, via Captain Ed and Colonel Joe Repya.

For the last couple of months I've been seeing certain TV commercials showing throngs of consumers moving through coffee shops, delis, newspaper stands in choreographed efficiency as the ultimate receivers of our just-in-time economy until ... until some troglodyte tries to pay cash for his bearclaw. Everything comes to a screeching halt and everyone looks at him as if he had just tried to pay with a handful of shells, or asked if anyone had change for a goat. The patrons now jammed up behind him in line scowl, and the cashier sneers at him as she makes a big show of counting out his change. You almost expect her to spit in the poor guy's palm as she finishes, then bite her thumb at him.

The time-honored tradition of "cash-on-the-barrelhead," of "in God we trust, all others pay cash," and "show me the money!" is now the latest target of the commercial and advertising interests that made us feel insecure about our body-odor, bad breath and ring-around-the-collar. You see, the new, cool way to buy is to forget the petty cash and whip out the pretty plastic. It's fast, it's easy, and if it's less than $25 you don't even have to sign your name!

You owe it to yourself! You owe it to the people in line behind you! And, let's not forget, you owe it, literally, to the bank that issued you the card! Booya!

The credit card companies and banks want you to use that credit card, not because it makes life simpler for you, but because it makes it simpler for their executives to get their bonuses at the end of the year from all the interest you pay.

"But it's only a $5 purchase," you say. That, my friend, is the same kind of thinking that lets you believe you really can get a $500,000 mortgage for just $483 a month (and never mind the small print). No, it's a really a $6 purchase, if you're paying a 20% rate on your credit card.

Is that a big deal? Well, up until the first of this year my company had a great, long-standing employee benefit that most of us took for granted: a 25% discount off of our lunch tab at the corporate cafeteria if we showed our company ID. Then they decided to discontinue this benefit. Oh, you should have heard the complaining, and the outrage! (I know, I was one of them). Some people complained that it was an additional burden on their already stretched finances. Personally, I could afford the increase, but found the company's explanation for the change to be specious. I made up the difference by buying my bottled water at Walmart for .40 and bringing it to work instead of paying $1.35 for it at the cafeteria. (I save money and wreck the environment, so it's a win-win).

Yet today I see some of those who complained now swiping their credit cards through the reader at the cash (or should I say "credit") register, now paying 45% more for their lunch than they did this time last year. Now, maybe they're using their credit card because they don't have the cash to otherwise afford the bag of chips to accessorize their meal. If so, though, that's the kind of thinking and behavior that ultimately turns them from consumers into the consumed.

It's not that I don't admire efficiency and a fast pass through the lunch line so I can get on with my break. I know who the fast cashiers are in our cafeteria and, admittedly, there have been times I've stewed in line as my soup cooled while some lady painstakingly wrote out a check, recorded it in her register and balanced her checkbook before moving on. I also know that we often trade off money for convenience, and even have "convenience stores" dedicated to that. It's just that now whenever I see those credit card commercials, or see someone using their card for an incidental purchase, I think of the extra charges they are bringing on themselves and it reminds me of an alternate meaning to the phrase, "swipe your card": the one that means steal, as opposed to a quick pass.

It was an honor for me to be invited to be a contributing writer to the new Minnesota group blog True North. I don't write frequently or deeply about politics but I get a good post off every now and then about the Minnesota scene or cultural anomalies and/or artifacts. To be told I had "chops" and ought to be a part of this new venture made me blush, avert my eyes and shyly shuffle my mouse. I knew I was going to have to live up to being part of a talented and volatile company of bloggers, and I didn't know if I would fit in.

Just as nominees to a new political administration are flipped and grilled and have their pasts treated as merely so many prophetic entrails, I fear that in the wake of "Butt-Cheekgate" my past indiscretions will be my undoing. Therefore, in an effort to be upfront and to forestall the endless rounds of "gotcha" journalism, I want to forthrightly confess that I, too, have used similar wording on my blog. Not only that, but in a headline as well.

Please understand, I was much younger then and it all seemed like a bit of a harmless lark. Never in a million years would I have suspected that it would come back to haunt me like this and cause such embarrassment to my friends and family. To them, and anyone who I may have offended, I sincerely apologize. Not that I'm really like Learned Foot, of course. I mean, the idea that he'd not just push the nascent envelope but rip through it like a bottle rocket was as safe a bet as taking the "under" on how many games Rondell White would play before getting hurt this year. Still, I think I'm going to shelve the post I was working on comparing Nick Coleman to a dingleberry.

If that's not repentance, I don't know what is.

Need I say more?

Last Saturday the Princess took me to see "Hairspray". It was absolutely adorable. And hilarious. I almost peed my pants from laughing so hard. It's probably on of the best musicals ever.

Nikki Blonsky does a great job as Tracy Turnblad, who knows she was born to dance, even if she doesn't fit in with all the skinny girls. She is a funny, out-going force to be reckoned with; and she teaches us that dreams really can come true! (Okay, that was a little sappy- *gag, gag*) Anyway, while she fights for her chance to prove herself, she also fights for the equality of her new negro friends, even to the extent of her "assaulting" a police officer! Yup, a great family film.

Zac Efron plays Tracy's love interest, Link Larkin, who is a lot cuter than- and not nearly as annoying as- he was in "High School Musical" (another movie the Princess made me watch).

Oh, and John Travolta makes a pretty good mom.

Watching this movie will most likely make you want to dance and sing- it's so infectious! I can't wait to buy it.

"No person was ever honored for what he received. Honor has been the reward for what he gave."
— Calvin Coolidge

Ten years ago a great woman died. Her life was an example of selfless service to others, especially the poor and ill-used. Her fame was merely a tool she was given to advance her cause, and like many a tool it chafed and left it's share of calluses, all of which she bore without complaint or retaliation, considering it unworthy of her mission.

A week-end long tribute where so many of those touched by her life could speak of her gifts and her sacrifice, of the ongoing effect and inspiration of her life, and express an awestruck admiration for the deprivations she endured and embraced would have been fitting.

I saw no such tribute last weekend.

Now that Larry Craig has belatedly done the honorable thing and resigned from the Senate we are spared the torturous explanations to the effect that he is not gay but was merely tapping his foot in time to the Pat Boone tunes he was listening to on his iPod. Nor will we have to hear that in reality he has silently suffered from Restless Leg Syndrome (as a result of childhood trauma) and has now realized the need to place himself under a doctor's care and hopes other sufferers will be inspired by his example to get the help they need before it's too late and their own actions are horribly and publicly misconstrued.

My objection to Craig's behavior isn't so much because he was allegedly cruising for gay sex (not that there's anything wrong with that. of course) in a public restroom, but that he was doing so in violation of his wedding vows. Whether it happens in the men's room of the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport or in a windowless hallway outside the Oval Office study, infidelity is sleazy and despicable. How can you trust anyone who has sworn to protect the Constitution against "all enemies foreign and domestic" on behalf of millions of people he'll never meet when he's already disregarded the "love, honor and cherish" promise to someone he'll have to face the rest of his life?

The most disappointing thing about the whole Craig episode and its coverage is that it is the gay-sex angle is what is sensationalized and not the faithlessness. Strangely, in today's supposedly metrosexual, Will & Grace, Queer As (just plain) Folk, just-another-form-of-normal culture it's the gay angle that gets the Man-bites-dog treatment while the marital infidelity aspect is apparently so common as to be unremarkable.

And really, aren't all of these scandals becoming so common that they barely justify the shock treatment in the media? It's looking as if the page-abusing, hooker-visiting, perv-inducing legislators in D.C. are the norm and the front-page, 24-hour-news-cycle treatment should be reserved for the men and women who don't lower themselves. It's to the point where saying, "A pox on both your houses" isn't a curse of disgust but a prophetic statement.