Clearly the man is out of his mind, if not his briefs. That there could remain any public debate about whether he is fit for public office(or a private one, that doesn't belong to a psychiatrist) is silly. Anyone who supports him is probably as into exhibitionism as he is. I grieve for his wife, who was clearly dedicated and smart, except that she married him.
That all of this emerges, so to speak, at the same time as the death of Virginia Johnson, she of the Masters & Johnson sensational breakthrough, especially in book sales, feels cosmically orchestrated, as most things are starting to seem to me--since it would be interesting to get her educated(over-educated?) opinion about what could possibly explain this madness, besides madness, or as my friend Hal says: stupidity.
Anyway, it is a cloudy day in Beverly Hills, a welcome relief, not that we have suffered here in comparison to the rest of the world-- another signpost that should be held up for those who insist there is no global warming. An overcast sky is a balm for the soul, giving,as it does, an opportunity to reflect, as life does, free of too much glare
Am debating-- not too vociferously, as I know what my intuition is-- whether or not to get a dog. As longtime friends know, I have had dogs most of my adult life, all of them singular and exceptional. The first of them was Bo, a Yorkie, the result of my husband's being a soft buy as opposed to a hard sell-- he went to get backing for a movie idea he had from a woman with a lot of money, and she ended up selling him a dog. "Say Hello to Bo," he said, as he came home sheepishly, or as that is mixing animal metaphors, Terrierly. I was a little miffed with him at the time, as I had never had a dog except for a poodle I won in a contest(25 words or less) when I was 12 that my mother made me return.
Also at the time he came home with Bo I was in the midst of my fake celebrity, the limelight you get in this country when you have a success, traveling the country doing TV talk shows promoting "THE PRETENDERS." Billy Friedkin,(to give you some sense of how long ago and what exact period it was, was shooting THE EXORCIST, and after I visited the set,) sent me to the airport in his limousine, so I was full of myself, and much of what Billy was, too, though at that moment he was clearly inspired. When I landed they had lost my luggage, and I think (I KNOW) I behaved with outrage and indignation. Then I got home and they told me Bo (we had changed his name from the more pretentious 'Beau') was dead. And I fell to my knees, no kidding, and prayed with a fervor I had never prayed, and I didn't pray that often except when I was little and asked God to keep my parents from killing each other, to keep him alive. In the morning when I called the vet said he didn't know how it was possible, but Bo was alive. He recovered, though he was blind in one eye, as Shani Wallis' boxers had come up our hill and as Madeleine, four at the time put it "made Bo a trampoline." My best friend at the time was the witty and irreverent Jaye P. Morgan, who said "Did you imagine for a moment that Shani Walllis' dogs could kill yours?" Well, yes.
Then there was Happy, who the kids found at Beverly Center, as Bo was entering into his dotage. I walked them together one day, the old man and the puppy, and they both lifted their leg by the palm tree at the same time, like a dance team, and I sorrowed at not having a camera, though the image is still in my mind. Then Don started to die, and there was so much going on of a sad and horrible nature that I had no time to try and keep the aged and ailing Bo alive, so he was put to sleep. "I already had my dog," Don said, looking away, when I brought Happy up to his bed to say Goodbye to him.
But as I started to heal, or try to, there came Mimi. Not so much a dog as an encapsulated soul. I was having lunch with Pat McPherson, my brilliant college ex-president, and she noted "You ought to have a dog." Right around the corner from the restaurant was a puppy mill store, and in the window was Mimi, so that was that. She traveled the world with me, and she could spell. She lived only seven years, but they were very full. F U L L.
Now as I enter into what appears to be my own senior phase -- how could this be? I was always the youngest one-- the youngest one in my class, and by class I don't mean my station in life, because Jews didn't have one, and even though I practiced no religion, being a Jew was not something you took off, like a sweater-- many are those who say the time has come for another dog. So I have put in an application for Emma, a rescue dog.
When I complained to my Aunt Rita, sorrowing more than complaining really, about the trouble I was having with my children, she said "But you've been very lucky with your dogs." That's the truth. Maybe someone should give a dog to Anthony Weiner. But it better be a female or he might text a picture of it lifting its leg.
