Palmetto Road

Now what was that I was saying about almost feeling sorry for Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina? Hmmm, lemme think. It all seems so long ago.

His recent announcement that he had found his "soul mate" but was "trying to fall back in love with his wife" (thus, Mrs. Sanford, is his cell mate?), however, brings my cynicism back into clear focus.

Wow. I mean, WOW. First of all, who among us in the sentient being class, doesn't already try to avoid describing our loved ones and life partners in language other than that used by the desperate twenty-something bimbos who inhabit the landscape of The Bachelor? Second of all, you might think something like that--I love my girlfriend but will take my wife, puh-leez--but no sensible, life-valuing person would ever say that in earshot of anyone he ever claimed to love, the children they hold in common, or a reporter from the Associated Press.

But, then, I'm no expert at assignations, political or otherwise. I know that there must be some advantage to issuing dueling press releases in which one tries to outdo and over-the-top the other with Bible verses and religious imagery. I can't imagine them both being so vacuous that they would keep doing so, with their children and at least two nations in tow, merely to salve their own egos. Surely not.

All in all, though, the whole affair reminds me less of a Bible-thumping melodrama and more of the early '80s nighttime sudser, Flamingo Road. Lots of philandering real estate developers with political aspirations, tired of their wives and taking up with señoritas from the wrong side of the hemisphere. Add some outré plantation imagery and voilá! Grande éxito!

We are still in serious need of a ruthless, small-town sheriff/bubba (c'mon, South Carolina, I know you've got it in ya) and a Morgan Fairchild-like character to sauce up the spot, but, all in all, it's got great potential.

* * *

As I mentioned in my previous post, for one brief, tiny moment, during the first rambling, Harlequin Romance-meets-Nicholas Sparks novel of a press conference, I kinda felt sorry for this schmoe Sanford. Life is way too short to be unhappy and not to be with the one you love. Yes, you need to attend to your responsibilities and adhere to your commitments, but no matter how much you believe in a wrathful, vengeful God, I just can't believe He or She or It would want Us to be so miserable. So why not come clean with your wife earlier in the game, serve out your term, stay close to your children as best as possible, and beat a regular trail down Argentine way as time and income allow? Surely, there is real estate that needs developing in Mar del Plata or Bariloche. Surely, there are possible TV gigs for your girlfriend stateside. Just tell her to dye her hair blond and head over to Univisión.

Just make sure this flavor of en-tango-ment is the one you want, chavo. We know that "hiking the Appalachian Trail" is a euphemism for having an affair with Our Lady of the Pampas. But what exactly is "going down Argentine way" a euphemism for? All I can see from here is that however enjoyable the love, the sex, the whatever may be, you end up crying for five days in a hotel room in Buenos Aires. This can't be good.

In my mind, once I got past the sheer schadenfreude of the moment (the loudest naysayer to Obama's stimulus package has a bit of a problem with an overstimulated package, as it were), I started to wax eloquent about the awfulness we visit upon ourselves in this country by being so binary and rigid, wrapping ourselves in the Shroud of Turin only to end up soiling ourselves in it. We whip ourselves into a frenzy over flag, country, Mom, children, baseball, apple pie, and Chevrolet, only to realize that Dad fed the children some poisoned apple pie, whacked Mom over the head with a baseball bat, loaded them into the family Impala, then drove 'em all straight into the Grand Canyon while singing "God Bless America," while wearing his favorite Kate Smith gown.

But then, when asked some innocuous question about the affair, Sanford actually *whimpered* before responding. Whimpered. Like a 49-year-old lovesick Republican teenager with a penchant for the cheesiest romantic imagery in emails ever. At that moment, all bets were suddenly, irrevocably off. Jeez, Marky Markdown, whimpering's for . . . well, no, not cats or some other pseudonym for the feline persuasion. Whimpering's for dogs.

Specifically, a dog named Bucky.

This whimpering, unfortunately, reminded me of a childhood pet, our ugly terrier mix, Bucky (short for Buckshot, which described the color and style of his fur), the homeliest, horniest little mongrel you could imagine. Way back in the '70s before we gave too much thought to Bob Barker's admonition to spay and neuter all creatures great and small (except ourselves, right Bob?), Bucky ran rampant through our neighborhood, pretty much impregnating anything momentarily stationary--animal, mineral, vegetable.

Nonetheless, Bucky was a sweet dog, so fugly that he was cute as my grandmother used to say (except she didn't say fugly), a good companion, and noteworthy for his obedience. For example, if a female dog passed by and you commanded Bucky to stay put, he would do so.

However, he would also whimper, quiver, and, um, "react" the whole time, until the female dog was out of sight and smell.

It was, to say the least, pathetic. I mean, my goodness, you felt sorry for him, just wanted to set him free and let him fertilize the world--at least until the next-door neighbors came to complain that Bucky had just knocked up their AKC-registered poodle.

Again.

* * *

So Mark Sanford, no sympathy for you, I'm afraid. Once you've got an image of a scruffy, horny mutt in your head, whimpering and crying because he can't be with the one he loves but will try to love the one he's with, well, it's hard to let it go.

When I made this comparison to my sister, recently, she protested: "You're doing a disservice to the memory of Bucky."

Alas, I suspect she's right. Bucky at least knew when to sit down and shut up, a trick that an old dog like Mark Sanford has yet to master.