“Sign the petition! Spitzer on the ballot!” Cried the nice young man in front of Fairway, the Gotham foodie emporium where West Side Democrats groce .
As I walked up, he was beset with. “Are you kidding? You have some nerve! That bastard!….” by a fiftyish woman .
“Everyone deserves a second chance.” replied the young man.
“I’ll pay you ten dollars just to get the hell out of here!”
“He’s paying me a lot more than that,” he said, smiling.
In no particular hurry, and curious to see what sort of person might sign, I stood a few feet away and watched.
After about five minutes, not one person had signed. I thought I would at least wait until someone did — I wanted to see what kind of person it might be — someone young, with an open mind? Or an older firebrand who had been weird during his own horny era.
Another five minutes. No one.
Yesterday Spizter announced that he had obtained the requisite signatures (Your Honesty, did any of those signatures come from a young man stationed at Fairway?) to run for Comptroller of the City of New York, his first attempt since he was hounded out of the governor’s office for cavortings with a $4000 a night joy girl. Back then Spitzer diminished the already negative balance of his credibility by saying it was a private matter between himself and his wife; and it wasn’t our money he spent. Eventually, after much foot-dragging, mealy-mouthed sophistry and sullen pouting, even his outlandish sense of entitlement bowed to the hurricane of public outrage. He slunk reluctantly away into a short-lived seclusion before re-emerging as a television person.
Now, he “deserves a second chance.”
During the first chance, His Honesty did fuck-all to clean up New York State politics. He reprised the thuggish grandstanding of his days as state attorney general. Leaving state legislators to loot the public purse, Spitzer hounded newspaper favorites with endless investigations, serial prosecution and eternal damnation. “I am a fucking steamroller,” he famously declared.
Well, it’s one thing to wield the flaming sword of divine retribution in white-robed innocence. It’s not the same when lolling about on the rumpled sheets of a rented seraglio with your nymphet (that girl was kinda young, wasn’t she?). For Clinton supporters his lying loins might indicate aptitude for public service, but someone who blows several grand a night on tattooed ladies might not be the best person to comptrol the public purse strings. Has the town drunk suddenly barged into our living room declaiming the virtues of temperance while sucking down a pint of Borzoi.
Spitzer has been a fierce proponent of public funding for campaigns, insisting that a candidate’s private wealth should not provide an unfair advantage. Backed by a powerful state Democratic machine, Spitzer could count on easily raising enough contributions to qualify for the maximum in matching funds, which in New York State, is six for one. This time around, however, with public enthusiasm for Spitzer at a very low level, he wants to pay for his campaign out of his own or, more accurately, his family’s, pocket.
Obviously he has recovered his respect for family. Can we do the same for him? Let us cling to the hem of his Municipal robes as he sallies forth to smite evildoers who have lost all comptrol. Let us arise and go now to Fairway, where young men getting more than ten dollars of his family’s money every hour will be happy to clerk campaign pledges.
Or do we tire of His Honesty?