If you really want to hear about it, the first things you’ll probably want to know are whether gray is my favorite color, whether I’m more comfortable in briefs or boxers, and if I was the one who tweeted that crude portrait from coast to coast. Well, no, I prefer maroon, in loose-fitting boxers, and of course not. I don’t have a Twitter account, and I’m not on Facebook. I have no interest in being posted, tweeted or “liked.” (Have I even been “liked”?) My friends at the gym are all jealous. A lot of them yearn for this kind of exposure. But just because I’m attached to a public figure doesn’t mean I want to be out there like the guy on the cover of Sticky Fingers. Like my favorite authors, I hate having my picture taken.
A yfrog comes across the sky, and I’ve been screaming ever since. I haven’t been in this much pain since the day of our bris. You try to live your life with a certain dignity. You spend a lot of your days holding it all in, sacrificing your own comfort out of a sense of duty on the campaign trail or in some committee hearing. In private, when the lights are out, you try to stand tall when called to serve.
I can’t believe we missed Israel Day because of all this!
I’d just as soon we did resign. I hate D.C. You sweat too much. You forge marriages of convenience. You rally around the consensus, one consensus or another. Call it the consensus of the heather-gray cotton boxer-brief—the bipartisan compromise of the undergarment world. Nobody’s honest here. In fact, the day-to-day fakery is so rampant that otherwise upstanding individuals retreat to the Internet to say disgusting things to strangers half a continent away, dream up ill-fated mayoral campaigns and take pictures of parts of themselves that never agreed to be photographed in the first place.
I’ll be happy when we’re back in Queens. I’ll be happy when my privacy’s restored in the private sector. Maybe then we can focus on what really matters in life: dignity, by which I mean having a social life healthy and genuine enough that those close to you are not tempted to resort to transcontinental electronic communication for gratification; seclusion, by which I mean nobody cares about you or what color your underwear is; and comfort, by which I mean constant proximity to a clean lavatory and some maroon silk boxer shorts.