We may now have officially reached the tipping point in this whole Spitzer thing. Not only has the whole thing finally been reduced to a diamond-hard chunk of New York navelgazing -- but it's happening in the Times, meaning that the subject must have been sapped of any legitimate interest for at least a couple days now.
[A]re the rest of us idling in the sexual slow lane? Come to think of it, are we even traveling the same highway?
I’m joking, sort of, but the fact of the matter is that Eliot Spitzer, James McGreevey and David Paterson have, among their other contributions to public life, provided a behavioral yardstick as unsettling as any that Alfred Kinsey or Masters and Johnson ever produced. They’ve underscored our flimsy grasp of what goes on inside marriages and outside of them, making us feel like sheltered boobs.
Well, two points for accuracy, anyways.
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