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Whether we care about her or not, we've all done the math on Monica's behalf, parsing out her destiny over warming beers and neglected finger food.
No matter the permutations, there are really only three options: 1.) It happened the seamy way it looks, in which case I feel sorry for her.
In Little Cayman, where the fun is in landing, not eating, the bad-tasting bonefish, normally the fish get thrown back. " a woman—the hostess, the birthday girl—called me Saturday night.
When you emerge into a media maelstrom directly from a media-free world, whether it's Jerusalem or the bottom of the ocean, alleged semen on a reportedly navy blue dress purportedly ejaculated by the leader of the Free World seems rather unimportant, not to mention, well, seedy.But perhaps even more, I also want to point out that behind this particular bimbo eruption sits a young woman who is not a bimbo, who is a fairly sensible sort from what I saw, who was never going to be the one holding a press conference alongside a posterboard blowup of the Star with a back pocket full of the cash she got from selling out. I hovered around the coral reef of the pool table for hours that night, never coming up for air. People spread malicious buzz here—at the gym, in bars, at lunch—with no forethought, just to stay in shape, like a jog around the block. A few days later, I called her at that Pentagon job she was soon to leave. I took her to Roxanne's, a nice Tex-Mex place where I'd eaten a million times when my brother waited tables there. Trapped for months in whatever tunnel she was in, she probably saw a glimmer of light and thought she was still going to be able to extricate herself before the flood waters reached chin level, escaping D. Right off, Monica was different from the standard D. date: not a salad-picker, she joined me in appetizers and an actual entree of her own. She even offered to pay for her share, a fairly rare offer I rejected but appreciated. White House internship, arranged through some random contact I didn't quite get but didn't push, Pentagon personal assistant.She may be guilty of poor judgment, but she never asked for this. It's still etched on my December calendar: the Saturday night of Joe and Danielle's going-away party at Stetson's on U Street NW. It was fine, paddling in my little eddy of indifference, waiting for others to approach me. I was lining up a side shot when she stepped up and dropped three quarters onto the table, the smile now seemingly offered more specifically for my benefit. So even though I like Joe just fine, I didn't put a lot of stock in his 12th-hand scuttlebutt. I got the same basic bio you did, though mine was spoken rather than in black and white in the Washington Post: raised in Los Angeles, a city she found fake because her "hair is brown and boobs are real." Parents divorced, dad a doctor, mom an author, seemed to be some family money floating around there, very close with her mom. I've had my share of dates with Really Important D. Career Women, and I've found it's easy to get the skinny on anything that ever happened to a woman from meiosis 'til the leak she took before dessert.But I am not my brother, and it didn't take long—about a second, actually—for me to go from glimpsing the Caymanian Compass to joining my fellow townies in an obsession.I couldn't watch enough airport-bar CNN-blaring televisions. When the gong of scandal ringeth, count on me to be the first in line for the hanging, salivating in expectation of the next tidbit.
You tend not to spend too much time contemplating Tim Russert's innermost thoughts when you're 100 feet under water, breathing through a narrow tube, soaring past the ocean wall in slow motion, staring at 200-year-old sea tortoises, parrot fish, and coral that have no concern for love or career.