Mark Sanford -- STFU

As much as I enjoy watching Mark Sanford go down in flames, what I'm not liking is what he's forcing his wife to have to listen to. That his Argentinian girlfriend was his "soul-mate." That it was a "love-story." That now he's going to have to "try to fall in love with my wife again."

Mark Sanford, what the hell is wrong with you?

And the thing is, I just discovered today, he's an Episcopalian. One of our own.

Come on. Dude! Show some class.

Today's Larf

Barack Obama and Angela Merkel
Photo via Getty

Mark Sanford -- you are my freakin' hero

Mark Sanford -- I love you man!

I mean, if you're going to end your political career, don't just stand there with your stricken wife at your side and mumble the rote apologies.

No, do a complete and total mess of a 20 minute flameout with stream of consciousness rambling about hikin' the Appalachian trail and apologies to everyone you've ever known, including the checkers at the local Bi-Lo for lettin' them down too. Or maybe I just imagined that part -- about the Bi-Lo -- because by the time he got to his last apologies my mind was ramblin' along with his, and there we were, side by side hikin' the Appalachian trail together, experiencing "the tranquility that comes with being in a virtual wilderness of trees and marsh, the day breaking and vibrant pink coming alive in the morning clouds - and getting to build something with each scoop of dirt."

Yes. Yes. Yes. I know exactly what you mean Mark Sanford! The trees, the marshes, the pink, the dirt. Yes!

And then, there's that "whole sparkin' thing" he had going on with his Argentinian love. Sparkin'? Is that some kind of South Carolina slang for the usual thing you do when you're having an illicit affair? I imagined the two of them on the beach in Rio, rolling around in the sand, sparkin' up the night. And it made me feel happy. Happy that passion still exists even if it makes a man ruin his life for just a little more spark. How many people actually get to go down in flames like that?

There he was drivin' up and down the coast of Argentina, drivin' and sobbin', sobbin' and drivin' -- who hasn't done that? Or wanted to? The passionate abandonment of it all! I only hope his Argentinian love made him gin bucket to put in the back seat and didn't forget the turkey baster. That's what you do in South Carolina when you're sobbin' and drivin'. Especially drivin'.

And last, but not least, as the recipient of a couple of romantic e-mail missives myself back in the day, I couldn't help but appreciate some of the e-mails he sent to his lady love in Argentina. What woman wouldn't want to find this in her INBOX?

"You have a particular grace and calm that I adore. You have a level of sophistication that so fitting with your beauty. I could digress and say that you have the ability to give magnificent gentle kisses, or that I love your tan lines or that I love the curve of your hips, the erotic beauty of you holding yourself (or two magnificent parts of yourself) in the faded glow of the night's light. Despite the best efforts of my head my heart cries out for you, your voice, your body, the touch of your lips, the touch of your finger tips and an even deeper connection to your soul."

Mark Sanford, you rock.

PARIS -- before Barack and Michelle

We were lucky enough to be in Paris last week for a week and I'll be posting some photos and observations about the trip. Ran into Barack in the Paris metro . . .

I bet he has a white panel van too . . .

"Oh my god, that's a scary man. Scares me to death. I tell my kids if two cars pull up, and one has a stranger, and the other car has Dick Cheney, you get in the car with the stranger." Wanda Sykes at the White House Correspondents Dinner last night.

WRONG ON SO MANY LEVELS

I apologize for taking such a long vacation from blogging. I won't go into any of the reasons since they are all lame. But I'm back to blogging and starting with a post in a new category, which I'm calling "Wrong on So Many Levels."

It's something you see, or hear, or read -- it can be an object, a behavior, a thought, an opinion, etc. -- that is just so wrong on so many levels that you can't even begin to articulate it and would, actually, rather not.

Here is my first entry. I saw one of these on the dashboard of a car this morning and I'm ashamed to say that it was on the dashbooard of a car driving into an NIH employee parking lot. It's called a "Bobble Buddha."

Please feel free to make your own contributions via comments or e-mail.

Bruce, please . . . .

For the love of G*d Bruce, not the slide! You're looking like somebody's crazy ass drunk uncle at a bar mitzvah showing the kids how he used to do it back in the day. Please. Dignity.

Which gives me an opportunity to discuss how I have never been able to understand the appeal of Bruce Springsteen.

I've been to one of his concerts. I won't argue with you that the man does have a lot of energy. I give him total props for that. But it all sounds like march music to me. He's like the John Phillip Sousa of our generation.

One of my sons was watching TV with me one day, and "Born to Run," came on as a commercial bed or something, and he turned to me and said, "Mom, isn't that Meat Loaf?"

My point exactly.

Wuh. Wuh. Wuh. Wuh. Ohhhhhhhh . . . .