Ed Driscoll

Somebody's Been Channeling His Inner Maureen Dowd

If Brian McGrory’s gig at the New York Times-owned Boston Globe ever goes belly up, he could make a fortune writing Harlequin romance novels:

I’m going to need some Advil and a cold compress, please. I’m the Massachusetts Electorate, and I have what is bar none the absolute worst hangover of my entire voting life.

Seriously, I was so drunk on power, so caught up in the moment, so free of any of my usual inhibitions, I can’t remember what’s gone on these last two weeks. Think, Electorate, think. What did I do?

This much I’m starting to remember. Martha and I walked into the party and everything seemed to be going fine. She wasn’t talking much, but she never really does, and she wasn’t exactly pushing me to bare my soul, either. That’s what I’ve always liked about Martha: She’s a low-maintenance politician.

And now I’m vaguely recalling that stranger across the room, the one in the barn jacket who kept smiling at me and seemed to know my name. Martha vanished for a while, and – is it bad that I’m saying this? — I didn’t really care.

Suddenly, that tall, handsome man was standing at my side doing something that Martha rarely did – offering to pay for drinks, chatting me up, curious what was on my mind.

Every time I ever tried telling Martha about my day, my hopes, my dreams, she shushed me up and said she was preparing a legal brief or watching Law & Order. And now there’s a stranger telling me he could change my entire world.

Scott! That was his name. Lived near the outlet stores. Talked a lot about being smarter with money. I know, not like Martha, who always had some expensive home renovation project up her sleeve.

And then, I remember that time itself seemed to stop. The mundanity of everyday events gave way to the exhilaration of my suddenly unpredictable existence. No more Martha taking me for granted. No more Martha calling all the shots. I was living the moment, immersed in the life I always wanted before caution overwhelmed desire.

We were on the dance floor, Scott and I, moving to the music, his hands all over my body politic. Everyone was watching, and I mean everyone – fellow partygoers, bartenders, passersby staring in the windows. Look at me, the Massachusetts Electorate, the bellwether of America!

I think I took my shirt off. I think I didn’t care. I remember something about Scott in a pair of Calvin Klein jockey shorts, but it may have been a picture he showed me from his wallet.

Duuude.

(Though it’s not like there’s anything wrong that, of course.)

Update: It’s not like New York Times-owned publications pay their freelancers well, but are we sure that “Brian McGrory” isn’t actually a front for that mysterious Iowahawk fella looking to pick up an extra Benjamin or two, particularly now that Marcia Martha Coakley doesn’t need new ad copy for a few years?