It's rare to write about two perspectives of an issue and be right both times. It's happened here exactly once in three years. (That's a much better record than Robert Novak, who hasn't been right about even one side of an issue in fifty years.) Still, it's kind of fun.
Word got out a couple of years ago that Christie Brinkley was getting divorced for the fourth time. (That's as many as I have, squared.) Considering she's Christie Brinkley, I figured it must be her; any man worth being called one would fight like a rabid wolverine with a toothache to keep that deal alive.
Word came out a couple of weeks later that it was, in fact, her husband who lit the fuse, by sleeping with a nineteen-year-old coworker. Christie received the apology she was due; The Home Office is nothing if not even handed, especially to world-acknowledged Fabulous Babes.
Now we find out Christie has demanded a fully public divorce trial to air all the dirty laundry. The affair, hubby's $3,000 a month internet porn habit, everything. Maybe she deserves a more blame than we thought for all those divorces. There are kids involved here. This guy's already been humiliated worse than Larry Craig, at least in the eyes of men: he burned an unlimited season's pass to Christie Land. (This essay is living proof; I can't bring myself to type his name.) There's nothing worse she can do to him without exposing a lot of dirty undergarments adolescent boys don't need to have traced back to their own family.
Talk about a woman scorned; if she really wanted to hurt the guy, make the judge order him to look at albums of her pictures once a week. Remind him there was a time when he could exercise his Christie Brinkley fantasies and not have to worry about getting the pages stuck together. If she wants to publicly humiliate him, write a book when the kids are out of college, after he thinks it's blown over. Vengeance is a dish best served cold, and, unlike broccoli, kids can do without it.