Turns out Eliot Spitzer used the name of one of his close friends, George Fox, when Spitzer was seeing Ashley Alexandra Dupre. That's the same tactic (supposedly) used by John Edwards when he was (supposedly) impregnating that NewAger, Rielle Hunter. Democrats can be so conventional.
Meanwhile, more information on Miss Dupre is emerging that's worth a laugh - and some serious consideration:
First, she claimed (as so many women do) that she was abused at home - a slam, presumably, against her step-father - but a "family friend" told The New York Post that's not true:
"She crashed up [her stepdad's] Porsche and wanted another one, and he wouldn't give it to her, so she left."
And, boy, I'm going to love to hear from dear ol' stepdad after all this! Why do women want to do this to the men in their lives? Has the anti-male brainwashing been so complete that no one will seriously question this nonsense? And why is she sporting a tattoo that says, "protect your own" when she's, presumably, willing to sell out her own step-father merely because he has a dick - and didn't allow her to get her way - after smashing up his car? Here's another bit, from the same article, that speaks volumes about the female mindset:
"Sources say Dupre got involved with the Emperors Club as early as 2006 after responding to an ad from the agency seeking girls to 'party' with deep-pocketed men.
After meeting with her, the escort service's operators liked what they saw. She took to the job quickly.
'Like all of them, she wanted to hang out with guys with money,' a source said."
Yes, indeedy. As a guy who's aware of the difference from when I'm on stage (and everybody thinks you're rich) and off (when nobody knows what you've got) the way women act around the presumption of moolah is startling.
In Europe I saw tons of decrepit old toads, with bizarre facial features, escorting eye-popping model types because (as my now ex-friends told me) the men came from "old money" so they could have practically any woman they wanted. Someone even noted that Ashley Alexandra Dupre was taking "trips to St.-Tropez", where all the French think they're hot shit. (I've been to St.-Tropez and, believe me, it's another place in France where everybody's stuck up over nothing: I hated it. I've seen more impressive displays of wealth - without the attitude - in the L.A. valley.)
Y'know, I think - for the very first time - I'm starting to appreciate all the nonsense my ex-wife put me through. It's really opened my eyes to all the idiocy I was ignoring as I was naively pursuing my own now-seemingly-innocent-assed music career. (And considering all the guns I had put in my face, that's really saying something.)
My scatterbrained ex truly embodied every disfunction I'm seeing today (and covering on this blog). And, because of my current understanding of her horrible outlook on life, our divorce now seems like, not only a natural progression, but the perfect introduction to the diabolical underbelly of this world of female manipulation that she had me so passionately primed to defend.
So finally - after almost 3 years - I can sincerely say, from the bottom of my heart, and without reservation:
Karine Anne Brunck - Thank You - This has been one hell of a nasty education.
I came here looking to email you about a problem I'm having, with a mutual acquaintance who's pulling a "I treasure our friendship"/"it is fate that we shall be together. your destiny is in my pants."/"I treasure our friendship" bullshit. I naively went along with the friendship gambit, but 2 beers into "so what have you been up to for the past 15 years" I'd gotten a detailed review of "all these nightmare relationships" but nothing about work, art, music, etc., and wow did he get catty when I brought up mutual friends. Like your bad self.ReplyDelete
Now the "treasure" tide has turned, to "oh, look, I'm at your door, uninvited and a land line or street number reference. oops, now I'm at the window."
My friends talk to me exactly as if I was a guy. It's always been that way - except maybe when I was runaway jailbait sleeping in the back rooms of their bars - If the outspoken collector of barnyard porn comes over for bbq and UFC, we will probably talk about horses, Not about the vindictive ex-girlfriend he might be stalking, to have so much information to convey. Men like that are not friends. Neither are they properly designated by the collective term "Men" (members of which, who also rank in my cohort, I'm hoping can help set this outlier straight) .
The chicks who like to hang out with guys who have money are not "Women". They are "some women". You used to have quite a few of them as friends. If you're still open to the idea, I could sure use some advice or maybe a favor.
For instance: next time I tell you about someone tracking me down online, I hope you'll go ahead and tell me, like you would a guy friend, "Yeah, I ran into him a couple weeks ago. He might have had head trauma, or something, since we were last acquainted," or "whatever that asshole's problem is, you might want to hide out until that shit's worked out." or "It's a trap! Run!" while you toss me a rope of garlic. Or just give a downward-spiral whistle. That's the etiquette this woman appreciate, way more than "yeah, I owe him a phone call."
I enjoy your writing, a lot; it's just that for me, I'd replace some of the purely gender-indicative terms with "pussy" or "passive agressive twits" or "nibblers of lead paint chips", is all.
Ha - you got me. I just woke up and was, like, "What the fuck?" Nice surprise.
Yea, I speak about "women" in the general here, but your advice is sticking: I'm glad you know me so it doesn't sting (stink?) too much. I've got to get it together. Writing ain't my "first source", if you know what I mean.
That mutual friend requires a private e-mail. I'll find yours and hit you back.