Forgive me if I linger a bit on the romantic ramblings of love-addled Gov. Mark Sanford. In these nakedly mercenary times of a $96,000 “pattern of generosity” paid to the mistress of Sen. John Ensign, not to mention the tell-all book deal inked by the ex-boyfriend of Sarah Palin’s daughter, there’s something poignant about this mortal man struck down by cupid’s arrow and his subsequent entry into the Too Much Information Hall of Shame.
Forbidden love. Soul mate. Risk. Sparking. Tan lines.
Yes, he’s a 49-year-old man, not a 16-year-old girl. As Jon Stewart so eloquently put it: “Mark Sanford continues to read aloud from his Hello Kitty diary.”
Can’t be real love with that kind of talk, says one columnist. Au contraire! What but love could make a man say such excruciating things?
Reality shows know this territory well. The Bachelor induced cat fights by practically pouring booze down the gullets of 20 women who are fighting for sexual attention from one guy. The Bachelor’s predecessor, Survivor, augmented its own competitive vibes with near-starvation instead of liquor.
It was nine years ago that Survivor began the faux pas-driven reality show craze. When I saw the first-season contestants, I knew I was in for a treat. What an odd collection of people! That, it turns out, was deliberate. Producer Mark Burnett described one woman he’d decided to cast thusly: “She’s smart, sexy, tough, a Stanford law grad. And she’s a mess, too, lots of mother issues. She’ll be great.”
The man understood drama, and he got it.
Survivor was supposed to be a summer replacement, but this sleeper show turned into a ratings monster. Madison Avenue and its army of market researchers took notice. The second-season cast was as meh as the first one was eccentric, and the show was slathered with sentimental cliche and defiled by product placement.
The first season of Survivor was innocent (as innocent as such an exploitative, voyeuristic and sadistic show can be). Only the first season could have produced the “Rat and Snake” speech during the finale on Aug. 23, 2000.
The next morning the water cooler was buzzing. “That was the most amazing two minutes of television I’ve seen in my life,” said a friend. The Washington Post must have agreed, since it printed contestant Susan Hawk’s exit speech in its entirety.
Today we don’t have to settle for text. We can watch Susan Hawk’s Rat and Snake speech in all its glory.
Hawk will, I’m sure, extend a warm welcome to Gov. Sanford in the TMI Hall of Shame. Sanford won’t be the last celebrity inducted into the modern wing, established in 1985 by actress Sally Field. She’d finally lived down her Flying Nun persona when she won her second Oscar and could not stop talking.
Unprofessional, sure. But nothing brightens our gray-cubicle days more than snakes, rats and compulsive confessions. The cynic would call it schadenfreude, but there’s another way to look at it. Every now and then a chink in the armor allows a glimpse into someone’s interior monologue. That is, before the handlers bundle him up and cart him away.
[originally published by Politics Daily in 2009]
Right on, Donna. There is indeed something poignant about his ramblings. And, something timeless. Since the beginning of history, humans have made fools of themselves and ruined their lives (and their countries’ well being) because of love and sex.
BTW, thanks for your post on what to bring to a writers’ conference…I am on my way to Sewanee. Wish you were going. Would love to meet you.
What a nice thing to say. Thank you. Have fun in Sewanee. It’s a beautiful place.
As for those who “speak out of school,” where would writers be without them?