John Edwards Is the Father? You Don't Say!

Rielle? I feel sorry for her too. My colleague Lizzie mounted an impressive defense of Rielle. Except for the criticism of Elizabeth, I don't disagree. The scarlet-letter tattoo is so old, so tired. In affluent Western societies, birth rates have fallen below replacement levels as women apparently chose careers over motherhood in droves.

Americans never miss an opportunity to decry women who pop out eight babies they're not financially, physically or mentally prepared to raise. Rielle had just one baby who will, I predict, never in her life suck up one single welfare dollar. Why isn't everyone celebrating?

I feel sorry for mainstream media. The maligned National Enquirer had to break the John Edwards story because the largely corporate-owned press did not want to dirty its hands. Now there's talk of a Pulitzer Prize for the Enquirer, and not just by my colleague Emily. I guess it's true that every dog has its day. Woof!

Maybe the time has come to ditch the journalism schools and the hushed, carpeted offices and return to the old tradition of frequenting bars to recruit frustrated novelists who have little to lose.

I feel sorry for America. We are obsessed with the private lives of our stars.

Gossip is natural. Humans are highly social creatures. Some scientists believe language developed for the purpose of purveying gossip. You can gesture and grunt your way through most of life's activities. But how do you, without language, tell Mr. Caveman what Mrs. Caveman was doing while he was out hunting?

I'm as guilty as anyone of amusing myself with the misadventures of the elite, but at the end of the day, such pastimes don't make a dent in solving the herculean tasks we're facing as a nation.

Unemployment? Still sky high. Government? Grid-locked. Health care? A mess. Legalized bribery? Going strong.

We're so easily distracted by naughty celebrities. Shouldn't we reserve our venom for the white-collar criminals who almost pushed this country off a cliff a year ago? Except for Bernie Madoff, they're walking free and enjoying their yachts.

You know who I don't feel sorry for? John and Rielle's love child, Quinn.

Quinn will grow up privileged. Someday she'll be a cute blonde teen with many suitors and nearly infinite choices once she's completed her Ivy League education.

No one will care that her mother was once the "other woman," if they even remember. For all we know, that status will make Quinn seem exotic and alluring, perhaps worthy of a Broadway musical. ("Mamma Mia!" anyone?)

The tawdry laundry published in the decade known as the aughts will recede from public consciousness. Quinn's trust fund and father's status as former senator and presidential candidate will trump and give Quinn a big head start in the world.

Such is life for the petit bourgeoisie.

But while Quinn is out joyriding with high school friends, young Haitians will be hobbling around on prosthetic legs, remembering parents they lost and wondering where their next meal will come from. Or quietly resting in their graves.