Posted: 4:45 am
September 7, 2008
BOTH conventions were heavy on sex and lies. About videotape, I don't know.
I do know Denver and St. Paul had almost as many hookers as delegates. In fact, one whole state got a group rate.
I also know that when Dems talked up health care, out came the condoms. For the Republicans, Viagra. The Democrats are into oil in the pipeline. For the GOP it's more natural gas.
I'm told the work was harder in St. Paul. Because John McCain's mantra is conserving energy. I'm told the work was more creative in Denver. Because Barack Obama's into changing positions.
With politicians preaching a hooker in every pot, I, the Margaret Mead of sociology, will today take up that subject. The reason being, hookers are now mainstream. Nobody knows who invented the lifesaving defibrillator but everybody knows the beaut who upended the life of Eliot Spitzer.
In modern times, hooking is a hot profession. Its practitioners get famous, write books, land on TV, have movies made of themselves, buy scrapbooks for their publicity, wear furs, earn big money, hop private planes, see the world, are lusted after.
Mind, we speak not about those who flash their résumés - and everything else - in Eighth Avenue's dark doorways. That sort is low class. We are speaking of the high-class low class.
Statistics tell us that 61 percent of all married men have tried hookers in America. The rest try in Europe.
A small community on the southern part of the West Coast of the United States where moviemaking is a major industry - and God knows I would never pinpoint its locale - is the elephant graveyard for these ladies whose various parts have begun to erode.
It's where Hookers Emeritus go to live out their days. And nights. These are the ones who then look down on younger types as they begin to move up lap by lap. These are the ones who end up with short men and big solitaires - the solitaire being that specialty's Oscar for great performance.
A freshly divorced cynic asked me to pose a question to you, my semi-devoted readers who will drop me like a shot when they find something better to read or when The Post bounces me or when I tire of creating these literary masterpieces.
