Now, rehab is the last refuge of a scoundrel
2017 may have started out as the year of the celebrity perv, but now it ends as the year of rehab — which is where all celebrity pervs go to escape the wrath of their victims.
Just ask Harvey Weinstein, or Kevin Spacey, or Ben Affleck, or for that matter Sen. Stan Rosenberg’s Pee-wee Herman-look-alike boy toy. Just last week it was ESPN boss John Skipper, who at the age of 62 suddenly discovered he has a problem with “substance abuse.”
Dr. Samuel Johnson once famously said patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. A century later, a U.S. House speaker amended that aphorism, saying that when he was defining the last refuge of a scoundrel, “Dr. Johnson overlooked the infinite and boundless possibilities of the word ‘reform.’ ”
And now yet another amendment is in order:
Rehab is the last refuge of a scoundrel.
First come the headlines, either about a politician invariably described as “embattled” or an entertainer who is “troubled.” Then their publicist says they are off to an “undisclosed location” for, yes, rehab.
If it’s part of a plea deal, it may be called “lockdown rehab.” Think Lindsay Lohan.
Many celebs have been in and out of rehab multiple times. If this is your fifth or sixth trip, your flack says you’re merely checking in for a “tune up.” Think Chevy Chase.
For embattled perv pols, entering rehab is not a guaranteed magic bullet to avoid prosecution. Remember the photos of ex-Rep. Anthony Weiner, aka Carlos Danger, riding a horse as part of his “equine therapy,” which is very fashionable these days in the perverama.
Alas, Carlos is now continuing his therapy — at federal prison at Devens. It’s the Bureau of Prisons’ pervrehab center. I’m assuming Carlos is now attending daily 12-step meetings — “Hi, my number is 79112-054 and I was on my way to becoming mayor of New York until I perved out!”
Not every celeb has to flee to rehab. If you’re too old to worry about resurrecting your career, there’s no need to spend big bucks out in the desert somewhere with no Wi-Fi. Charlie Rose and Garrison Keillor, two public-broadcasting pervs, are in their 70s — why bother with tiresome charades about turning their lives around?
Then there’s the filthyrich class of pervs. For instance, Matt Lauer. He turns 60 in a couple of days. His career’s over and he knows it, and so what — he’s banked more money than God. Rehab — save that jive for People magazine!
Anyway, I’m in Florida, and Saturday night I found myself at a local bistro.
It was about 6 o’clock. My daughter looked over and whispered to me, “Do you see that woman over there — that’s LuAnn de Lesseps!”
Apparently she is, or was, in “Real Housewives of New York,” or something. She was a “countess.” I glanced over — the countess didn’t appear to have ingested a bad ice cube, at least not at that point.
Imagine my surprise the next day, Christmas Eve, when I saw her mugshot in the news, charged in Palm Beach County with disorderly intoxication and battery on a police officer.
She blamed it all on “longburied emotions.” Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
But now, the countess told the Page Six gossip column, “I am committed to a transformative and hopeful 2018.”
You know what that means. “A transformative and hopeful 2018” is the last refuge of a scoundrel.