A little local reporting here, before we return to the larger moral argument: I spent yesterday working at the annual bookfair at my kids’ school, along with seven or eight former banker-, lawyer-, broker-, buyer- (and one other journalist-) – Manhattan moms. There was not one iota of sympathy for our Governor to be found at that table, even among the liberals. Every second person in the neighborhood works on Wall Street – and no one — including the apolitical – had missed the ruthlessness and utter vindictiveness with which he prosecuted minor and ambiguous offenses, and in the process destroyed companies and lives.

Nor was there any sympathy for the wronged wife, Silda– who has clearly benefitted for long years from his ruthless prosecution of others. Much, though for the kids. What sympathy there was for Silda was contingent upon seeing her leave him immediately. My buds, it seems, were highly offended that she dignified his pathetic non-admission, non-resignation by standing there with him, looking stricken. (Their husbands, they reported, more so yet. It was unmanly.) The ladies felt strongly that, what with her power-career, connections, and the likely settlement, she has nothing to fear in leaving. Staying makes her complicit — and costs her the sympathy anyone whose life has been shattered deserves.

As the story progresses, it is emerging that she is more than complicit. According to many reports, including this one, he was ready to resign on Monday, but she pushed hard to convince him not to give up office. Too many visions of sugarplums smashing on the floor? For that matter, reports suggest that their marriage was so close that he solicited her help when deciding who to prosecute and what kind of sentence to ask for. Our injured first lady turns out to be the type of southern belle in whose mouth butter does not melt, as they used to say of the cold-hearted and ambitious.

There was some heated debate over whether it is worse to have a husband cheat intermittently with a paid prostitute, or have an affair, with all that implies in the way of emotion and real relation to the other woman (Derb, most women agree with your sagacious wife, whose knowledge of human nature you deride as mere female thinking)-– not that anyone would tolerate either…. But wherever it went, the conversation always circled back to the big mystery: what do you actually get for $5500 an hour? No really. What exotic pracitice does the Emperor’s Club offer that’s so great that….(No, dear readers, don’t e-mail me your speculations. I’ve wasted enough time on this…) Ultimately, I am very happy to live in a community where that is a mystery. Though, maybe the ones who know have better things to do than volunteering at the school bookfair…

The best arguments I have heard for rich/powerful/handsome men hiring prostitutes in a promiscuous age when “nice’ girls can he seduced over dinner, or drinks, is that you don’t have to be pleasant, feign interest, buy drinks, and chit chat. And you can send her away when you’re done. (I believe Charlie Sheehan said that with regard to his account at Heidi Fleiss’s old operation.)

The darker possibility is that you are buying special sexual services that might taint a more permanent relationship. There was more than a hint of that in the affadavit’s conversation between the “dispatcher” and “Kristen.” Without speculating too much, Eliot Spitzer always seemed so very angry. Lots of pent up aggression. Not all unsafe practices have to do with condoms.

One can only hope that Spitzer will resign today, so we don’t have to keep the kids out of the bookfair as we conduct elevating discussions of local politics.