With the personal having become the political in such undreamed-of ways, there's more and more to identify with.
There's Raoul Felder, for starters. Who can't understand the impulse here? The myth of the tough lawyer is a powerful one. A tough lawyer, a real son-of-a-bitch lawyer, will save you, will avenge you, will deal with everything. You're hiring the wrath of God, you believe.
There is, of course, no such thing. Your lawyer is either a nobody drone who, if you're lucky, files all the papers properly and gives you a blank look when it goes poorly, which it always does, or your lawyer is a shameless self-promoter who is hustling you more than defending you (and telling you it's going great when it's going poorly) and taking advantage of you in your hour of need. You fall for hiring Felder (even other lawyers, like the mayor, fall for hiring Felder), or someone like him, because you think you are the righteous spouse and can buy vengeance and protection (it would be interesting to see what rate Felder is giving the mayor). Every hurt, angry, upwardly mobile divorcing person is vulnerable to such fantasies. Having a tough lawyer is the middle-class version of having mob connections. My lawyer will whack your lawyer.
Then there's the real estate. When you consider breaking up a marriage in Manhattan, you ask yourself one certain question: Where would I go? And for all but the wealthiest, there just isn't an answer. Who can run out and rent another apartment with room for the children? Who can plop down a down payment for a second co-op (and what co-op board wants someone in the middle of a divorce)? The Giulianis are as cash-strapped as anyone -- and as stuck. So whatever you have here, whatever he-wounds-her-she-wounds-him syndrome they've got going, sometimes a real-estate squabble is just about real estate.
Then cancer. Impotence. Christ.
Then there's the ailing mother complicating the situation -- people get attached to other people's parents, oddly (and sometimes mothers-in-law like their daughters-in-law better than their sons).
Then there are the kids and whatever troubles they've got (we don't really want to know).
None of this is strange.
I used to think the Clinton thing was the ultimate convergence of politics and reality. Here was life in all its absurdity: the unvarnished, unlovely, unbecoming details of a middle-aged man and a young girl. But the Clinton story turns out to be a skillfully airbrushed sexual fantasy compared with the Giuliani reality. He really is the naked civil servant.
How much we are like these people may be the baseline of our political judgment. On the other hand, being able to separate ourselves from these people, being able to believe they are not of our class, provides a lot of satisfaction, too.
It's tabloid relief.
As soon as the Passion play of the mayor and his wife -- the bad blood of marriage, the sadness of middle age, the cost of ambition -- gets to be too much, we're allowed to stop identifying and think of them as just a higher-achieving version of Amy and Joey.
It's a New York Post story, which, in a transmutation of reality, means the tawdry becomes less tawdry by becoming more tawdry. The exaggerations, the shock-shockedness, the deer-in-the-headlights photographs, the Felder leaks, the overall tabloid joie de vivre, turns this into theater and spectacle. (But, giving credit where it is due, it is the Daily News that scored the best headline -- judi's turn to cry, the News wrote the day after Judi Nathan, the mayor's girlfriend, was barred from Gracie Mansion.)
A good tabloid story enters another moral universe. If you're in the tabloids, you become not quite middle-class anymore -- you become a sort of show folk or tabloid folk.
We start to think that your purpose is to behave badly -- you've become a form of popular entertainment.
Of course, we understand that the tabloids not only reflect but encourage bad behavior (you'd have considerably less tabloid behavior without the tabloids). We understand, too, that our own prurient interest figures into the media matrix (you need the attention; we don't mind giving it to you).
Out in the country, on the cover of People magazine, you have a story colored by opprobrium and pathos. Here, we can condescend to enjoy the comedy.
There's a lot of media sophistication that shades the context of the Giuliani-Hanover mess. In a tabloid city, you come to have a greater or lesser appreciation of the difference between scandal and gossip -- between what the community will not accept and what it can't get enough of. It's the Puffy dialectic.
Fundamentally, this is the same old Giuliani story: Is it rational or irrational behavior? Is the man in control or out of control? Is he serious or is he kidding (the ferrets)?
He's histrionic and embarrassing in public -- we know this.
We've encouraged it. We've enabled him.
The crazy-man thing works. It breaks through media clutter. It leaves a vivid (forget conventional measures of negative or positive) impression. It's a warning. Everyone, even voters, is left slightly afraid of him -- how can you predict what a crazy man will do? -- and for the usual masochistic reasons, that becomes a kind of respect.
What's more, crazy behavior provides its own excuse. Oh, that's just his craziness. What we mean, though, is That's just his fake craziness. His 'tude.
But while we've accepted (or at least we're not too bothered by) the way he's turned this craziness against museums, can we also accept his turning it against his wife and family? Or has he gone too far now? (This in itself is part of the Giuliani reverse charm -- we always think he's about to go too far, but by going too far his ridiculousness gets to be ridiculous enough for everyone to know it's ridiculous.)
Oddly, his excuse this time around (or the excuse we make for him) may be that his present crazy behavior could actually reflect that he is crazy. We can't discount that he may be coming apart.
He may be dying. The therapy may not be working. This may be an endgame.
If not dying, he's got to have the fear of dying.