Raining men

It’s raining men, isn’t it? Charlie Rose, Al Franken. Garrison Keillor, for God’s sake. Bill Cosby slipping date rape drugs to the ladies seems almost quaint at this distance.

Progressive pundit Jimmy Dore calls it “a reckoning,” and I agree, one appropriately exempt from such niceties as presumption of innocence, perhaps, but the pearl-clutching is disingenuous. What separates us from the Bonobo isn’t our superior hygiene, but a paper-thin behavioral firewall famously soluble in everything from beer to perfume to the opening chords of just about every song ever recorded by Frank Sinatra and not a few by Air Supply.

Looking on the bright side, though, Betty Aberlin thus far has declined to reveal that Fred Rogers made her watch him masturbate.