Breaking News of My Breaking Heart

There comes a time in every reporter’s life when she is faced with the toughest of decisions. Does she put aside her personal feelings and cover a difficult story, like some unflappable robot in the crushing tide of the news cycle? Or does she turn away from her tear-stained mic and give in to the music of her heart–the sweet symphony that has guided her through some 26 years of life, pulled her through the dark times and the lonely nights with one expertly-gelled beacon of hope?

Reader, you may have guessed that I, Alex Newkirk, am talking about myself in this little “hypothetical.”

Last night I came to such an impasse. Last night I learned that Gavin has had yet another woman in his life/bed. A married woman. The wife of his re-election campaign manager. Gav’s own appointments secretary. A blonde.

The sordid news came via Matier and Ross. At first the city just absorbed the shock that Mayor’s aide Alex Tourk had resigned. Then, as would have to be the case in anyone willingly abandoning The Gav, the dark reasoning came out. Gavin had carried on an illicit tryst with Tourk’s wife. Ruby Rippey-Tourk revealed the affair as part of her treatment in a substance abuse program. Husband Tourk promptly resigned his post, and confronted The Gav about his liason, in an “honest and pointed” manner.

The cruelest cut is that, given the cuckold’s name, the news sprang up from my nightly Google search of “Alex AND Gavin Newsom.” Expecting to see the usual crop of my own posts staring back at me like so many obedient puppies, I was instead treated to this slap in the face. Indeed, a slap in the face to all women of San Francisco.

Just who is Ruby Rippey-Tourk? The above image from SFGate provides little answers. In addition to hitting the sauce and wrecking political careers, she apparently also hosts a radio show for Benefit Magazine, where she has interviewed, among others, Mayor Gavin Newsom.

Does anyone else see the kaliedoscope of irony in the fact that a magazine called Benefit, the Lifestyle of Giving, seems to be staffed disproportionately by notches on Gav’s bedpost? Or the fact that their Sept/Oct 06 issue featured a sensitive portrait of The Mayor under the title, “Why Gavin Gives.”

But the real story here, Gavinites, is that The Mayor needs our help. It’s often been said that San Francisco has one of the toughest singles scenes in the nation. In all the many lonely nights I’ve personally had to ponder, and corroborate, this fact, I’ve often assumed that at least one single in the city had his pick of eager dates.

Yet it appears that our own Mayoral Adonis has fallen victim to the classic “he’s just too good” dating quagmire. The average Bay Area lady is simply too intimidated by Gav’s charm to go out with him, leaving him to slink around the boudoirs of so many unsavory ladies like a wounded puppy. Do the women of this fair city all suffer from one crippling inferiority complex, forbidding themselves to ever be happy and date a real man with a real mane? Is no one willing to offer our beloved Mayor a legally-aged, unmarried, thetan-free shoulder for him to rest his head? To hear the tender crunch of his gelled locks against her skin?

Well, let me be the first to step up to the plate for you, Gav. I will cast aside my journalist’s stoicism in the face of your desperate cry for help. I will offer my body to your cause, laying bare my deepest desires for your political success, exposing to you my naked ambition for your happiness. Gavin, you can date me.

Yes, I, Alex Newkirk, officially offer to you my Friday and Saturday (and Sunday, too, if that works better for you. Whatever!) nights, and the extra ticket I bought to Legally Blonde: The Musical. Let’s put an end to all the ugly talk of your borderline pathological inability to control your “board member” once and for all. Let’s look at the evidence:

I have never been married–heck, I didn’t even go to my prom!

I’m not an employee of your government. Just a fan!

I’m not addicted to anything beyond California Pizza Kitchen and collecting Bobble Heads.

I am old enough to remember the Reagan Administration.

I wear my hair in a demure, yet classic, bob–freeing you to be “the stylish one” in the relationship. The Brad to my Jen. The Stevie Wonder to my Ray Charles.

I don’t usually go to first base on a first date, but for the sake of getting the message across, I will bend the rules for you, Gav. I will let you hold my hand in public.

I am by no means “high maintenance.” You don’t need to jump through hoops for me! No flowers needed. I don’t mind if you walk ahead of me in public, introduce me as “Who? Her?” to your friends, or forget my birthday, last name, and phone number. I am totally okay with doing all of the pursuing! Shoot, it’d be easy for me–I’m already well aware of your habits, tendencies, and routes to work, home, and the gym!

Your height will be no problem in my apartment. True, my drafty little studio/converted closet can be a bit of a squeeze for the vertically-gifted such as yourself. But I did some measuring, and you should be able to stand almost fully erect without grazing your coiffure on the ceiling planks. I accounted for nearly every conceivable type of footwear, including if you accompany me to the newsroom’s annual Disco Costume Party in requisite Disco Heels.

In short–I’m here for you, Gav. Let’s put an end to the madness. Let’s erase the wrong with something that can only feel so, so right. Let’s go crazy. For each other.

Call me!

XOXO–Alex Newkirk