I don't know who Scooter Libby is or what he did that earned him a conviction, but I feel his pain. Apparently, the straw that broke the camel's back in his conviction was his assertion that someone told him something on a Tuesday; he forgot it by Thursday, but then he remembered it on a Friday or something along those lines.
"No way, Scooter!" the frenzied crowd cheered. "What kind of fools do you take us for?" The mad crowd who convicted him was obviously in their twenties.
All I know is, this pattern of forgetting and remembering is quite typical in my stage of life. If you asked me what I had for breakfast yesterday, I wouldn't remember it. But later in the afternoon during staff meeting prayer requests, I might shout out, "Bagel!" or my husband's social security number.
Anyone named "Scooter" can't be all bad. "Scooter Libby" is too close to "Beaver Cleaver" for having done real damage.
And Valerie Plame? What kind of name is that? If I had been engaged to Mr. Plame, I would have said, "Before I accept this ring, it's either going to be Mrs. 'Plane' or 'Flame,' but not 'Plame.' Which is going to be?"
I feel your pain, Scooter.