I'm of two minds about today's New York Post headline, Jenna and Tonic. On the one hand I take the expectable pride in whatever shame and opprobrium can be heaped on Bush, and if his daughter's "wild streak" provides some pain to The World's Smuggest Underachiever, then I am made all the happier.

On the other hand, why should I wish ill to Jenna Bush? She's almost certainly someone I wouldn't like very much -- but how good could you turn out with a father like that? In Midland, TX? And now she has Hawaiian-shirt-wearing Secret Service agents following her around, and when she tries to join in the completely expected binge-drinking of her cohort, she's called a boozehound in the press. It'd drive anybody to using their friends fake ID to get a margarita (frozen, no salt) or three down at Chuy's. OK, maybe she's got to take responsibility for wearing "pink Capri pants and a toe ring" in court (showing a little more respect to the Texas judiciary might have saved her a few hours of that bo-ring community service) -- but beyond that, I'm willing to understand if you are. You hear me, Rupert Murdoch? Lighten up.