Hugh Grant Affair Inspires a ‘What If’ Letter to Mom

It was almost painful watching actor Hugh Grant publicly confess to soliciting a hooker. I say almost because, by and large, it’s been a hoot. I caught Grant on the “Tonight Show” Monday and laughed through most of it. I hadn’t realized until then that when Grant fidgets, fumbles and blushes in his movies, he isn’t acting--that’s the way he is in real life too.

Consequently, my estimation of him as an actor declined, but my opinion of him as a person has grown. Grant has handled the post-incident phase about as well as anyone could. Maybe it’s the British accent or the colorful phrasing (“I think it would just be bullocks to say anything like that”), but contrast Grant’s style with that of any of a number of American public figures caught in similar flaps (a bawling-from-the-pulpit Jimmy Swaggart comes to mind). Sadly, our lads suffer in comparison.

Grant also was candid enough on “Tonight” to point out that if such an embarrassing situation involved someone else, he probably would be enjoying the spectacle too. That admission made him sound completely believable when he lamented the pain his situation is causing his longtime girlfriend. Again, contrast that with the self-serving bleating practiced by Americans who invariably invoke “family” after they’ve done something unsavory.

While enjoyable overall, then, the Grant episode left me with one unsettling thought. Maybe other men didn’t put themselves in his situation, but I did. It had nothing to do with imagining the arrest or going to court; it had to do with telling my mother. Public humiliation and scorn would be nothing compared to the torture of explaining to Mom.

Before settling into restive sleep, I drafted a mock letter, just in case:

“Dear Sweet, UNDERSTANDING Mom,

Hi, I just thought I’d write to tell you how beautiful and vibrant you seemed during my visit. You’re getting better with age, no doubt about it, especially in the way you react to adverse circumstances. Like when we went to that restaurant, but the wait was too long and we decided to go somewhere else. You didn’t get the least bit upset. That’s a rare gift, because so often today you find people who go completely bonkers in the face of bad news. I hate people like that, don’t you?

Not much going on here. For the most part, the same old same old. Looks like summer has finally arrived, the lemon tree in back is doing well, bought a new coffee table, and I was arrested for soliciting a prostitute last night, thrown into a holding tank and have to go to court next week. Say, how have you been doing? Did the golf lessons help? Did you get the new tires for the car? Have you seen “Apollo 13” yet? Can you believe that was 25 years ago? Boy, I hardly remember it, do you? Has the rain finally let up?

I think you definitely should proceed with plans for your trip. It would be an excellent getaway for you, and that sounds like a very reasonable fare. Maybe I could rendezvous with you, if only for a few days.

In case you’re wondering about the prostitution arrest thing . . . When you think about it, is it that much different than my freshman year in college when I brought home all A’s except for that D in chemistry? Remember that? Remember how I was so worried and you and Dad laughed about it? I was so embarrassed, and for nothing. Do you see how getting arrested in a seedy motel with a $50-dollar-an-hour hooker, giving the cops a phony name and then trying to make a run for it before they fired a warning shot in the air is sort of the same thing? Same exact situation as the chemistry thing, although you would technically be correct in noting that my professor didn’t make me wear an electronic bracelet for six months or get a lawyer or face the prospect of six months in jail.

Other than that, though, I think you’d have to agree: very similar circumstances.

Now, if I know you, Mom, your first impulse may well be to feel horribly embarrassed and disappointed, but remember that’s also how you felt when I didn’t win the Midwest Spelling Bee when I was 11? I cried all the way home that day, not unlike the other night after they shot my booking photo. But you got over that embarrassment, and you told me I should be proud I got as far as I did. Again, with a few exceptions, same thing here.

Well, we’ve beat this silly thing to death, haven’t we? I don’t even know why I brought it up in the first place, except to say that your oatmeal cookies will taste especially flavorful when I eat them in the flaming fires of Hell.

Your son,

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.