I was mesmerized (thanks for the great word, Franz Mesmer!) by this strange story in today’s Dallas Morning News about Carrollton mayor Becky Miller who seems to have a very active imagination. Unless proven otherwise (still waiting…) she has made up stories about being engaged to Don Henley, singing back-up for Linda Ronstadt and Jackson Browne, an imaginary brother who was killed in Vietnam—even the college she allegedly attended.

I don’t care about Miller, she’s not my mayor, but aren’t liars fascinating? What are they thinking?

I wonder if most liars get caught in their lies or if we all move about in a swirling soup of others’ undiscovered untruths.

Some lies don’t really matter. If she weren’t an elected official, nobody would care about Miller’s imaginary love affair with cranky old Don Henley. The only reason the story is noteworthy is because such a string of lies seems to lead to an unhinged mind, which might be considered a problem in an elected official.

I like Bill Clinton and honestly couldn’t care less who sucked his dick, but I was annoyed when he lied about it, despite believing he was inappropriately backed into a corner. I’m bummed about Hillary’s Bosnia fantasy, too. (And the whole gas tax holiday idea, but that’s something else.)

I’m a terrible liar. In fact, one might even suggest I’m truthful to a fault. No, I won’t tell you if your haircut is ugly or point out when you’ve gained weight, but I’m no good at saying “everything’s fine” when it’s not. I’m trying to get better at biting my tongue when something is none of my business but even that can be challenging for me if it’s something or someone I care about. Annoyingly—even to myself—-I seem to feel obligated to speak the truth as I see it, which often isn’t the least bit helpful. Mostly, it makes everyone, myself included, uncomfortable.

But telling tall tales like Miller did is beyond incomprehensible to me. What do they accomplish? Such tales wouldn’t boost my ego if I knew they weren’t true, and I would always wonder who could tell all along that I was lying and when I would be found out, stripped naked and laughed at.

My shame muscle is far too well-developed to want to risk that level of shame.

Clearly this is some sort of bizarre compulsion. But what does it accomplish? I’m bumfuzzled.

Labels: becky miller, bill clinton, hillary clinton, liars, news, politics, psychology