A few weeks ago, Katie Porter's campaign for California governor was reeling. A day after an irritable TV interview went viral, an old video surfaced of the former Orange County congresswoman cursing and berating one of her aides.

Around the same time, the race for U.S. Senate in Maine was shaken by a number of disturbing online posts. In them, Democratic hopeful Graham Platner disparaged police and Black people, among other crude remarks. Soon after, it was revealed Platner had a chest tattoo resembling a Nazi symbol.

Meanwhile, in Virginia, several old text messages swallowed attorney general nominee Jay Jones in a cumulus of controversy. The Democrat had joked about shooting the Republican leader of the state House and blithely spoken of watching his children die in their mother's arms.

Once — say, 20 or 30 years ago — those blow-ups might have been enough to chase each of those embattled candidates from their respective races, and maybe even end their political careers altogether.

But in California, Porter has pressed on and remains in the top tier of the crowded gubernatorial field. In Maine, Platner continues to draw large, enthusiastic crowds and leads polling in the Democratic primary. In Virginia, Jones was just elected attorney general, defeating his Republican opponent by a comfortable margin.

Clearly, things have changed.

Actions that once caused eyes to widen, such as the recreational puffs of marijuana that cost appeals court judge Douglas Ginsburg a Supreme Court seat under President Reagan, now seem quaint. Personal indiscretions once seen as disqualifying, such as the extramarital affair that chased Gary Hart from the 1988 presidential race, scarcely raise an eyebrow.

And the old political playbook — confession, contrition, capitulation — is obviously no longer operative, as candidates find it not only possible but even advantageous to brazen their way through storms of uproar and opprobrium.

Look no further than the extravagantly checkered occupant of the White House. President Donald Trump has seemingly survived more controversies — not to mention two impeachments, an $83.3-million judgment in a sexual abuse and defamation case and conviction on 34 felony counts — than there are stars winking in the nighttime sky.

Bill Carrick has spent decades strategizing for Democratic office-seekers. A generation or so ago, if faced with a serious scandal, he would have told his candidate, "This is not going to be sustainable and you just better get out." But now, Carrick said, "I would be very reluctant to tell somebody that, unless there was evidence they had murdered or kidnapped somebody, or robbed a bank."

Kevin Madden, a veteran Republican communications strategist, agreed. Surrender has become passe. Survival is the new fallback mode.

"The one thing that many politicians of both parties have learned is that there is an opportunity to grind it out, to ride the storm out," Madden said. "If you think a news issue is going viral or becoming the topic everyone's talking about, just wait. A new scandal ... or a new shiny object will be along."

One reason for the changing nature of political scandal, and its prognosis, is the way we now take in information, both selectively and in bulk.

With the chance to personally curate their news feed — and reinforce their attitude and outlook — people can select those things they wish to know about, and choose those they care to ignore. With such fragmentation, it's much harder for a negative storyline to reach critical mass. That requires a mass audience.

"A lot of scandals may not have the impact that they once had because people are in these silos or echo chambers," said Scott Basinger, a University of Houston political scientist who's extensively studied the nature of political scandal. "They may not even hear about it, if they don't want to hear about it."

The sheer velocity of information — "not only delivered to you on your doorstep, or at 6:30 p.m. by the three networks, but also in your pocket, in your hand at all times, across multiple platforms," as Madden put it — also makes events more fleeting. That makes it harder for any one to penetrate deeply or resonate widely.

"In a world where there's a wealth of information," he said, "there's a poverty of attention."

Seven months after abruptly dropping out of the 1988 presidential race, Hart jumped back into the contest. "Let's let the people decide," he said, after confessing his marital sins.

(He also said in the same interview, a few months before relaunching his candidacy, that he had no intention of doing so.)

Hart did not fare well. Once he'd been the overwhelming front-runner for the Democratic nomination. As a reincarnated candidate, he trudged on for a few months before dropping out for good, having failed to secure a single convention delegate or win double-digit support in any contest.

"The people have decided," he said, "and now I should not go forward."

That's how it should be.

Porter in California and Platner in Maine both faced calls to drop out of their respective races, with critics questioning their conduct and whether they had the right temperament to serve, respectively, as California governor or a U.S. senator. Each has expressed contrition for their actions. (As did Jones, Virginia's attorney general-elect.)

Voters can take all that into account when they pick their candidate.

If they want a governor who drops f-bombs and snaps at aides, a senator with a history of off-putting remarks or — gulp — an adulterous convicted felon in the White House, that's their choice.

Let the people decide.

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