Johnny Apple - My Stories

“I’m very ambivalent about the power I have and the way it’s used. Yet I would be transparently un-candid if I didn’t say I do enjoy it enormously.” R.W. Apple Jr.

"None who ever watched him fill up a room as he walked in can easily accept that no room will ever be as full again." Hodding Carter

I'm having trouble with the news that Johnny Apple died. The New York Times, print journalism--hell, all journalism--lost one of its true greats. And I lost a significant piece of my past. So no matter how difficult, I have to weigh in.

Apple and I met long ago (it's hard to believe how long), when I was only a pup, he already a Times tiger on his way to becoming a living legend. And by the way, though his nickname was officially "Johnny," our crowd just called him "Apple," as he called himself.

Apple was such an exceptional presence. A personage. Grand and grandiose, brilliant and blustery, witty and wise, gourmet and gourmand. He could bark. Roar. Make lesser men quake. Not so large in those earlier years, but always larger than life.

And yet. The back story: Apple was a pussycat. Gentle and sweet. Even a little naive. No matter his privileged upbringing, prep school, Princeton and Columbia, inside was still a kid from the Midwest. No matter his driven, aggressive climb to international media stardom, he retained a genuine aw shucks quality.

And no matter his eccentric, often outlandish style and the exalted circles in which he traveled, Johnny Apple was remarkably unpretentious at his core, and in his soft, generous heart.

Some personal snapshots from the salad days:

The Interview: Apple came to Harrisburg in the early 70's to interview then Governor Milton Shapp. I was his press contact. Jeez, was I green.

As we prepared to start, I plunked a tape recorder down on the table in front of us and turned it on. (My boss had told me to record the interview. He meant take notes. Oops.) Apple merely raised an eyebrow, leaned over and whispered, "The reporter usually does the taping, but thanks, you can just make me a copy."

After the interview he took mortified me to dinner and without condescension explained the rules of the professional media road. A process I would be privileged to watch him undertake over and over with blazing speed and rarely a moment's hesitation.

The Process: Apple on the road covering a story was a sight to behold. First the rally, caucus, personal interview -- or all three. Next the hometown politicos' favorite bar for the schmoozing, the war stories, the local dirt. Then the real work began.

Reclining pasha-like on hotel bed or couch, an overflowing ashtray on the table next to a glass of wine or a cup of coffee, puffing on yet another cigarette Apple worked the phone, and his sources on the other end.

I never knew how he did it -- he seemed to talk as much as he listened. But you could tell when he had the story and the lead by the sudden gleam of triumph in his eyes. He'd hang up the phone, light a new cigarette, grab his old typewriter and begin to pound away.

Apple could also talk while he typed, never losing his fierce concentration or the thread of a simultaneous conversation. It was a gift. And in a time without computers, he had only the contents of his own deep, copious memory for facts and details. Yet he rarely missed a one.

Finished, he'd call the desk at the Times and dictate his story, always closing with the same demand: "don't f**k it up." And would loudly rant over the inevitable edits. As good as his pieces were in print, I'm glad I heard so many of them unedited in his own words.

Charades: Playing word games with Apple was not for the faint of heart. Or the barely literate. A friend reminded me of one game of charades when the opposing team had to act out Apple's choice, a quote from Dorothy Parker: "One man's Mede is another man's Persian."

Another friend remembers, "He saved my ass ... When it was my turn, I got "Thus Spake Zarathustra." I was nauseous. I started with the third word and managed to convey that it sounded like "zero." Then, bless his heart, Apple shouted out the answer, correctly of course."

Shopping: As much as he was a journalist's journalist and a man's man, Apple was also a true romantic. He loved women. We mystified him, but he strove valiantly to understand us. He was in his way old fashioned. And master of the grand gesture.

One time he decided to take me shopping for clothes. We're not talking Target here (actually Target didn't yet exist). We're talking Saks and Bendels.

It was an experience I'll never forget, reminiscent of a scene from a 1940's black and white movie. A bevy of saleswomen scurried back and forth at Apple's command with armfuls of clothes. Apple sat like a potentate, legs crossed, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other as I modeled outfit after outfit. And he decided nay or yea.

None of those pricey items went on Apple's legendary expense account ... at least I hope not.

London: As New York Times London bureau chief, Apple lived his dream of the perfect sophisticated life. His townhouse in Belgravia--the exclusive, tony area of London where the royals live--was a pure gem. His houseman was polite, savvy and discreet. His kitchen resembled a cover of Gourmet magazine. Apple cooked -- such a big man, so incredibly graceful in the kitchen. Not a wasted motion. Not a spoon left un-tasted.

We visited many London restaurants--you never 'ate' with Apple, you 'dined'--where Apple seemed to know everyone and vice versa. Then one day he told me we had a formal dinner to attend. I hit the beauty salon at Harrods for the full treatment, hair, nails, make-up. I remember how much he liked my dress, jewelry and mink coat. (Relax, it was my grandmother's, a "ranch mink" from the 20's.)

A car arrived and off we went ... to a dinner for Henry Kissinger at the official residence of His Spanish Majesty's Representative to the Court of St. James. Another movie set, this one in full color with sparkling crystal, china, gems and conversation. La Creme de la Creme of London and diplomatic society.

Apple trusted me to swim on my own and I'm proud to say I didn't sink. Seated next to a Parisian media mogul, I managed to wow even myself by conversing entirely in French. And remembered to turn occasionally to chat with the gentleman to my right, whose identity I've totally forgotten.

Even though Kissinger was the guest of honor, Apple was the star of the show. It was always that way -- whether in a small group or a large gathering, a fine restaurant or a foxhole, a living room or a press room, Apple dominated. Not only by choice, but also by sheer strength of personality.

Johnny Apple was that rare human being who's an actual force of nature. He was bright and brave and big and brash and bold. He left an imprint on everyone he met. Which is why so many others' personal remembrances are equally infused with the incomprehensibility of his death.

I haven't seen Apple in years, but still his presence in the universe was somehow comforting, part of the timeline of my life. Which is why his death is so discomfiting. We were a lot of things to each other back in the day. He was my mentor, my teacher, my shoulder, my confidant. I was his pupil, his source, his sounding board, his confidant. He was older and wiser, but so intensely curious, I became his teacher as well.

Bottom line, we were friends. And stayed friends even as our lives ultimately moved in different directions.

There came a time when everyone but Apple knew that Betsey Brown was the love of his life. Eventually he realized it too. And the result was by all accounts a marriage made in heaven.

When they meet there again some day, I just know he'll have a gorgeous meal, the perfect wine and a hellova story waiting for her.

Apple and I did communicate occasionally the past couple of years by email. I read his pieces, sent him a few of mine. The last email I got read simply, "Nice job. Don't let them f**k it up."

Not if I can help it, Johnny, I promise.

What I Did to Dan Rather

Texas state flag (Rather image added)

"If a frog had side pockets, he'd carry a hand gun." Dan Rather

It appears to be official. CBS has dumped all over Dan Rather. Which reminds of the time I did the same thing. Well, not exactly the same. But close.

Here's my story.

I first met Rather in the 70's along with other high profile news names ... Peter Jennings, John Chancellor, Johnny Apple, David Broder, even Walter Cronkite. Each had his own quirks and um, issues -- we'll get to them another time. Well, not Broder, he's a true gentleman and scholar.

Rather stood out. He was arrogant, self-centered and a total pain in the ass. Dan was the kind of guy you just wanted to smack upside the head on a regular basis.

No question though, he was a thorough professional. Dedicated. Hard working. Savvy and knowledgeable despite the ubiquitous Texas twang, colloquialisms, attitude.

My story takes place at a legendary venue -- the LBJ ranch. Lyndon Johnson, though no longer president, was still a powerful force in the democratic party.

A fundraiser was being held at the ranch. It was like a scene from the movie Giant. Well-dressed, well-heeled Democratic supporters stood around the huge lawn chatting in groups as chefs prepared a roasting pig and other traditional pit-smoked Texas edibles. Waiters circulated with drinks and trays of hors d'oeuvres.

I felt privileged to be there. Working, but still enjoying the historic surroundings and the opportunity to interact with a veritable Who's Who of Democratic and media luminaries.

A dream scenario for a young, green press aide. About to become a greener nightmare.

Rather was in his element, bragging about all things Texan. I somehow got stuck standing next to him as he sucked up the oxygen with his endless down-home anecdotes. A waiter stopped at our group and offered a tray.

I surveyed the goodies and was about to take a crab puff when Rather interrupted himself long enough to say, "Try this one, it's different, real Texas food."

He selected a cracker with some sort of meat on it and handed it to me. Raised to be a lady, I had no choice but to take it.

As I bit into the morsel and began to chew, I asked innocently, "What is this?"

"Rattlesnake," the waiter just as innocently replied. Rather was smiling, waiting for my reaction.

Can you see it coming? It's not pretty.

That particular hors d'oeuvre--and everything else I'd eaten that day--ejected itself from my body with MAC 10 force.

All over Dan Rather's shoes.

Really. All over. You couldn't see an inch of shoe leather.

I felt like the girl from The Exorcist. Not to mention totally humiliated.

Needless to say, silence ensued. The kind of silence you can cut with a knife.

Then I heard a voice say the magic words that saved my dignity. As much as that was possible.

"Oh, it's nothing. That ass Rather got another girl to eat some rattlesnake."


Postscript: Dan Rather has made an enormous contribution to CBS and to the news business in general. In spite of his monumental Memogate mistake, he's had a long and distinguished career.

As much as I wasn't too fond of him personally, I do hate to see CBS upchuck all over him.

Especially because for a long time, that was my own particular distinction.

How Buddy Cianfrani Kept Me Out of Jail

"What is the one thing that every politician in this room has in common? It's Buddy Cianfrani—because he takes more credit at getting us elected than anyone else." City Council President [now Mayor] John Street

"[Buddy] looked at every person as a potential vote." PA State Representative Babette Josephs

A Phila Inquirer article on the late State Senator Buddy Cianfrani, Philly's premier political boss for over 30 years got my wheels turning.

I knew The Senator. As Rep. Josephs noted in the article, nobody called him Buddy. At least not to his face. He was the essence of an oldtime Philly pol. Big, bald, ham-fisted, cigar-chomping, gravel-voiced, steely-eyed. A true backroom kingpin ... and king maker. A Paisan from da neighborhood. Sout Philly.

The Senator was a pretty scary guy. You didn't want to get on his bad side. Ever. Now that I think about it, in his younger days he looked a little like Tony Soprano. (In the photo above, taken not long before his death, he looks more like Uncle Junior. Still, check out those eyes.)

No matter his tough guy rep, to da goils, Buddy Cianfrani was a gentleman. Courtly. Charming even. An old-fashioned Democratic machine politician, he called every woman 'Doll'.

The Senator was quite the ladies man, in fact. Most Philadelphians my age remember stories of his affair with a ladylike blonde, a former Phila Inquirer and New York Times reporter. At one time he was her source. He bought her lavish gifts. Most notably a very expensive fur coat. He eventually married her.

As far as I'm concerned, Buddy did better than that for me. And based on nothing more than political expediency. I worked for the Governor, a Democrat. I was in trouble. So of course The Senator came to my rescue.

Primary Election Day, 1976. As PA's Commission of Elections--yes, really--it was my responsibility to serve as a Judge of Elections, reviewing claims of improprieties at city polling places. In Philly, a fulltime job. And not the best venue for a young, green female.

Needless to say, I made a few enemies. Mid afternoon I went home to take a break. A friend and I were drinking coffee when a knock came at the door. A policeman, accompaning a Traffic Court officer. What the...?

They informed me I was under arrest. As a scofflaw. That I had amassed over $500 in unpaid parking tickets. Impossible. I lived primarily in Harrisburg. And garaged my car when in Philly.

It was a set up.

I showed them my Judge of Elections badge and asked to make a phone call. They grudgingly agreed. Frantically I dialed the emergency number given to me by Tony Zecca, Deputy Mayor to Hizzoner Frank Rizzo. Sit tight, Tony told me, we'll get right back to you.

I waited. The officers waited. Impatiently. I was sweating bullets. No Sopranos joke intented.

I jumped when the phone rang. A familiar gruff voice said, "Hey, Doll, you okay?" The Senator. I said I was fine, just worried. "Lemme talk to da cop. And don't say nuttin."

Wordlessly I proffered the phone to the patrolman. "I don't want to talk to nobody," he said.

"This isn't nobody," I whispered. "Please, just take the phone." He rolled his eyes at the Traffic Court officer and grabbed the reciever. "Yeah?" he barked.

There are the moments you dream about. Like delivering the perfect exit line. This was better.

"Senator!" the cop gulped, suddenly standing at attention. Listened. We couldn't hear Buddy's words, but the tone came through loud and clear. "Yessir, Senator! I'm sorry, Senator! A mistake. Yes, Senator. Whatever you say, sir!"

My friend looked at me. "Buddy?" he mouthed. I nodded. Watching, the Traffic Court officer snapped to attention too. Looked at me with incredulity. Respect. And--I'm not so crazy about this part--a little fear. But when your adrenaline is pumping from your own fear, you let that slide.

The officer handed me the phone as if it were a live bomb. I grabbed it like the lifeline it was.

"It's all taken care of, Doll," Buddy said. "Doze guys won't bodder you no more."

"Thank you, Senator." I squeaked. "I'm sorry to bother You."

"S'okay, Doll. Dat's what I'm here for."

Buddy Cianfrani was there for a lot of people. His people. Not always on the side of the angels, but loyal to the end. I learned a lot from him and his ilk. Including the penalty for illegal wheeling and dealing.

The most important lesson I learned was about power. It's incredibly seductive. Especially when it's on your side.

My Ted Kennedy Chappaquiddick Story

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple." Oscar Wilde

Teddy's back in the tabloids. According to the New York Daily News, among others, The National Inquirer is reporting Kennedy fathered a son 21 years ago with a Cape Cod woman half his age. The Kennedy camp denies everything.

Of course the tabs have resurrected the June 1969 scandal of Chappaquiddick -- déjà vu all over again.

And I guess it's time to tell the version I heard, supposedly from a horse's mouth, of what really happened there almost 37 years ago.

First a recap. Ted Kennedy's car went off a bridge and into a pond after a party for Bobby Kennedy's campaign staff on Chappaquiddick Island near Martha's Vineyard. A passenger, Mary Jo Kopechne (Ko-peck-nee) was subsequently found drowned in the car.

Kennedy claimed he dove repeatedly into the dark water but couldn't find her. Then, disoriented and hurt, he gave up. On it's face, a routine if terrible tragedy. But Kennedy and his handlers inexplicably waited 9 hours before reporting the accident.

The media frenzy was ferocious. There were claims Kennedy was drunk and that he and his staff engaged in a massive cover-up of the accident and the cause of Ms. Kopechne's death.

Kennedy eventually pled guilty to the charge of leaving the scene of an accident and the case was closed. Justice may not have been served for Mary Jo Kopechne, but many felt partial justice was achieved in the destruction of Ted Kennedy's chances to mount his own presidential campaign.

I was a carefree college student that summer of 1969, doing the European tour. When the scandal broke we were in Italy. A sidebar: it wasn't until we returned to the states that I learned the young woman's name was not Mary Jo "Co-pa-chine-eh" as had been widely reported in the Italian media.

Fast forward a few years to my post college life in the political arenas of Pennsylvania and Washington. I met a woman who was, to say the least, in the thick of things at Chappaquiddick. She told me her story -- one that makes the most sense of the 9-hour lag in reporting the accident, the most critical and damning factor in the whole mess.

It comes down to this. The party was filled with young girls star struck by the older power brokers with whom they were atypically socializing. Mary Jo in particular had a crush on Ted Kennedy. Everybody was drinking heavily.

At some point in the evening, feeling more than a little under the weather, Mary Jo wandered outside, saw Kennedy's car and crawled into the back seat to sleep it off.

At some later point, Kennedy and the woman who told me this story got in his car and headed for a more private party a deux. They were both, shall we say, plastered.

After the car went off the bridge, Kennedy's primary goal was to get his female companion the hell out of the picture. His wife was at home, after all, and pregnant to boot.

Here's the punch line: they didn't know Mary Jo was in the car.

Which provides the most locigal explanation for Kennedy's seemingly evil callousness in not trying to save her. And the troubling time lag as aides scrambled for damage control, not realizing that something far worse than casual infidelity would hit the fan.

My source's anonymity was protected. But her conscience was far from clear. I hope after all these years she's realized she was little more than a naive kid dazzled by a powerful figure with feet of clay. And that she had plenty of company. From those who gravitated to the first Kennedy in power all the way up to Monica.

There are dozens of theories, reams of material, reports, hypotheses and even websites on what really happened at Chappaquiddick.

I didn't make this one up. I wasn't there. So I don't claim this is the Emmes. I'm just reporting the story I was told. We'll never know. After all ... wait for it ... there's too much water under the bridge.

The Guy in the Blue Jumpsuit

"There is a sort of an unwritten code in Washington, among the underworld and the hustlers and these other guys, that I am their friend." Marion Barry

The man who said that has been in the news this week. And wouldn't you know, he fits into the special category of Someone I Knew Back in the Day. Or as Dan Rubin of Blinq calls it, my Brushes With Greatness.

Frankly, this particular guy's not so great. In fact, he's infamous. Of course I've got a story about him from the past.

In the 70s, my life in journalism and politics brought me into contact with many who would eventually become household names. Peter Jennings was one. Carl Bernstein another.

The guy in the news this week fits into the Carl Bernstein timeframe when I was sharing a house in Georgetown with my galpal CJ.

I came home one afternoon weary from a road trip to find the house empty of its usual cadre of pals, pols and reporters. Enjoying the temporary solitude, I wandered into the kitchen for a piece of fruit -- to be confronted by a pair of overall-clad legs sticking out from under the kitchen sink.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hey," a disembodied voice echoed from beneath the porcelain. "I'm clearing a clog out of the trap, be done in a minute."

Not so unusual, the house was old, something was always in need of repair. I went back to the living room to get my checkbook. In a few minutes a tall, balding black man in a blue jumpsuit came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a rag.

"All done," he said, eyeing me up and down in a far too familiar way. I found it not flattering, but unsettling. We were alone in the house.

In a hurry to get this weirdo out the door, I opened my checkbook and said in my best customer-to-tradesman manner, "How much do we owe you?"

His eyes continued to sweep over me as he leaned casually against the wall. "You don't owe me anything, Sweet Thing," said the Spider to the Fly. Okay, this was just getting creepier.

Then CJ walked in the door. Relieved, I said to her, "I'm trying to pay this plumber, but he has some kind of attitude problem."

She cracked up. "He's not a plumber," she managed to get out. "Say hello to Marion Barry."

Well, Duh. How'd I miss that? Barry was a red hot DC city councilman at the time, rumored to be in line for the Mayor's office. Which he won a few years later. And proceeded to foul up royally.

Barry was eventually arrested in a sting operation for smoking crack. Did he do it? He was caught on hidden camera. Was he capable of doing it? Oh yeah.

The Marion Barry I knew was a doper and a rogue, a bad boy with a roving eye and roving hands. A quote from CJ, " I had to have someone, anyone, else in the room at all times to keep him from humping my leg 'cuz he ain't nuthin but a hound dog..."

Barry did have charm, but there was something venal in it. His charisma grabbed you but ultimately left you feeling queasy. Which rhymes with sleazy. You get the picture.

As a result of the crack scandal, Marion Barry was forced to resign and served 6 months in prison. After his release, if you can believe this, he was reelected Mayor of DC.

Time passed, but plus ça change -- today he's a DC city councilman again. And this week he's back in the news. He was robbed by a couple of street kids he let into his home.

I wonder if they told him they were plumbers?

Brokeback Mountain, Tookie Williams & Me

Iwo Jima - Statues

"Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?" Ernest Gaines

The controversial movie Brokeback Mountain and the controversy surrounding Tookie Williams have something in common. Both reflect universal polarizing issues. Homosexuality, the death penalty, people outside the mainstream, the consequences of misunderstood and misguided lives and the Big One -- redemption.

Together they create an eerie connection for me. Why? Because in 1975 my wonderful friend Ron was brutally murdered by a gang -- because he was gay.

And the real irony is he wasn't gay. He was more a hedonist, a seeker of pleasure from any source. He was also married and the father of two. No saint, he had a roving eye -- for the ladies. And, it turned out, for men too. Mostly he was a product of his generation, at war with conformity and his Catholic upbringing, savoring success and the good life in his unique, inimitable way.

Then a senseless, despicable hate crime snuffed out his life at the age of 30. A bright, committed, hardworking political operative. A funny, sweet, loyal friend. A loving, devoted husband and father (yes, really), taken by rage and bigotry.

We met in 1968 while I was still at Penn. It was Ron who helped me set my course and lose my political virginity while he protected me at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago.

We worked together in Philly, throughout Pennsylvania, in Washington and around the country for the next seven years, along with a cadre of other young, idealistic Boomers who had chosen government service as a way to change the world.

We played together too. Some of the time. Clearly there were areas of his life hidden from me and the rest of his full-time hetero friends.

Like the West of the 1960s, politics in the 1970s was all about hiding, even denying, any form of homosexuality. Gays and bisexuals, many deeply conflicted about their sexual preferences were driven deeper into the shadows in order to achieve success in the straight world.

So a secret subculture existed in state capitols and the nation's capitol where gays shared their sense of alienation, frustration and anger. The little I knew of that world seemed filled with self-loathing, desperation and pain. Even in my callow 20's I thought it was wrong -- not that they were gay, but that they were forced to hide.

Because then as now, prejudice, hatred and violence were the weapons others used to confront a lifestyle that confused, offended and clouded their mainstream judgment.

Which adds more irony to the location of Ron's murder: in the shadow of the Iwo Jima Memorial in Washington, DC. That symbol of America at its best was a clandestine meeting place for gays. And horribly, became a hunting ground for those who decried their lifestyle.

All these years later, I still remember witness descriptions of Ron screaming in agony as three men beat him to a pulp while he begged them to stop, pleading for help that came too late. A friend called upon to identify the body had to do so from Ron's engraved wedding and college rings -- Ron's face was so destroyed it was unrecognizable.

The men who did it were caught. The media was filled with stories of the crime, the perpetrators, the victim and his family. Ron's parents lost their son and their middle class innocence. His wife was deprived not only of her husband, but also her privacy, and her dignity. Their children were robbed of a father and served up a scandal as his legacy.

I ask myself, did all who knew and loved Ron wish the death penalty for his killers? At first, we were too stunned to think about anything but his family's and our own grief. But eventually most of us wanted more than justice, we wanted vengeance.

It's easy to debate the death penalty with rational arguments from a safe theoretical distance. But to view it in the face of brutal reality, to want an eye for an eye for loved ones cut down? A whole other ball game.

As far as I know, Ron's killers are still in prison. They weren't put to death -- I would remember that. What I do remember is that they weren't at all repentant about their horrendous deed. So in my mind, even 30 years later, they don't deserve redemption.

Should Tookie Williams have been let off the hook? I don't know. What I do know is that hindsight is a luxury granted the living. It's meaningless to the dead. A thousand good works by their killers won't bring them back. Here's a worse dilemma for me: I can't even remember Ron's position on the death penalty.

In the end it doesn't matter. I will always remember Ron. They stole his life because of their sick perception of his lifestyle. They didn't know about the beauty of his spirit. And they can never steal that from those of us who did.

Woodward and Bernstein Back in the Day

(UPI / Bettmann)

"Carl’s a phenomenal jitterbugger. At parties in high school, we danced together. Chances are if I saw him in the nursing home and somebody put on Bill Haley, we could get up and do it again." Annie Groer, Washington Post reporter

I've led a pretty interesting Been There Done That life. (So far. It's not over yet.) My experiences, especially with the Great and Near Great, have ranged from the ridiculous to the sublime to many fascinating spots in between.

My pal Beth just sent me a piece on a new book called "Belushi: A Biography" by John Belushi's widow Judy Belushi Pisano, taking Bob Woodward to task for trashing Belushi in his own book "Wired." It started me thinking of the good old days when I knew Woodward and Bernstein. As usual, there's a story there. It's really about Bernstein, but what the hell, that's the way my mind works.

In the early to mid 70s, working in journalism and politics, I spent a lot of time commuting among Harrisburg, Philly and Washington. My LZ in DC was CJ's great little house facing the Georgetown campus. Remind me to tell you sometime how we watched The original movie The Exorcist being filmed there and snagged roles as extras.

A lot of well known journalists and pols were frequent visitors to the house on P. Street. (More about some of them another time.) Carl Bernstein was too, though he wasn't famous. Yet.

Bob Woodward showed up a few times. Frankly, Bob was a tight ass then, as he gives every indication of being now. Carl, on the other hand, was a party guy -- when he wasn't slaving at the Washington Post trying to make a name for himself.

If you're a Boomer, you know what's coming.

Carl started working more and showing up less. He and Woodward were onto something big. When he did fall through the door late at night, he was bursting with stories about break-ins and cover-ups and sleazy wheelings and dealings in the Nixon administration.

We should have listened more and partied less, but what can I say, we were young and--in retrospect--dumb. (And if we heard who Deep Throat was, we were too wasted to remember.)

After Woodward and Bernstein broke the Watergate scandal, they wrote "All the President's Men" which subsequently became a movie. Carl came to Philly one day to flog the book on The Mike Douglas Show, a Westinghouse syndicated talker taped locally at KYW TV.

I picked him up at the airport and took him to the studio. We were both excited that the topical comedic team The Smothers Brothers were also among the day's guests.

Carl, new to the Fame Game, wondered over and over if it would be tacky to ask for their autograph. I urged him to go for it. We walked into the Green Room and there they were. Carl's sweaty hand grabbed mine as he fumbled for words, clearly star struck.

Tommy Smothers stood up and said, "You're Carl Bernstein."

"Uh, yeah," was Carl's articulate answer.

Tommy turned and picked up a book from the end table. It was, of course, "All the President's Men." He looked somewhat sheepish as he held it out toward Carl. "I hope you don't think this is tacky," he said, "but would you autograph it for me?"

That's showbiz.

Knight Ridder and Me - Writing on the Wall?

"A job on a newspaper is a special thing. Every day you take something that you found out about, and you put it down and in a matter of hours it becomes a product." Jimmy Breslin

"Handled creatively, getting fired allows a person to actually experience a sense of relief that he never wanted the job he has lost." Frank P. Louchheim

They say most people will change jobs as many as 15 times in a working lifetime. That's pretty close to my count throughout a long, peripatetic career in politics, advertising, traditional media and New Media, i.e., the Internet. I left most positions voluntarily to go on to better ones, but I was laid off twice -- and fired once as a political fall guy, uh gal (more on that in a minute).

My last full-time job was with AOL, where I survived nearly a dozen major layoffs during 8 years, finally electing to leave when the weekly commute from Philly to Northern VA, combined with a changing corporate culture and virtually constant upheavals became too much for me and my family to take.

Inquirer and Daily News Layoffs
I've been following the Knight Ridder upheavals and concurrent layoffs at the Inquirer and Daily News through Dan Rubin at Blinq, and Yowsah! I can relate. Corporate layoffs are brutal. The rumors. The waiting. The anxiety. Then, the ax. But the people whose asses should have been booted long ago inevitably survive ... the Peter Principle in action. And dedicated, hardworking grunts who keep the place running are regularly drop-kicked out the door.

It's so frustrating to see talented colleagues pack their boxes and jump without a net. At AOL, the anger among the remaining troops grew as we watched corporate honchos get richer while a revolving door of loyal underlings got pink slips. Until the Time Warner debacle. It may not be 'nice,' but there's an all too human reaction of glee when arrogant higher-ups finally get their just deserts ... but not fun for long when you remember the size of their golden parachutes. And of your own plunging stock options.

As I read about similar goings on at the Inquirer and Daily News, I feel for those laid off, and for the guilty survivors. And it reminds me of the time I was publicly fired--which I learned first from the Inquirer and Daily News--facilitated by a former Knight Ridder honcho. Six degrees of separation, karma, circles within circles ... eerie but true.

How I Got Kissed and Fired
Early 70s. I'd recently started a new job as Press Secretary to the Philly DA. Our town's City Hall is its own universe and I had many friends in the City Hall press room. Among them was then 'Andi' Mitchell of KYW Radio, now Andrea Mitchell of NBC News. Another was an intense young reporter (with a full head of dark curly hair), covering local politics for the Daily News at the time, then Zack, now Zachary Stahlberg -- who rose to become top editor at the Daily News and vice president of Philadelphia Newspapers Inc.

One day I got a call from Zack asking where I went to Law School. My sister is the lawyer, I told him, a bit confused, I went to Annenberg, remember? Oh, never mind, he said. And I thought that was that. Two days later, front page of both papers, Top DA Aide Fired, Falsified Background. Yeah, me. But I didn't do the crime. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There's a back story and a back room story.

The back story: the DA's office wanted to hire me but had no city payroll slot allocated for a press secretary, so they put me into an open position as an ADA. One small detail: nobody told me about this illegal deception. I was royally pissed at my cigar-chomping bosses -- and at Zack for thinking I'd participate in such a scam. He was apologetic and eager to help me get back at them, along with Andi Mitchell, when she gave him the back room story.

The back room story: Philly's mayor at the time was a bully with a huge (but publicly unknown) appetite for the ladies. He cornered me in his office one day and, how can I put this delicately ... stuck his tongue down my throat and groped me black and blue. I talked my way out of further indignities--I shudder to think what else--and managed to escape. I was huddled in the ladies room pale and shaking when Andi walked in. She caught me off guard and I told her what happened. It's not that I was a prude or an inexperienced milkmaid -- this was one scary dude. (Ask nicely and I'll give you all the disgusting details. He's dead. I'm alive, and it's pretty funny now, from a distance of 30 years.)

Apparently my less than enthusiastic response to Hizzoner, my hasty exit from his office in clear distress, my close ties to the press and my possible future actions were cause for collective concern among Those In Charge, who thought it best to get me out of the building. Discredited, to boot. And used Zack and the Daily News, plus their own dirty deed, to do it.

Andi and Zack urged me to go public ... to clear my name but also, let's face it, to give them a hell of a story. Sexual harassment was still a hazy concept back then and I'd been around politics long enough to know that no matter how innocent you are, if you throw mud on somebody, you're gonna get spattered too. So I folded my tent and lived to fight another day.

That's the message I'd like to send to those recently unemployed by Knight Ridder. Don't let the bastards get you down. You will live through it. And you'll have stories to tell long after those guys are gone ... or in jail. And hey, maybe the new Evening Bulletin is hiring. If not, start your own blog and tell those stories. It's liberating as hell.

Jack Kennedy's Monica?

It's an open secret that President John F. Kennedy had extramarital affairs during his time in office. The biography, "An Unfinished Life" by historian Robert Dallek, suggests one of those relationships was with a White House intern ... a college student who worked in the press office... CBSNews.com

The Kennedys are back in the limelight, warts and all, with the publication of a new book. This one from JFK's nephew, Christopher Kennedy Lawford, interviewed on CBS Sunday Morning about his memories of Kennedy family legends, especially JFK.

Which reminded me of a story I was told about a White House Press Office intern and her brush with glory during President Kennedy's tenure.

I heard the story from a well known political journalist, a veteran insider with an impeccable reputation. No, I won't out him here, don't even ask. In the retelling I'll refer to him as Mr. X.

First, a reminder. Historically--and up until the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal--the sexual dalliances of politicians were widely known but kept very much in the closet by the media. Most insiders and reporters knew a great deal about the sex lives of The Great and Near Great, but no network or newspaper would dream of going public with such an invasion of a politico's privacy. It just wasn't done. Bill Clinton should only have been so lucky.

So here's the story:

Mr. X was in the White House press room one day chatting with a young female intern recently arrived from the Heartland. He asked if she were enjoying the Washington scene. She began to cry and admitted to being homesick and lonely. Such a big city, so many people, yet she couldn't seem to make friends or get any dates. Mr. X was surprised, as she was quite pretty.

He had an idea. 'Don't ask any questions,' he told her, 'just do what I say and you'll be popular in no time. Every day around 10:45AM for the next two weeks, go to the Ladies Room. Make sure no one sees you, thoroughly wet your hair and hide in a stall until 11:30. Then return to your desk and if anyone asks about your hair or where you've been, say nothing, just give them a Mona Lisa smile.'

She thought he was crazy. But she was desperate. And so every morning for two weeks she disappeared at 10:45 and reappeared at her desk at 11:30 with wet hair. She replied to all inquires with a shake of her head and a quiet smile.

A few weeks later Mr. X saw the young woman at a Brazilian Embassy party. She was radiant. Glowing. On the arm of a handsome, powerful lobbyist, surrounded by other DC honchos clamoring for her attention. He caught her eye and she rushed to give him a hug. 'You're wonderful,' she gushed. 'I don't know why, but ever since you told me to wet my hair last month, I have more friends and dates than I can handle!'

If you know the secret of her success, you're smiling. If not, you're saying Huh?

Here's the back story, which is in fact the real story:

There was a pool in the White House at the time. President Kennedy routinely took a morning swim around 11AM to ease his injured back. And to ease other areas, he was routinely joined in the pool by some young female staffer. Ahhh, you're beginning to see the light, right?

Wet hair + private smile = Power. Suddenly everybody wanted to get close to the girl who appeared to be very close to the president.

I've wondered over the years if Mr. X told me the whole story -- maybe he was covering for her. JFK had an eye for the ladies. She was a pretty intern on the make. In the end it doesn't matter ... except possibly to the president's wife and family. Who were, after all, the real injured parties.

So every time I hear about Bill and Monica I wonder too why it was necessary for the public--and the Clinton family--to be bombarded with all the sordid details. Frankly, I'd rather have pictured Monica with wet hair than a wet dress.

There's an object lesson here. Not so much about Too Much Information from the media, which we certainly got on the Bill and Monica affair. But more about failing to find and reveal The Most Important Information. Because as the girl with the wet hair could tell you, appearance is not always reality.

And even if it is, it has absolutely nothing to do with the business of running the country.

Bob Dylan - My Personal Chronicle

Bob Dylan: Nashville Skyline

Can you please crawl out your window?
Use your arms and legs it won't ruin you
How can you say he will haunt you?
You can go back to him any time you want to.
bobdylan.com: Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?

"I really was never any more than what I was—a folk musician who gazed into the gray mist with tear-blinded eyes and made up songs that floated in a luminous haze." Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan. Wow. Flashback. Come with me down Memory Lane as I open a page from my personal chronicles to one of the signal, if not defining moments of my Boomer youth.

While I was at Penn in the late 1960s, I escaped Philly almost every summer weekend to a classmate's family vacation retreat at the tip of Connecticut on Long Island Sound. The rows of large, comfortable homes were clustered so close together you could reach out your window and touch the neighbor's curtains.

One summer morning my friend and I were awakened far too early by music from an open window opposite ours. At first groggy, then annoyed, then stilled by the plaintive, haunting sounds drifting through the clear morning air. We listened, confused, and said to each other, "God, that's incredible. I didn't know Dylan had a new record."

I've telegraphed the punchline. There was no new record, at least not yet. It was Dylan himself, a house guest of the next-door neighbor, sitting in his room, playing and singing. Was he still composing? Playing for his own pleasure? We never found out. We just lay there and listened, entranced, as he sang.

Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile
His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
And you're the best thing that he's ever seen
Bob Dylan: Lay, Lady, Lay

Ah ha, gotcha with the bigger punchline. Whenever I hear that song I'm transported back to that time and that place and Dylan singing just to us.

We came to our window to see him at his, and our silent applause was rewarded with a crooked smile. No, there isn't another punchline, I'm not cueing up to claim carnal knowledge of Bob Dylan. The memory is perfect just as it happened, nothing but sense and sound and secret smiles.

That day he joined our crowd on the beach. The transition from bedroom troubadour to beach buddy was a bit unsettling -- for him as well as us. He was quiet in the beginning. Seemingly aloof. Uncomfortably shy. Thin and pale, especially compared to our robust, tanned bodies. And, I don't know why I remember this irrelevant and pointless detail, his own body was not only very white, but almost completely hairless. Not even close to the image of a rock star sex symbol ... I guess that's my point.

And yet. And yet. There was something special, unique, compelling about him. Intelligence. A vibrating intensity. Oddly, a measure of poise we certainly did not yet possess. And quietude. That's what strikes me now as I look back on that day. He was so still. His eyes didn't restlessly track every movement on the beach ... though they certainly lingered on the girls in our bikinis. I have to tell you, no matter what his reputation as a lothario, there was more longing than lasciviousness in his gaze.

We were all so alive, so boisterous, so young and juicy, he seemed to soak up our energy and enthusiasm as the day went on. And because we were also elite Ivy Leaguers, engaged, involved, committed to altering the chaotic adult world we were about to enter, he was drawn into our conversations too.

What did we talk about, our little group and Bob Dylan? The war, the draft, the Kennedy assassination, politics, feminism, sex, drugs and--only a little--rock and roll. We didn't have to talk about that because he played for us. Sitting on a blanket on the sand, leaning against a big red cooler, an old guitar on his bent, knobby white knees, he played and he sang. And we sang too, at first quietly and respectfully, then, encouraged by his smiles and nods, belting out familiar lyrics he'd engraved on our souls.

It was pure magic. A bunch of tuned in, turned on college kids, passing around cigarettes and joints, sharing swigs of beer and cheap wine, drifting in a private cocoon of near nirvana. Privileged to be joined by this odd duck, this awkward performer, this towering talent, who was, for one glorious summer day, one of us.

Word spread. People wandered past our blanket, self-consciously casual, checking out this music icon their kids worshiped. You could see many adults shaking their heads, wondering what all the fuss was about.

But a few, not tied to tradition for tradition's sake, stopped and openly listened. And I think, heard the eloquent pleas for peace, reason, change, understanding.

That indelible encounter has stayed with me for 30 years, and will linger in my memory banks forever. I know now what I didn't really appreciate then: I was lucky enough to experience, up close and personal, the clarion Voice of my Generation.

My friend Jesse Kornbluth--in his formal persona as Head Butler--stirred these memories of Bob Dylan.

Who Served Our Country - And Who Didn't

"I had other priorities in the 60's than military service." Dick Cheney

Well. Okay. As long as we're on that subject -- I got a fascinating email today that struck me as particularly germane, what with President Bush getting orchestrated hurrahs from carefully handpicked military audiences this week, while continuing to ignore Cindy Sheehan--and so many other Gold Star Mothers--who want to see an end to the war in Iraq.

The email came from a longtime House staffer who currently works for a powerful congressman and says it's been around the Hill and back, vetted and authenticated. Some of the information we've all seen before. Some is verrry enlightening.

Anti-war; Pro-war. Blue State; Red State. Good; Evil. Right; Wrong. You be the judge.

Democrats -- The "knee-jerk liberals" who want us out of Iraq:
* John Kerry: Lt., Navy 1966-70; Silver Star, Bronze Star with Combat V, Purple Hearts.
* Richard Gephardt: Air National Guard, 1965-71.
* Tom Daschle: 1st Lt., Air Force SAC 1969-72.
* Al Gore: enlisted Aug 1969; sent to Vietnam Jan. 1971 as an army
journalist in 20th Engineer Brigade.
* Bob Kerrey: Lt. J.G. Navy 1966-69; Medal of Honor, Vietnam.
* Daniel Inouye: Army 1943-47; Medal of Honor, WWII.
* Charles Rangel: Staff Sgt., Army 1948-52; Bronze star, Korea.
* Max Cleland: Captain, Army 1965-68; Silver Star & Bronze Star, Vietnam.
* Ted Kennedy: Army, 1951-53.
* Tom Harkin: Lt., Navy, 1962-67; Naval Reserve,1968-74.
* Jack Reed: Army Ranger, 1971-1979; Captain, Army Reserve 1979-91.
* Fritz Hollings: Army officer in WWII; Bronze Star and seven campaign ribbons.
* Leonard Boswell: Lt. Col., Army 1956-76; Vietnam, DFCs, Bronze Stars and Soldier's Medal.
* Pete Peterson: Air Force Captain, POW. Purple Heart, Silver Star and Legion of Merit.
* Mike Thompson: Staff sergeant, 173rd Airborne, Purple Heart.
* Bill McBride: Candidate for Fla. Governor. Marine in Vietnam; Bronze Star with Combat V.
* David Bonior: Staff Sgt., Air Force 1968-72.
* Gray Davis: Army Captain in Vietnam, Bronze Star.
* Pete Stark: Air Force 1955-57
* Chuck Robb: Vietnam
* Howell Heflin: Silver Star
* George McGovern: Silver Star & DFC during WWII.
* Bill Clinton: Student deferments. Entered draft but received #311.
* Jimmy Carter: Seven years in the Navy.
* Walter Mondale: Army 1951-1953
* John Glenn: WWII and Korea; six DFCs and Air Medal with 18 Clusters.
* Tom Lantos: Served in Hungarian underground in WWII. Saved by Raoul Wallenberg.

Republicans -- The "patriotic Americans" supporting the war:
* George W. Bush: failed to complete six-year National Guard duty; got assigned to Alabama so he could campaign for family friend running for U.S. Senate; failed to show up for required medical exam; disappeared from duty.
* Dick Cheney: did not serve. Several deferments, the last by marriage.
* Jeb Bush: did not serve.
* Saxby Chambliss (the man who attacked Max Cleland's patriotism): did not serve. "Bad knee."
* Karl Rove: did not serve.
* Tom Delay: did not serve.
* Bill Frist: did not serve.
* Rick Santorum: did not serve.
* Dennis Hastert: did not serve.
* Roy Blunt: did not serve.
* Mitch McConnell: did not serve.
* Trent Lott: did not serve.
* John Ashcroft: did not serve. Seven deferments to teach business.
* Paul Wolfowitz: did not serve.
* Vin Weber: did not serve.
* Richard Perle: did not serve.
* Douglas Feith: did not serve.
* Eliot Abrams: did not serve.
* Richard Shelby: did not serve.
* Jon Kyl: did not serve.
* Tim Hutchison: did not serve.
* Christopher Cox: did not serve.
* Newt Gingrich: did not serve.
* Donald Rumsfeld: served in Navy (1954-57) as flight instructor.
* B-1 Bob Dornan: Enlisted after fighting was over in Korea.
* Phil Gramm: did not serve.
* Dana Rohrabacher: did not serve.
* John M. McHugh: did not serve.
* JC Watts: did not serve.
* Jack Kemp: did not serve. "Knee problem," although continued in NFL for 8 years.
* Dan Quayle: Journalism unit of the Indiana National Guard.
* Rudy Giuliani: did not serve.
* George Pataki: did not serve.
* Spencer Abraham: did not serve.
* John Engler: did not serve.
* Lindsey Graham: National Guard lawyer.
* Ronald Reagan: due to poor eyesight, served in a non-combat role making movies.
* Arnold Schwarzenegger: AWOL from Austrian army base.
* John McCain: Silver Star, Bronze Star, Legion of Merit, Purple Heart and Distinguished Flying Cross, POW. (But we all knew that and continue to applaud him for it... all the while wondering why in God's name he's still a Republican.)

Pundits & Preachers & Judges, Oh My
* Rush Limbaugh: did not serve (4-F with a 'pilonidal cyst.')
* Bill O'Reilly: did not serve.
* Michael Savage: did not serve.
* George Will: did not serve.
* Chris Matthews: did not serve.
* Sean Hannity: did not serve.
* Paul Gigot: did not serve.
* Bill Bennett: did not serve.
* Pat Buchanan: did not serve.
* Bill Kristol: did not serve.
* Kenneth Starr: did not serve.
* Ralph Reed: did not serve.
* Michael Medved: did not serve.
* Charlie Daniels: did not serve.
* Antonin Scalia: did not serve.
* Clarence Thomas: did not serve.
* Ted Nugent: did not serve. (He only shoots at things that don't shoot back.)

And by the way:
* John Wayne: did not serve.

If you can refute any of these (or add any), knock yourself out, we'd love to know.