Bob Novak Could Sting, But He Was Really A Honey

"Beneath the surface, Novak was a sweetie.." Bernadette Malone, former Novak reporter; Senior Editor, Penguin

"There was nothing more fun after a long day than to sit down with Bob Novak and argue about capital-gains taxes, the Fed, the Contras or [any other] topic. But nobody ever doubted that we liked each other and that there was a part of us that would stand off in a corner saying, 'You can't take this too seriously.' " Democratic strategist Bob Shrum

"[O]nce you talked to Novak, you liked him.." Greg Gutfeld, Fox News

Liberals, moderates, even some conservatives have a right to dislike Robert Novak. Pundits everywhere have cataloged his "evilness" with great relish -- never more than in recent pseudo-eulogies and obituaries.

Well, why not? Novak gave them a giant target. He also gave them a solid example of a determined, dedicated Reporter. Even his enemies grant he was a professional political analyst par excellence.

There was another side of Bob Novak. A lighter side. Generous, funny, kind, thoughtful. And more. Not in public of course. Behind the scenes, among friends. It's true. I was there to see some of it for myself.

So, I am not here to defend Robert Novak's public politics, allegiances or deeds. My modest but determined goal is to assert that for those who knew the private man, especially in the years before his dark public persona had solidified, calcified, virtually taken over -- there was quite a lot about Bob Novak to like.

Yes, really.

I'm not speaking about or for his family. I don't know them and I imagine they're having a tough enough time dealing with his death and the public glee expressed by so many. I do know he wasn't an easy family man, so I also imagine they'll have a tough time making peace with it all.

I'm referring to Novak's other family. Not in a legal sense. Not other children. A privileged family of friends. An enduring love. Nothing "official" or even widely known.

Way back in the dark ages of the 1970's some things weren't acknowledged or discussed. The things some of us lived.

It seems like yesterday that I was such a young pup. First a student, then an intern, a low level 'operative." Eager for knowledge and to be all grown up inside the political universe of Washington, DC.

I ran in circles that included some pretty big names in journalism and politics. Some became my friends. Some my mentors. A few lovers. Many provided great stories.

My closest friend and mentor was Johnny Apple, aka R. W. Apple, Jr. of the New York Times. When he died in 2006, he took a big chunk of my early professional and personal years with him. And some of those great stories too. Read my Personal Notes on a Professional Journalist when you can.

Another whose path I crossed gave me one of my all time best stories: Dousing Dan Rather. (This one's especially dedicated to my Texas friends).

It's a different world now, but back then, politics and journalism were strange bedfellows, in both senses of the word. We all worked together, played together, helped --and used-- each other, loved and laughed and learned and betrayed and protected one another.

Life was a little more black and white on the outside and a lot greyer on the inside. Hard working, hard drinking, hard living people created and reported the news. Relationships were intense but friable. Entertaining, free-spirited, at times well-choreographed, often wildly chaotic and doomed.

There were very few constants. Oddly, Bob Novak was one. A grown-up, a power-broker, a potential king maker or breaker. A man who know exactly who he was, what he wanted and how to get it.

And no matter how high he flew (and he did, um, fly), his feet stayed on the ground. He seemed almost a father figure to the younger among us, me included.

He was so proper, edging toward pompous, it was beyond fun to watch him let loose, make indecently funny jokes, double over with laughter, become The Enforcer trying to quiet our riotous behavior.

Even when serious, if you knew where to look you could still see that private twinkle in his eye. Often pointed in one specific direction.

From the 70's through to the present, Bob Novak was friend, mentor and more to one of my oldest, dearest friends. For her loss, I grieve. He was her treasured LH (initials of her private nickname for him), known only by a few intimates. No, I won't tell you what LH stands for, you'd never believe me anyway.

There are a lot of things I'll never tell. But it doesn't matter now to say that Bob Novak had a very special relationship with a small group of insiders and with one very special woman.

You're shocked? Doubtful. You don't care? Fine. Enough of us do. We know there are no absolutes in people or relationships. Everybody's got secrets. Regrets. Imperfections large and small.

Everybody's got some good inside too. And true light. Just because you've never seen it doesn't mean it wasn't there. For some of us, that light's gone out. Though not darkness, but sweetness remains. And we'll always have P Street.

Paul Newman, No Failure To Communicate With Me

Warning: If you feel as I do about Paul Newman, this will make you cry.






No one can deny the timeless appeal of Paul Newman. No one will ever replace his precise blend of sex appeal, sensibility, intelligence and rare grace. As an actor, as a human being.

He was my first movie star crush, and no one's come close to this day. Not only because he was also undeniably gorgeous, but because of his reality and humanity, his unwavering devotion to his wife, his family, those less fortunate in the world.

Few celebrities genuinely fit the label Uses Power for Good, Not Evil. Paul Newman defined that concept. And lived life his way, with brio, bravery, honesty, commitment and even modesty.

I had the honor and--oh yeah--the thrill of meeting Paul Newman in 1979 at the Daytona 500. Pure. Magic. I was a guest of friends who owned part interest in Newman's race car company. (It's a business, believe me). They had a big deluxe RV parked in a prime spot inside the track. It was like a luxurious home inside, plenty of refreshments and facilities. We watched the races from swivel chairs bolted to the roof.

Newman didn't sit around and chat. He came and went, focused on the cars, his crew, the preliminary races. His presence was calm and electrifying at the same time. Not that tall, not a loud voice, dressed like all the other drivers. But there was something special about him, a supreme self-confidence and a charisma that pulled you into his orbit.

When we were introduced, he shook my hand with both of his, gave me his full attention, asked a few questions ... for a few brief golden moments making me feel important and yet totally at ease, as if we were old friends. I wish. Wow factor squared. And oh those extraordinary piercing blue eyes, as another friend once described, you could see from the back of his head.

My sister and I were just talking about him yesterday and I said, Is he sick? I've been having this feeling he's going to die. (I'm like that, get premonitions good and bad, always correctly predict the sex of my niece's babies, know when I'm going to hear from someone, stuff like that. My grandmother had it too.)

I so wish I'd been wrong this time. And I feel humbled too. Here I've been, whining about my stupid shoulder surgery, while I bet anything Paul Newman was dying as he lived, with dignity, grace, humor, bravery and love.

My heart goes out to his family and to all of us, his family of faithful fans.

Jenna Bush, AKA J-BU

"I think this wedding is one of the most special ones we've done." Donald Trump

Okay, now that the pictures are out, I have to dish. I didn't think I'd care and really, I don't. But still, to see such crashing bad taste all in one place is just too much fun to overlook.

First of all, Oscar de la Renta or not, that low-cut, tightly fitted gown would look more fitting on say, Katherine Heigl than on Jenna Bush. It screams Hottie on the Red Carpet instead of murmuring Blushing Bride.

And I have to ask, what was up with Maid of Honor twin Barbara's Greek Goddess look, complete with wreath headdress? Jeez.

George and Barbara Bush Senior are conspicuously absent from the photos, which is okay since Laura choose a matronly, ugly dress more suitable for Grandmother of the Bride.

Then we had the two fathers and the groom in complimentary and matching ice blue ties. Again, Jeez.

These people have access to the best clothes and fashion advice that money can buy. Aside from a truly lovely engagement ring--which come to think of it came from the groom's side--and a glorious setting provided by nature, the wedding party's look was as tacky as the souvenirs being hawked all over Crawford.

It is sweet the wedding took place this weekend, but I bet that wasn't Jenna's idea. Releasing those pictures on Mother's Day is too good an opportunity for a sagging presidency to pass up.

Around here, there's no wedding, just the usual pride. Our son spent the weekend down in Boca with his grandparents (today is my Dad's birthday too). Tonight we'll pick him up at the airport and go to our favorite Italian restaurant for a relaxed Mother's Day dinner.

All that and roses too.

I won't be wearing Oscar de la Renta ... just the usual jeans. And a great big happy smile.

Barbara Walters Really Is Baba Wawa

"I guess it's good to be made fun of, I guess that means you're slightly famous." Barbara Walters

If you're an early Baby Boomer you remember Gilda Radner's hilarious send-ups of Barbara Walters on Saturday Night Live. More than parodying her slight speech impediment, Radner really skewered Walters' overblown sense of self-importance and concurrent false modesty about her iconic celebrity status.

Serious journalist? Yes, Walters had the chops and some of the 20th Century's top interviews to prove it. Ground-breaking feminist? Absolutely. She was television's first female journalist, breaking ground for most of today's women on TV news and quasi-news shows.

She even broke through the glass ceiling, if only briefly as television's first female evening news anchor on ABC. When she got cut, she showed 'em all by making more money and becoming more famous than the jamokes who juked her.

Less than impressive is her pivotal role in creating the execrable "infotainment" triad of news, entertainment and celebrity gossip that has supplanted actual news for millions of television viewers.

Did she dally with the great and near great along the way? Well, of course. Who wouldn't? But I don't believe for a second she slept her way to fame and fortune. She just slept with the famous and the rich and powerful who swam in the waters where she dangled her feet.

Now, thanks to the nauseating hype surrounding the most obscure affair she reveals in her newly released autobiography, we are subjected to cutesy, near-adolescent descriptions of her sexual exploits.

I just have to say for the record, Blech. If you can't talk like an adult, I don't want to listen.

Which is nothing compared to my outrage at the media for pouncing on Walters' revelation of her affair with former Massachusetts Senator Edward Brooke. And beating it to death. It's pandering of the very worst kind.

Until Walters' book, Brooke was a man living under the radar, completely out of public life. At the time of their affair he was her "younger man." A married man. A US Senator. And by the way, he's Black.

Groundbreaking, famous white woman and younger, formerly little known Black senator plastered all over the news together. Beyond Blech.

I don't know who thought up that disgusting marketing ploy, but Shame on You! And, I have a feeling, shame on Baba Wawa for going along with it just to sell her wittle book.

Billy and Miley Sittin in a Tree

Annie Liebovitz

"That’s just my personality. I don’t get shaken or stirred up over anything. Which can be a problem sometimes. I’m just, like, so no emotions. I just don’t let things faze me. I’m very much like my dad. My dad’s like this." Miley Cyrus

Interesting article by Rebecca Traister in salon.com on the Current Cyrus Controversy. I wrote about it too earlier this week, but I have more to say. Especially in response to readers comments, including one that accused all who decry the photos of having dirty minds.

I was skeeved out by the Billy-Miley images, not because I have a "dirty mind" but because the father-daughter photos were deliberately sexualized. And because Vanity Fair, Disney and Miley's parents chose to showcase them in that context.

Of course fathers hug and kiss their daughters in complete innocence; many such loving acts are caught in family photos. But few fathers would willingly contribute to, much less allow publication of photos appearing to celebrate Daddy's Little Ho.

Look at that picture. And the others. Does that say father-daughter to you? Yeesh.

And by the way, did anybody bother to read the actual article? Even it's author is taken aback by Miley's creepy child-woman maturity.

You have to wonder about her parent's judgement beyond the photos when you learn Miley's favorite TV show is Sex and the City. And that she tries to make Hannah Montana into a SATC teen homage. Not the sex, she assures us, just the friendships.

Blech. Really. Blech.

I'm a certified Baby Boomer (we invented open sexuality, remember). But I have to draw the line at a 15-year-old watching a show that portrays believable adult characters discussing the intimate details of their sex lives and engaging in soft core porn.

Neither Miley nor any other teenager can possibly understand or process the complexities of adult sexuality and relationships -- nor should they.

Our 24 year old son grew up in an open, loving home with all questions welcomed and answered. And with plenty of hugs and kisses. But he--and I--still find it creepy and uncomfortable to sit in front of the TV together watching graphic sex scenes.

Not because there's anything "dirty" about sex. But because we're mother and son. And because he was taught the value of privacy, decency, personal space and appropriate boundaries. He's also smart and mature enough to find sexual pictures of a 15-year-old disturbing, not sexy. Especially those with her father.

Teen sexuality is out of whack in this country already. The Cyrus pictures just make the issue more glaringly real. And sad.

Parents should educate their children about sex, but not by Show and Tell. A concept the Cyrus family seems to have left behind in the trailer.

Mormon Moms and Miley

Annie Leibovitz

"There is no greater reason for children to honour parents than for parents to honour children except, that while the children are young, the parents are stronger than children." Bertrand Russell

There's an old cliche that says people will do almost anything for love or money. It seems the current trend along those lines--at least in LA and Eldorado, Texas--is pimping out children.

Every time I look at that picture of 15 year old Miley Cyrus and her father Billy Ray, I gag.

I'm no prude, but don't tell me that's art, Annie Leibovitz or not. Some things are just simply wrong ... including a photo that portrays a teenage girl waay too close to her father's Achy-Breaky Heart.

Would you pose like that with Your father? Would he sit like that with you, on or off camera? Would you sanction other half naked pictures of your teenage daughter flashed all over the media?

No. Of course not.

Miley Cyrus is a young girl in a business that chews up over-exposed teen sexpots and spits them out directly into drug rehab. At only 15 she still has a chance to grow up undamaged.

Yet instead of protecting her, Miley's parents are selling her to the highest bidder. In this case, Vanity Fair. Read the article, even it's author appears sceeved out by the Cyrus clan.

Hard to top, but Tish and Billy Ray's inappropriate parenting pales in comparison to the acts of abuse and neglect by the Stepford Wives of the Yearning For Zion Ranch in the name of religious big love.


AP Photos

We don't have pictures of their Mormon child-mothers to make us gag, thank god. The mental images are bad enough. Although, maybe that teen girl in the pink dress is the smaller kid's mother. A truly horrifying thought.

Would you send your teen daughter into the bed of a man 2-3 times her age in order to get her pregnant? Would you welcome a 14-year-old girl into your bed as your "wife" and impregnate her over and over?

No. Of course not. God, I certainly hope not.

Because 31 of the 53 teen girls between 14 and 17 who were taken into state custody from that Eldorado hellhole either have children themselves or are currently pregnant.

Do you, would you, have you ever beaten your children until you broke their bones?

Because so far 41 children have been identified as having multiple bone fractures. C'mon, you watch Law and Order. That's clear evidence of child abuse.

We don't know how badly abused the adult women of this bizarre cult may have been or for how long to have treated their own children so outrageously. Perhaps they were regularly drugged without their knowledge.

For sure they've been brainwashed. But that's no excuse.

Whether it's Miley's parents or the Mormon Moms, the adults in both real life dramas are acting like children by forcing their children to act like adults. Apparently for love or money.

Sex and the City Countdown

Craig Blankenhorn/New Line Cinema

"After years of living in the city, I always assumed that if my friends and I ever got our fairy tale endings, that would be the end of the story." Carrie Bradshaw

They're ba-aack. Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. They've started to tease us and I have to admit it's working. I'm psyched. Pumped. Practically panting with eagerness to see the movie version of HBO's boffo chick hit Sex and the City.

Admit it, if you're a Baby Boomer or younger, you were hooked on the show too. You can tell me in a flash if you're a Carrie, a Miranda or a Charlotte. (Few admit to being a Samantha, though 'fess up, girls, there's a little of her in all of us).

Yes it was a chick show. The fashion, the sophistication, the fashion, the rich and famous, the fashion, the hot men, the hot spots and high life all had appeal. But that was surface stuff. Whipped Cream. Window dressing. Really.

Some few New York fashionistas will claim haute couture was a separate character in Sex and the City. Maybe it was. But in the end, as shallow a figure as those who crave its expensive, empty rewards.

Most women viewers of the show, no matter their age, will tell you we related mainly to women -- and their relationships. The tight friendships. The interactive support, counsel and love only women instinctively know how to supply.

We lived inside those girls, felt their joy and pain. Understood their angst, anger, aggravation and attitudes about men. About each other. Careers. Sex. Marriage. Children. Other People. Lifestyles. The Future.

No matter what they wore--even $800 shoes--or how extravagantly they lived, at heart, they were Us. Their experiences, dates, lovers, hopes, dreams, foibles, failures, ups and downs--and their romances, especially their romances--were ours too.

We've all been breathless with love, learned that it makes us high, low, happy, helpless, hopeless and strong. We've most of us found that successful relationships come with strings. Conditions. Compromise.

Our Sex and the City counterparts learned about love the hard way too.

Sappy, WASPy Charlotte found her dream man in a bald, chubby nice Jewish guy. Ms. tough cookie, claw's-bared Miranda learned to relax into a bartender's arms. Even savvy, swinging Samantha seemed ready to dial it back for the younger but wiser Smith.

And Carrie the Everywoman got her--no, Our--Mr. Big. The happy ending we wanted--no, Needed--her to achieve. Cinderella and the Prince. A fantasy? Yes. But some solid reality and lots of entertaining fun.

The New York Times is busy examining the marketing and product placement aspects of the movie. Most of us don't care. And won't be buying a Mercedes or some Manolos after viewing the film.

We'll be too busy dishing about what we saw and what's going to happen to our friends next.

Super Tuesday - Not A Game

HillaryClinton.com - Welcome

"I will fight against the division politics of revenge and retribution. If you put me to work for you, I will work to lift people up, not put them down." Hillary Clinton

Almost eight years ago, millions of Americans heard a clarion call from a new candidate with a strong voice, a different message, fresh perspective. They believed he would provide a clean departure from "politics as usual." That he would change their world for the better.

Those voters were Republicans, evangelical Christians and Right Wing radicals who sincerely thought George W. Bush was their next best hope.

Democrats and Independents must not make that same mistake about Barack Obama.

Barack Obama and George W. Bush are light years apart politically. But the downside risk of their leadership is the same.

Mr. Bush had a vision for change, but he didn't have a plan. His political inexperience seemed a plus, but he didn't have a clue. Yes he overcame a bad-boy past, but he continues to display a rash streak of immaturity. He's thin-skinned, bad tempered and lacking in objectivity, taking far too many global issues personally.

Mr. Obama raises expectations with his charismatic message, his near evangelical zeal. He can raise the roof with his oratory. But style does not equal substance. Barack Obama has bold ideas but no realistic plans. He has a stirring message but no real clue. He is brash, prickly, unsteady, unsure, untested.

Eerily reminiscent of George W. Bush. Which worries me a lot.

Unlike Bush, Obama is genuinely smart, even gifted, he just needs time. He has vast potential, will likely become a great leader one day. He seems destined to be, but not yet, not now.

Barack Obama's greatest gift to the 2008 Presidential Campaign, and to the country, is his passionate call to young people to get involved in the process. It's a critical message and will make our country and our future stronger.

But let's remember that while youthful excitement is easily created, commitment is less easily maintained. Anyone who has or knows kids between 18 and 25 can attest to how ephemeral their judgement is, how the very idea of dissent can be appealing for its own sake.

America's college students and 20-somethings work hard, play hard, think and reason, make good choices and bad. There's nothing wrong with that, it's how they amass experience, achieve growth and maturity.

What's bothers me is the so-called high-minded Obama campaign's cynical manipulation of celebrities and youthful supporters to generate media boost and momentum. Oprah, okay, I get that.

But the Kennedys! They're no better than the Bush possee. Self-serving, self-aggrandising, selfish. Senator Ted lost his chance to become president and hates Bill Clinton -- what a great reason to choose Obama as his surrogate

Obama-worship has gotten out of hand, it's affecting those of my generation who think they can regain their own youth and enthusiasm by joining the parade.

We adults can't let jingoism, a sudden sense of the seductive group dynamic and infatuation with a youthful, cool standard-bearer deflect us from the goal of electing the right grown up for the right grown up reasons. Not to mention a Democrat.

America needs a solid, mature adult in the White House. We need to be certain that the President/Commander in Chief/Leader of the Free World knows what to do and how to do it under any situation. We need to be sure our president can handle pressure, evaluate, prioritize and get the job done.

Hillary Clinton is the smartest, surest, most able, definitely the most tested person in the room. She's hard working, self-confident, tough and seasoned by time, circumstance, experience and humility.

We need her strength, her resilience, her intelligence, her world view, her contacts, her credentials, her decisive capability to listen, review, negotiate, determine a course of action and lead.

And we need her ability to defeat the Republican nominee. Unless we want President McCain in the White House.

Britney - Yesterday and Today

Question: There are some of rumors going around right now (none of which I believe are true) but, how do feel about them and how do you handle it?

Britney Spears: Well, first of all, of course, all of the rumors are not true. I think it's really sad that people will say anything to sell magazines. And it's really sad that at 17 I have to deal with this. But that's just the entertainment business, I guess and I'm just going to have to roll with the punches.

I knew Britney Spears nine years ago while doing live chats on AOL. She was 17, unsophisticated, naive, not terribly bright. But a sweet child. With real talent. Charisma. Youthful humility. Not so blind ambition.

She was already a Teen Queen and was just beginning to catch the attention of main stream audiences and The Media. She had a boyfriend, a new car, a hit record, a loving family, strong faith and a very promising future.

Britney realized much of her promise too fast and with too little support from her parents. Money and fame and real life hit her like a runaway train. Yet her parents let it drag her along and down.

She became a gigantic star before she had a chance to become a grown woman. And so of course she became a media punching bag, a designated bimbo whose every action is chronicled and maligned around the world.

Yes, she's behaved badly. Celebrities have behaved badly for generations, both publicly and in private. Many of them experienced, educated, urban adults. But Britney hasn't had those advantages. And almost nothing is private any more.

In Britney's case, she keeps bumping into not only paparazzi but her own young, worse self. The signs--filled with irony--were all there from the beginning.

Look at these sad, prophetic tidbits from one of those early AOL chats:

Question: Are you recognized on the street?

Britney Spears: It's not overwhelming. It's just enough to where it's flattering. I've been with people where it's like they can't go anywhere. It's ridiculous. It's sad.

Question: Do you have any idols?

Britney Spears: Yeah, I love Whitney Houston, she's incredible. I totally admire her.

Question: Do you like all the attention of being a hot singer?

Britney Spears: I mean sometimes it's fun, but sometimes it can be a little overwhelming and you don't have peace or time to yourself, but sometimes it is really flattering.

Question: What do find most rewarding about performing?

Britney Spears: Probably just the crowd's reaction is the best feeling when you're up there. Even the songs that aren't out yet, they're still screaming, and that's the best feeling in the world because they know your music. And they're screaming your name! (c) 1999, Entertainment Asylum & America Online.

I guess not so much in the right way any more, Britney.

Remember the You-Tube video made by a distraught fan defending Britney with tearful, over-the-top intensity? Most of us made fun of what we saw as misplaced teenaged celebrity-worship and dramatic angst.

It turns out he was right.

And it makes you wonder about Britney's parents -- what took them so long? Why weren't they the first to defend her, even half as passionately?

Her father's on the case now -- better late than never. I hope he acts like a parent and gets her the help she needs.

It would be a shame to see Britney turn into Whitney. And give away all her tomorrows.

Barack Obama Kennedy?

Gerald Martineau -- The Washington Post

"There must be a Camelot, a hidden Utopia where we can rest from our personal campaigns. Fantasy opens our eyes to a better place, a shining city we do not yet know." Bryan Davis

I'm a serious, full time Hillary Clinton supporter. All this Kennedy furor initially just got on my nerves. But then, somehow it got into my head and shook me up for about a day. Had I made an error in judgement? Was I backing the wrong candidate? Making a bad choice?

NO, no and no! What, all of a sudden I'm taking my cue from Ted Kennedy? I. Don't. Think. So.

As for Caroline, I don't get it. She has to know by now all about the dirty rotten scoundrels who were her grandfather, father and uncles. She can't possibly still buy into the Kennedy Camelot myth herself? Can she?

Apparently so. I was a kid during Jack Kennedy's presidency. I got progressively older during Bobby and Teddy's time in the spotlight. So did she. It might tarnish my Boomer Halo but I have to say I was never a fan of any of them. Except maybe Caroline.

But I'm all grown up now and even though I still enjoy a good fairy tale, we've put up with Bush and his Naughty Boys long enough. I want to see an actual grown up in the White House.

Sorry, Caroline, but Barack Obama isn't the one, no matter what your family wants us to believe. On the other hand, he's in the right place at the right time to rewrite Kennedy history. (I was going to say "whitewash" but thought better of it...)

Obama is the perfect choice to reincarnate Camelot, sans the Mafia, Marilyn Monroe, Chappaquiddick, Chicago vote fraud, Bay of Pigs ... the list is dizzying and endless. Who better than a black and white, made-to-order political foil to wipe the slate clean?

All the good old liberal buzzwords wrapped up in one neat, clean, intelligent package -- with only a brief (and I don't get it, but somehow "acceptable") drug history and a current ciggie habit, virtually a push in this day and age. If only he had a Boston accent.

A slightly rocky family story with just enough skeletons in the closet for a dash of reality. Smart, pretty, fashionable, activist wife, pure perfection. Not enough kids for a good touch football game, but hey, it's all about Wii now anyway.

We Kennedys. Us and Them mentality. And finally, after all these years, someone to replicate and redeem Us just enough to fool Them.

Sorry, no matter Caroline's articulate and passionate plea, no matter Senator Ted's elder statesman bluster, no matter the media's fascination with the play, it's just the Kennedys doing what they always do. They're trying to own the cycle and the cyclist.

Not to mention knock the Hicks from Little Rock off the road to the White House.

Our Night with the Harlem Globetrotters

"As long as families remain important in this world, the [Harlem] Globetrotters will remain a priority." Eathan O'Bryant

This year marks the 80th Anniversary of the Harlem Globetrotters, the remarkably gifted and entertaining team known as the "clown princes of basketball."

This month marks the 16th Anniversary of the night our son played basketball with the Harlem Globetrotters. When he was 8 years old. On a broken ankle.

That night at the Spectrum was beyond exciting. It's the kind of rare fantasy-come-true experience that lights up childhood memories. It was magical. Especially because he never saw it coming.

My niece worked in publicity for the Globetrotters and when they came to Philly she got us floor seats. I was thrilled since I'd been a Harlem Globetrotters fan as a kid, when "Meadowlark" Lemon was their star.

Mike had never heard of them, but it took about 30 seconds for him to become entranced with the players' skill and their antics. We cheered as they "beat" the tar out of the poor Washington Generals throughout the first half.

Then Karen led us back to the locker room where the players were nice enough to autograph Mike's bright green cast. I have that part on video. Unfortunately we were forbidden to use any cameras during the game. You'll see why that still kills me now.

Mike's broken ankle, by the way, came from a too vigorous basketball game at school. Even as a 3rd grader, he played to win.

So back to the 2nd half of the Globetrotters game. That's when they traditionally pull a little kid from the audience to "play" on their team. Karen, bless her, had arranged for them to choose Mike.

Though nobody knows it, the routine is carefully scripted. The 'Trotters bring the kid to the foul line, give him a few tries to make a basket. When he can't do it, their star center lifts him up to dunk the ball.

The other team fakes outrage, yells foul. The referees confer, shake their fingers at the 'Trotters and the kid, who's back down on the floor looking happy, if confused, while the 'Trotters claim he's a legitimate player.

At least, that's the way it's supposed to go.

So they bring Mike onto the court -- a regular sneaker on his good foot, a huge matching sneaker I'd fitted onto his neon green cast. Already a crowd-pleaser and a perfect foil for the 'Trotters.

The players ceremoniously lead him to the foul line, hand him the ball, tell him to shoot. They're all poised to begin their act. The crowd is loving the small "player" with the big cast, looking even smaller standing there on the Spectrum floor next to his over sized "team mates".

Nobody but Mike knows he's taking this totally seriously. He bounces the ball a couple times, checks the distance to the basket. The players pretend to look at their watches, start tapping their toes. The crowd is laughing, cheering, yelling, "Give him time! Let him try!" The referees quiet everyone down, tell him go ahead and shoot.

Mike's knees bend, hands cupping the ball, eyes on the basket. He lifts off, weight on his good foot, lofts the ball ... and makes the shot. Nothing. But. Net.

The place erupts. Fifteen thousand people go nuts. The players and the referees are caught flatfooted -- it's not in the script. And Mike's just standing there, proud of himself, but looking at them like, "What? You told me to make a basket, so I did."

They pick him up and carry him around the court while the crowd screams. Then they go into a huddle at center court, Mike in the middle, lost from view. When they open the circle he emerges in full Globetrotter uniform, shirt hanging to his knees, shorts almost to his ankles.

The cheering contines. And Mike continues to play. He makes one more basket on his own, another when they finally lift him for the ceremonial dunk. After the game's over they all sign an official ball and shake his hand.

That's the ball up there in the picture, ink faded now, but still legible. And that's the bright green cast he was wearing. Mementos of a night we'll never forget.

Tune in to MNT TV tonight at 8 PM Eastern, listen to the bouncing rhythm of "Sweet Georgia Brown," meet Mike's former teammates "Curly" Neal, "Sweet" Lou Dunbar and others.

And let a new generation of Harlem Globetrotters steal your hearts.

MLK: If I Had Sneezed

"If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have had a chance...to try to tell America about a dream that I had had." Martin Luther King, Jr

I know an inside story about Dr. Martin Luther King. I bet most of you've never heard it. And it's time you did. Because the irony should escape none of us. And more, because it says something about the man whose life and accomplishments we honor today. It says he was human.

Human not in the sense of foibles and frailties, although he had those too. What man, great or small, does not? I mean human in the manner of his deep humility.

Human in his recognition not of the glory but of the opportunity to lead a movement that would change the course of history, not only for African Americans but for all Americans.

I was too young and never privileged to meet Dr. King, but in later years I knew and worked with his widow, Coretta Scott King through my association with C. DeLores Tucker. I knew and worked with Jesse Jackson in those years, when he was still steeped in the same humility that thrust him forward to carry on Dr. King's mission.

So many times back then during our efforts to put together a fundraiser, launch a voter registration campaign, organize a rally, even draft legislation, I would hear the words "If I Had Sneezed." Over and over. When frustration, exhaustion, fear or anger threatened to overwhelm us, someone would say, "If I Had Sneezed" and determined smiles would reappear, renewed energy emerge, efforts would double.

I eventually learned that "If I Had Sneezed" was insider code for something the general public knows in a whole different way. It's from the sermon Dr. King gave on April 3, 1968, at the Mason Temple (Church of God in Christ Headquarters) in Memphis, Tennessee.

That specific phrase is the final rallying cry --and some say a prescient prediction-- in perhaps Dr. King's most important speech. Read just this part of it, then read all of it and listen to Dr. King's immortal words in his own voice.

Let us rise up tonight with a greater readiness. Let us stand with a greater determination. And let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge to make America what it ought to be. We have an opportunity to make America a better nation. And I want to thank God, once more, for allowing me to be here with you.

You know, several years ago, I was in New York City autographing the first book that I had written. And while sitting there autographing books, a demented black woman came up. The only question I heard from her was, "Are you Martin Luther King?" And I was looking down writing, and I said, "Yes." And the next minute I felt something beating on my chest. Before I knew it I had been stabbed by this demented woman. I was rushed to Harlem Hospital. It was a dark Saturday afternoon. And that blade had gone through, and the X-rays revealed that the tip of the blade was on the edge of my aorta, the main artery. And once that's punctured, your drowned in your own blood -- that's the end of you.

It came out in the New York Times the next morning, that if I had merely sneezed, I would have died. Well, about four days later, they allowed me, after the operation, after my chest had been opened, and the blade had been taken out, to move around in the wheel chair in the hospital. They allowed me to read some of the mail that came in, and from all over the states and the world, kind letters came in.

I read a few, but one of them I will never forget. I had received one from the President and the Vice-President. I've forgotten what those telegrams said. I'd received a visit and a letter from the Governor of New York, but I've forgotten what that letter said. But there was another letter that came from a little girl, a young girl who was a student at the White Plains High School. And I looked at that letter, and I'll never forget it. It said simply,

Dear Dr. King,

I am a ninth-grade student at the White Plains High School.

While it should not matter, I would like to mention that I'm a white girl. I read in the paper of your misfortune, and of your suffering. And I read that if you had sneezed, you would have died. And I'm simply writing you to say that I'm so happy that you didn't sneeze.

And I want to say tonight -- I want to say tonight that I too am happy that I didn't sneeze. Because if I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1960, when students all over the South started sitting-in at lunch counters. And I knew that as they were sitting in, they were really standing up for the best in the American dream, and taking the whole nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the Founding Fathers in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.

If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1961, when we decided to take a ride for freedom and ended segregation in inter-state travel.

If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1962, when Negroes in Albany, Georgia, decided to straighten their backs up. And whenever men and women straighten their backs up, they are going somewhere, because a man can't ride your back unless it is bent.

If I had sneezed -- If I had sneezed I wouldn't have been here in 1963, when the black people of Birmingham, Alabama, aroused the conscience of this nation, and brought into being the Civil Rights Bill.

If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have had a chance later that year, in August, to try to tell America about a dream that I had had.

If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been down in Selma, Alabama, to see the great Movement there.

If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been in Memphis to see a community rally around those brothers and sisters who are suffering.

I'm so happy that I didn't sneeze.

And they were telling me --. Now, it doesn't matter, now. It really doesn't matter what happens now. I left Atlanta this morning, and as we got started on the plane, there were six of us. The pilot said over the public address system, "We are sorry for the delay, but we have Dr. Martin Luther King on the plane. And to be sure that all of the bags were checked, and to be sure that nothing would be wrong with on the plane, we had to check out everything carefully. And we've had the plane protected and guarded all night."

And then I got into Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?

Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now, because I've been to the mountaintop.

And I don't mind.

Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!

And so I'm happy, tonight.

I'm not worried about anything.

I'm not fearing any man!

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!!

I still get chills reading and hearing those words. Because the very next day, metaphorically, Dr. King did sneeze.

No matter your political party or candidate, no matter how many changes are still needed, you've got to imagine Dr. King's glorious satisfaction at the strides we've made toward the promised land.

And we all must say to him, GOD BLESS YOU!

2007 Follies

"Time quickly puts an end to artificial and accidental fame." Samuel Johnson

We can only hope.

But why not end 2007 with trash, it's been that kind of a year. So I grabbed this from AOL's home page: Top 11 Scandals of 2007 - AOL News, though I don't know how they chose the number 11 -- they definitely missed a few of the juicier ones.

OJ comes to mind, for example ... pun intended.

I barely know--or care--about the first two bimbettes on AOL's list. Certainly Imus qualifies. As does Larry Craig. And let's not forget Scooter Libby. But where are the Three Stooges he took the fall for?

In the Insensitive Boob category, they forgot to add the Grey's Anatomy McFiring of Isaiah Washington. The phone stylings of Alec Baldwin. And, of course, Rosie.

Plus, I have to ask, where's Barry Bonds and the Mitchell Steroids in Baseball Report?

How can they let Mattell off the hook? Or Jet Blue?

What about Anna Nicole's Daddy Derby, complete with crackpot granny?

Not to mention the Top Trashy Twits: Paris and Lindsay and the hands down champ... Britney.

Philly's no slouch in the scandal department either. There's Phila Eagles coach Andy Reid's Bad Seeds. And, to close on a bright note, we've got our own TV anchor-bitch Alycia Lane right up there with a last-minute Offensive Behavior of the Year award.

I'm so pumped to see who will misbehave in 2008. At least we'll eventually get rid of the biggest scandal of all. Yeah, him.

Remembering Those Lost In 2007

"Pale death knocks with impartial foot at poor men's hovels and king's palaces." Horace

I was lucky this year. I didn't suffer many personal losses. Some of my friends and family did. The world of arts and letters did. Sports too. And our country did. Too many mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, children and spouses lost loved ones to violence in 2007.

Yes, I'm talking about the war in Iraq. And Afghanistan. Hate-based murders and suicides in the Middle East.

But I'm also appalled at the number of violent deaths right here in my own hometown. The killing sprees escalating around the country.

I've banged the same drum about that violence in Philly and Omaha and Virginia Tech -- WE NEED GUN CONTROL.

Now that I have that--temporarily--out of my system, here's my short list of loss in 2007... from the ridiculous to the sublime, from those I only met to those who significantly touched my life.

My husband's aunt, one of the purest souls I've ever known: Everybody's Aunt Rebecca.

A seminal mentor from my early professional years: Mal Johnson - Boss and Friend.

Another boss who was also a colleague and friend to the end: Dick Doran - Really RAD and Dick Doran - A Fitting Farewell.

The wonderful father of my wonderful friend: Suzie's Dad - A Righteous Man.

An opera star with brass and class: Betsy and Bubbles, Take 2.

True media lights: Bergman, Antonioni, Kurt Vonnegut, Merv Griffin and My Tom Snyder Quote.

Last but not least, some horses asses and an actual horse:

Anna Nicole - Legacy of Lunacy

Tammy Faye, Merv, Brooke - Who's Next?

Barbaro - Horse, NOT Human

There were many more deaths this year, of course, and we'll see them endlessly looping through TV, newspapers, magazines and online specials as 2007 becomes 2008.

But these are the ones who touched me ... or raised my hackles. I send sincere condolences and prayers to those left behind to grieve their deaths, no matter how ridiculous or sublime they were in life.

Beauty and the Beast

"It's good to know that if I behave strangely enough, society will take full responsibility for me." Ashleigh Brilliant

If you want an example of the decline of responsibility in American culture, look no farther than Philly. Especially this week. From the ridiculous to the tragic, we've got your yin and yang news right here.

Two illegal acts, two arrests. One a tabloid dream. The other a family's worst nightmare.

Local CBS TV anchor-babe Alycia Lane was arrested in New York for assaulting a police officer during an argument between Lane's well-lubricated companions and three plain clothes cops.

Lane attacked the cops with her iPhone and some nasty words, "I don't give a f- who you are. I am a reporter you f-ing dyke."

If Alycia Lane is a reporter, I'm the Easter Bunny.

And if Djuan Boyd is a good father, I'm Santa Claus.

Mr. Boyd, a convicted gun felon and drug dealer took his son Dyshon to his grandmother's house. While the adults were downstairs watching TV, 4-year-old Dyshon found a gun in his father's coat pocket.

You know what's coming.

Little Dyshon Boyd will never become a 5-year-old. He accidentally shot himself in the neck with his father's gun. He's dead.

Djuan Boyd is now charged with involuntary manslaughter, illegal gun possession and endangering the welfare of a child.

He should be charged with murder. There was nothing "involuntary" in his negligence. He didn't "endanger the welfare" of his child. He killed that boy as surely as if he'd pulled the trigger himself.

And all you gun nuts can just shut up. You have a kid, you shouldn't have a gun. If you do have a gun, you sure as hell don't leave it lying around the house in your coat pocket. In the same room where your 4-year-old son is playing.

The man is a Beast. Inside and out.

Alycia Lane is only a Beauty on the outside. While she didn't kill anything more than some viewers' expectations and possibly her own on-air future, she showed us her inner beast.

Her behavior was stupid and ugly. Djuan Boyd's was truly heinous. In the end, they're two peas in a pod. Both too selfish, self-indulgent and self-important to care about right and wrong. Both filled with a sense of entitlement that is just plain outrageous.

Alycia Lane may pay for it with her job. Djuan Boyd's young son already paid with his life.

Steroids - Kiss My Asterisk

"Records achieved while a player was relying on chemical assistance, should be prominently marked with an asterisk — to signify that the achievement was less praiseworthy than it seems." New York Times Editorial

In a surprisingly puerile editorial on the "shocking" Steroids in Baseball Report, the New York Times hit an absurd low with that last sentence. An asterisk to note players kinda sorta cheated? And are therefore "less praiseworthy"? Oh, please.

Athletes who used steroids to break records, become MVPs, make an All Star team or be named to the Hall of Fame didn't get there honorably. They cheated. Period. Forget the lame asterisk. Throw the bums out.

Hey, it's not like there's no precedent. Cheat in the Olympics, lose your medal. Cheat in the Tour de France, lose your title. Cheat in boxing, lose your belt. Cheat in a beauty contest, lose your crown. Cheat in a presidential election ... oh, wait, you don't get punished for that one.

Yes, baseball is the All American game, supposed to be above reproach, up there with Mom and Apple Pie. Pie my eye. Baseball's become an international multi-billion dollar business. Fans want to see stars hit the tar out of the ball.

It should surprise no one that during the past 20 years elite baseball players with multi-million dollar contracts very likely use something in the steroid family to get there. And to stay there. In a perfect world, they'd be there on merit alone. Hank Aaron was. Babe Ruth was.

Mitchell's list of steroid users is making a lot of noise. Let's not forget there's a much longer list of baseball players who made the grade honorably as good athletes, legitimate stars and genuine role models without chemical assistance.

Players who were and are clean and sober should be praised, rewarded and touted as the real All-American Heroes. The cheaters should be booted out on their asterisks.

When will the League and the owners figure out that baseball doesn't need steroids? Yeah, in football you need more size and strength. (Although take a look at the magical Brian Westbrook.) In basketball, height and speed. Hockey, balance and brawn.

In baseball, you've gotta have heart. Bottom line, it's every man for himself. It's a team game, but at the plate, on the mound or in the field, you're alone. If you don't go for your own personal best, you let down your team. If you can't do it on your own, you let down yourself.

Think I'm naive? Think about this: for every Barry Bonds, there's a Jimmy Rollins. I'll take the latter every time. And no asterisk will ever signify the enormous difference between a cheater and a winner.

Mal Johnson Memorial

"She was an exceptional trailblazer, whose tenacity and talent made NABJ and the world better." Kathy Times, NABJ Vice President of Broadcast

Last week I wrote about Mal Johnson, broadcast pioneer and my very first boss. I received a wonderful note from another of Mal's colleagues, Frieda Werden, producer, WINGS: Women's International News Gathering Service. She said:

I was googling and found your memoir about Mal on your blog. She and I were friends more and more from about 1992 on - we worked together very closely the last four years especially, in the International Association of Women in Radio & TV. I put up a blog just about Mal, and have excerpted a little of your post and pasted a link. You might like to jaunt over there - it's growing bit by bit. I haven't even posted my own memories yet - I'm still thinking about her and wondering how to say what I felt. I thought what you said was extremely apt, and showed she had the same kind of character throughout her professional life. It's at http://www.maljohnson.blogspot.com/

Here's info for anyone who can go celebrate the life and legacy of Mal Johnson.

November 30 Memorial Service at National Press Club

A memorial service for Mal Johnson will be held at the National Press Club in Washington DC, on November 30, 2007, 3 to 5 pm. It's being coordinated by Kim Otis, executive director of the National Council of Women's Organizations, http://www.womensorganizations.org/. Please contact NCWO if you are from an organization that Mal supported and would like to co-sponsor the event or recommend a speaker. The event will be videotaped.

Cornbread and Me

(Click the pic and find me.)

Cornbread. Cool Earl. The two most prolific graffiti artists in Philly during the 70's. If you knew how to read back then, you knew those names, recognized their distinctive tags. Especially Cornbread's.

I'm conflicted about graffiti. Lots of real and pop psychologists explain it's a way for the disenfranchised to say, I EXIST, I'M HERE, I'M A PERSON TOO.

I don't like it but I get it. I'm lucky enough not to need such validation. I have family, friends, an education, a career, a stable home life, a home, period... all attesting to my worth as a human being.

Graffiti writers have few, if any, self-esteem safety nets. The crumbling buildings in their neighborhoods scream out poverty, hopelessness, despair.

So I also understand the urge to cover up--or brighten up--those painfully ugly walls.

Both arguments--or excuses, take your pick--lose credibility when graffiti writers spray filth, rage, hate on walls. Especially walls beyond their neighborhoods and into ours. Which is despicably hypocritical. But true.

However. Cool Earl and Cornbread were different. Their tags were unusual. Clever. Colorful. Still, I don't know if you'd call their work "art," as a recent book and documentary claim.

Last weekend somebody sprayed decidedly un-artistic graffiti all over our garage, which makes me mad as hell.

Of course the real reason might be that they didn't include my name.

Read Confetti Betty

"Yep, even The Boss gets booed. Like I said, this is Philly." Amy Z. Quinn, aka Confetti Betty

Giving up my turn today so you can read Amy's McClatchy alt.campaign column for the Philly skinny. Including Bono, Rudi, the Phillies and the Boss of Bosses.

She rocks. She rolls. She writes with wit, irreverence, knowledge and attitude ... all showing what a consummate pro she is.

Six degrees of Election '08

OJ Simpson, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad - Coincidence?

"Today I feel all the weight of the modern civilized world yearning to express the revulsion at what you stand for." Lee C. Bollinger, President, Columbia University

President Bollinger is talking about Mahmoud Ahmadinejad but he could just as easily be referring to OJ Simpson. Does anybody else find it interesting that two reviled stone cold killers happen to be in the news at the same time?

There's an eerie similarity between OJ and MA. They both work so hard to maintain their public faces. To be outraged when attacked. To proclaim their innocence with gusto. To explain away their actions with smarmy double talk and fake charm.

They're shocked anyone would think them capable of heinous acts. They claim some other guy did it. Or it wasn't done at all. Or, if it was done, they're appalled and they want justice.

They'll tell you America is to blame. That they just want to live in peace with their fellow men, but we won't let them. If you push them too hard, watch out, they'll fight back, charm replaced in a flash by steely defiance.

Of course OJ Simpson and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad aren't on a level playing field, politically.

OJ doesn't have a nuclear bomb, just a nuclear temper. He's not a Holocaust denier, he's just an effing liar.

We don't know OJ's views on Israel but we can guess ... he doesn't much care because it's not about Him.

Though he's not an international terrorist, OJ Simpson is still a dangerous man. He got away with murder and could do it again. He'll try anything to get what he wants. He operates with a totally self-serving set of values. And without guilt or remorse.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is a dangerous man on a global scale. As president of Iran he represents a very real threat to Iraq, America and Israel.

One thing seems clear. If you believe you don't know how Ahmadinejad's mind works, you're wrong. You know. Just ask OJ.

And for the record, I was right.