Maybe I returned to the rag-colored atmosphere of D. too quickly, but I'm feeling mighty queasy about this one.
The world was beside itself about the latest presidential scandal, this one involving an affair with a then-21-year-old intern—the juiciest story to break in my adult life, a salacious tale of alleged infidelity between the most powerful man in the Milky Way and a girl named Monica. A girl I'd gone out on a date with a few weeks before.
I hesitate here, because I have no desire to appear on Hard Copy or banter with MSNBCeebees, and, essentially, I feel bad for poor Monica and feel unclean adding my feeble barnacle to her ship of fame.
I write, clearly, because I want a piece of this story just like everybody else. "Just some extra I had." So, ignoring the usual coy mating rituals, Monica felt free to actually be nice. I was intrigued enough to approach Joe, who was the raison d'être for the going-away party. I thought it odd that she was leaving the Pentagon job without a new one to go to, but she explained that she was anxious to leave D. After a few plans fell through—about which she was unfailingly polite, understanding, and as far from aloof as you can get—I picked her up at her mom's place at the Watergate.
That imperative distinguishes me not at all from every other journalist in Washington. Upon gentle inquiry, Joe told me that Monica was bad news, that she had left the White House because she had kept wandering into the Oval Office and inappropriately striking up conversations with the commander in chief. "Stay away." But Washington, in its own polite way, generates more trash talk than a Bulls game. The conversations were terse but friendly; we made plans to get together when she returned from a job interview in N. I'm 15 minutes late for everything, and I always get lost around the Kennedy Center, but she waited in front, no big deal, seemingly psyched. Her job meant she wasn't getting out much, so any place sounded great to her. Her last day at the Pentagon was rapidly approaching, for which she was grateful. Her good mood and light manner indicated that she had no idea that in a matter of days she would become a chew-toy for Ken Starr.
We should be allowed to pick our own pictures at times like these.) A great dresser—she wore some black '70s number, kind of, but not in the slightest bit revealing or inappropriate. When my brother returned in '94 from a year of studying ancient texts in Israel, he was incredulous and disgusted with our national obsession with Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan.
When you emerge into a media maelstrom directly from a media-free world, whether it's Jerusalem or the bottom of the ocean, alleged semen on a reportedly navy blue dress purportedly ejaculated by the leader of the Free World seems rather unimportant, not to mention, well, seedy." He seemed far more crazed than she, but even if the whole thing is unadulterated bullion, I still feel sorry for her.3.) As most of us believe, it was some hazy amalgam of the first two choices, a disconcerting land where Chuck Robb's oral-sex-is-OK rules and Monica was addled by a close brush with power. No matter which curtain you pick, there are dozens of people I've met in this town with empty, self-serving, loathsome characters who deserve life-ruining scandals long before Monica does.It is as if my buddy Joe's unconfirmed, unsubstantiated, off-the-record barroom trash talk went right to the front pages of the Old Gray Lady and the rest.There are three actual facts we know: She swore it didn't happen, he swore it didn't happen, and there are some tapes out there on which she says it did. Don't kid yourself, this isn't about perjury, it's about blowjobs. Barracuda frequently haunt the nether regions of scuba boats, hoping they're fishing boats, and position themselves within jaws' reach of any caught game.In Little Cayman, where the fun is in landing, not eating, the bad-tasting bonefish, normally the fish get thrown back. " a woman—the hostess, the birthday girl—called me Saturday night.