Early in my ramble as a political reporter, I would come back to the office after a trip to, say, a Presidential debate, or a convention, or a campaign event with candidate so-and-so. Steve Reiss, my sagacious editor at the Washington Post’s Style section, would always begin his debriefing with the same question: “What was it like?” It struck me as a strange construction. He would not say, “How was your trip?” or “What’d you get?” or – in the case of an encounter with a profile subject – “What was he/she like?” He always said, “What was it like,” and after a while I took the “it” to incorporate the whole unnatural experience that these subjects endure on their daily high wires. In halting responses, I would share with Steve little stories and impressions and off-color details about my expeditions: how, say, John Edwards walked like a duck, or that Dick Cheney had no idea who John Travolta was, or that Nancy Pelosi had never heard of curly fries.
Also, shouldn’t a candidate for election be required to notify the voters if they don’t know what curly fries are? If you were running against Nancy Pelosi, wouldn’t you make a campaign ad that focuses solely on that important fact? If I were running against Nancy Pelosi, I’d make a commercial where I just ate curly fries for 29 seconds and then said, “I’m Anthony Bergen; curly fries are the bomb, and I approve this message.
The principal players in This Town…trend old. Blacks…Hispanics, and gays are in short supply. So is the 99 percent. The gaping demographic disconnect between the town’s aging aristocracy and the rest of the city’s citizenry, not to mention much of the nation beyond the District’s borders, in some ways parallels the crisis of the present-day Republican Party…[but] the book is as much an indictment of the Democratic Establishment as it is of the Washington Establishment. And the two are often synonymous. That’s why the book is funny only up to a point.
With a new season of House of Cards just around the corner, it’s time to lay in some reading for the inevitable post-binge withdrawal. Here’s a list to satisfy the inner Machiavellian megalomaniac in everyone.
One of the most iconic works about American power and politics charts Louisianan populist Willie Stark’s transformation from an idealistic lawyer to a powerful, corrupt, and charismatic governor, and the interwoven story of the narrator, journalist-turned-aide Jack.
Francis’ stylistic forbears Richard and Iago monologue their way through their manipulations, forcing their audience into complicity. Richard especially would appreciate Frank’s methodical removal of anyone in his way, and the sex, threats and schemes he uses to do it.
Washington may not serve the country well, but it works splendidly for Washington itself. And no one illustrates that better than Tammy Haddad, who has deftly ensconced herself into an Obama World that once vowed to avoid precisely her ilk of D.C. socialite.
This Town, published by Penguin’s Blue Rider Press, is Leibovich’s insider tale of life inside the Beltway bubble of Washington, D.C., and how the social lives of political lifers, journalists and hangers-on complicate the truth about what really goes on in the capital. The prologue and first chapter, featured here for Longreads Members, take place at the funeral for NBC Meet the Press moderator Tim Russert.
a statement that kept echoing and echoing from our click-ready condolence machines
‘‘There’s been another mass shooting in America,’’ President Obama said from the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room. ‘‘This time in a community college in Oregon.’’ His weary delivery suggested an irksome familiarity with the whole routine. As he spoke, the details of the latest rampage, this one at Umpqua Community College, which took 10 lives (including the gunman’s), were still slow to emerge. But that didn’t stop the go-to refrain from spraying out immediately via statement, news release, Facebook post or however else politicians broadcast how saddened, heartbroken and deeply troubled they are. ‘‘My thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families of this terrible tragedy,’’ Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina said in a tweet, part of a thoughts-and-prayers parade from presidential candidates that began within minutes of the first Breaking News alerts. Gov. John Kasich relayed ‘‘the thoughts and prayers of Ohioans.’’ ‘‘My thoughts and prayers are with families who lost folks today,’’ echoed Vice President Joseph R. Biden Jr. in a statement that kept echoing and echoing from our click-ready condolence machines. […]
It is a bit of a stretch — if not highly dubious — to suggest that sending ‘‘thoughts and prayers’’ amounts to ‘‘reflection’’ of any sort, appropriate or otherwise. But as with many shared media spectacles, Twitter makes it easy. […] The reflexive act is a little like flipping light switches that don’t do anything. Sometimes, for some reason, you are moved to push them up and down as you walk by. You don’t think about it, and nothing happens, but maybe you feel you’ve done something.
Like anything, a great journalism career requires some luck – but it’s also a very meritocratic field. It’s hard to hide incompetence. If you can’t write/report, you’ll be exposed soon enough… And yeah, not a lot of people get into journalism – certainly print journalism – to get rich. But I would argue that the perspective and experiences and worldview journalism allows for makes it worthwhile.
As Leibovich wrote in his book of Russert’s funeral performance, “you could almost hear all of Bethesda and Chevy Chase hissing at their inert teenage/college-age sons, "WHY CAN’T YOU BE MORE LIKE LUKE RUSSERT?
And while living in D.C. can encourage cynicism, it can also breed daily wonder. When I drop my daughter off at kindergarten, I watch her and her friends stare out the window at the vice president’s motorcade as it sirens past en route to the White House. In the day-to-day, we can all be those kids with noses pressed against the glass.