Staying at the Watergate Hotel in '02

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I have a feeling younger generations and less aware adults will be surprised to learn you can stay at the Watergate. Rooms start at $467.

We stayed there in 2002.

For free!

I did a travel story about the 30th anniversary of the Watergate break-in. It ran in about 10 newspapers, including here in this link thoughtfully preserved by the San Francisco Chronicle.

I think one reason the story did so well is even newspaper editors had forgotten that the word Watergate initially evoked luxury, not scandal. The complex with its mix of commercial/hotel/residential opened in 1967 so to some Watergate meant home-sweet-home.

“People from around the world hear Watergate and think scandal, but I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather live. We love it here.”

That was Bob Dole. He and wife Liddy moved there in 1972, the same year as the break-in when Dole was chairman of the Republican National Committee. Dole told me he was in Chicago the night of the break-in.

How convenient.

We met the Doles while Val and I were dining in Jeffrey’s, at the time the Watergate’s premier restaurant. The restaurant was a favorite of George and Laura Bush when they were in the Texas governor’s mansion in Austin. Jeffrey’s opened the Watergate location when Bush became president.

It was fun seeing the Doles at dinner while we there. The place seated about 100 and both of them graciously took the time to come up and say hello to every table.

I told him I was doing a travel story about the Watergate — the 5-star dinner was free, too — and would love to interview him about it being his residence. 

“Sure! I’ll be happy to,” he gushed. “Call my office first thing Monday. I’ll talk your ears off!”

He was lying. He dodged my calls for a month before granting me about five measly minutes of crabby responses.

I shouldn’t complain. At least he gave me more than I got from Monica Lewinsky. She lived in the Watergate when the Clinton sex scandal broke and said it was a wonderful place to be “imprisoned.”

Dole did say he used to enjoy emerging from the doors and seeing the crestfallen faces of the paparazzi when they saw it was him, not her.

It was really a fun weekend for Val and I. It was our first weekend without our new baby. They’d given us a nice suite and I remember enjoying a bottle of free wine while overlooked the Potomac.

We’re taking the kids to DC this weekend so I’ve been doing a lot of reminiscing. It occurs to me New York is the only big city I’ve visited more than our nation’s capital.

I love it. Love the museums, the monuments, the galas — free! free! free! — and, oh, my, the history.

I think one reason is my old man was big on instilling in his sons the significance of history and Washington’s unique place in it.

I’ll never forget my first visit. It was July 27, 1974. Dad said, “Be sure to remember this date. You boys can say you were in the capital the day the House of Representatives voted to impeach President Nixon because of Watergate.”

It had a profound impact on me and my sense of history, one I intend to impart on my daughters.

Will I try and put the current tumult into context?

Probably. 

I’ll tell them the story of a man drunk with power, a man who felt entitled and believed he was worthy of festive adulation.

And I’ll tell them how I dream of seeing history repeat itself.

What I won’t tell them is if I’m talking about the president being impeached or their Daddy visiting DC and again getting lots of swell free stuff.

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Comey, 6'8", and looming even larger

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Beltway pundits were in a typical tizzy Sunday after James Comey was spotted at a  Broadway performance about a lesbian cartoonist. It was his first public outing since being unceremoniously fired.

They wanted to know if he was signaling he was aligning with leftist forces or if maybe it was time for Mike Pence to begin taking steps to pray away a rash outburst of Broadway gay.

I had more logistical concerns.

Namely, who’s the poor bastard who shelled out $140 to sit behind a human obstruction like Comey? He’s 6-foot-8, an inch taller than the average NBA player.

It’d be like sitting behind the Washington Monument.

We’re hearing a lot about Comey since Trump dumped him. We hear he’s a good boss, a strong leader and we hear without any sense of irony he’s a real stand-up guy.

At 6’8” he’s a stand up, up, up guy.

I hear “Fun Home,” the play the Comeys saw, is fantastic. It won the 2015 Tony Award for best musical. It’s Alison Bechdel’s coming-of-age story about how she, a graphic artist, wrestles with the suicide of her gay father while at the same time confronting her own sexuality.

With jaunty show tunes!

I’m guessing the casting director didn’t need to find any John Wayne-types when he or she was filling out the roles.

Really, it sounds like something J. Edgar Hoover, Comey’s cross-dressing predecessor, would enjoy.

But Comey?

What do we know about him?

Besides his height, I’m struck by the fact he has really great hair and his name is pronounced COMB-y.

It’s like finding a postal employee named Maley.

Do you ever find yourself deferring to taller people? Note: I craftily constructed that sentence so it wouldn’t ask if you “looked up” to taller people.

I know many tall folks who are just as stupid as smaller sorts. Yet tall people do seem to have advantages that have nothing to do with reaching for things on the top shelf without pulling out a utility ladder. They’re just naturally imposing.

But could being tall have worked against Comey with an appearance-obsessed goofball like Trump?

Washington Post columnist Kathleen Parker thinks so. She’s conservative, but I always try to read her because she’s bright, witty and doesn’t insinuate that those who disagree with her are Satan’s spawn.

Here’s what she wrote: “What could have prompted Trump to (fire Comey)? In a Trumpian world, stalled somewhere between second grade and a prep school locker room, even the ridiculous seems plausible. So, let’s try a wild one: Maybe Trump fired Comey for being taller, at 6 feet, 8 inches. In light of his infatuation with size, one can easily imagine that a 6-foot-3-inch Trump would resent having to look up to the guy who was investigating possible collusion between his campaign and Russia.”

Interesting.

My wife asked me what I think of Comey.

I told her I hated how he interfered with the election, but sense he didn’t do so lightly or with malevolent intent.

“And I think he’s truly righteous about being 100 percent honest and forthright in every situation and that makes him to Trump the most dangerous man on the planet.”

It won’t earn any Tony nominations, but Comey testifying before Congress about what Trump said and knows promises to be truly great theater.

Because for someone like Trump the only thing worse than sitting behind a guy like Comey is seeing him standing up, facing forward, with his hand on a Bible.

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The human joys of running really fast

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I’m on record as saying I have the same interest in learning speed reading as I do speed sex. Both activities are something to savor.

The declaration is contrary to my typical outlook. See, I yearn to go really fast. Like cheetah fast.

Not in a car or a plane, circumstances so grindingly routine they’re practically pedestrian.

I’m talking about the human exhilaration that comes from running fast, just propelling your body as fast as it can go with joyful abandon.

When was the last time you just bolted? It feels wonderful.

It’s why I felt envious early this week when I saw speedy Cincinnati Red Billy Hamilton raced from home plate to third base in just 10.58 seconds, about 27 feet a second.

I tried to think how long it would take me to run 270 feet and I figured I could do it in about 10 also.

That’s 10 hours.

First I’d be winded from running 90 feet from home to first so I’d stop to catch my breath and chat with the first baseman about what it’s like to play professional ball and if he worries more about his post-baseball career or catching an STD from the baseball Annies. It would be a long talk. I’d then repeat the whole thing in getting to second, but by then I’d need lunch and a nap.

Sensing I was starting to embarrass myself, I’d give it all I had on my way to third and likely pull a groin muscle and require medical assistance, some liquor and another long nap.

So 10 hours, or about what non-baseball fans think attending a regular MLB game feels like.

Many runners make running look agonizing. Their faces are masks of painful endurance.

I know how to solve this common problem: Never run more than 30 feet at a time.

I know this from ’10 when I enjoyed my greatest racing achievement. I outran 25 Point Park University students who were half my age.

It helped that I was their professor, the surprise race starter and apparently the only one who gave a shit at all about winning.

My class had been invited to enjoy a gala reception with none other than John Grisham. I informed them about the schedule change and said, “First one to the elevator drinks free!”

And just like that I was off. Took me about 5 seconds to run 30 feet. I remember feeling like my hair was going to fly off my head. 

It felt great!

One by one, in varying degrees of evident indifference, my students shuffled down the hall. I do remember impressing one student who said I was a real cheetah.

Or maybe she said “cheater.”

No matter. I was so excited by my victory, I’d forgotten to push the elevator button and we all stood there like morons for almost two minutes before anyone noticed.

The greatest use of speed, to me, is the common goodbye. Few have mastered it.

Most people let the goodbye drag on and on and on. It may seem polite, but it’s truly tedious. It should be just goodbye and go.

It’s why I’ve always admired Waylon Jennings who used to alert everyone he could depart without notice or warning.

“If you see me getting smaller, it means I’m leaving,” he’d say.

And just like that, he’d be gone. I’d say he’d vanish like a puff of smoke, but he was legendary friends with Willie Nelson so it was likely he was on his way to puff smoke.

Maybe it’s a tactic I can start employing right here on the blog.

Write fast and just get the hell out.

If you see me getting smaller, I’m leaving …

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"Founder" Ray Kroc & my abiding burger love

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I was a guest at a social function at an area restaurant when a fellow conversant mentioned she was a vegan. She wasn’t belligerent or disdainful of my carnivore customs so I didn’t feel an urge to bop her on the head with a nearby salami. 

Plus, it gave me the opportunity to use one of my favorite lines without it appearing rehearsed.

“I admire your discipline and your motives,” I said, “but the chances of me ever becoming a vegan are about the same as me ever resuming my virginity.”

I mention this today because Ray Kroc’s restaurant is now offering hamburgers with popular toppings that would infuriate Ray Kroc.

I’m talking about guacamole, dijon, cilantro and — brace yourself — lettuce!

And if there’s one thing Ray Kroc hates, it’s lettuce. 

I know all this because I just forced my family to watch “The Founder,” starring Michael Keaton as Kroc. It’s terrific. You need to see it right away. I’ll watch it with you.

I’ll bring Happy Meals!

Did you know each and every day of the year, McDonald’s feeds 1 percent of the entire world population?

If my wife has anything to do with it, that number will be reduced by microscopic fractions.

Sympathetic to vegetarian impulses already, she now regard’s Kroc’s empire as pure evil. The movie is that powerful.

Almost as powerful as my near-weekly appetite for, say, a Big Mac & fries.

I, too, try and eat ethically, but sometimes my body just craves fuel that’s familiar.

For nearly every American that’s the Golden Arches.

It’s never great, but it always satisfies. So, in some ways, it’s like old M*A*S*H reruns I mentioned yesterday.

They’ll always be there when you need them.

Am I going to try any of the new fancy “craft” burgers McDonald’s is touting? Doubtful.

There are any number of great local restaurants that feature good burgers, and the ones I grill for myself and the family never miss the mark.

Plus, a really great burger is as much a result of situation as construction. I guess the best one I’ve ever had was when I was a kid on vacation at Ocracoke Island on the Outer Banks.

I don’t know where Mom and Eric were that day, but it was just me and Dad. I was probably 12.

I remember him getting the old Ford Fairmont stuck in a roadside dune about 3 feet in front of an big explicit sign that said, “DO NOT PARK ON ROADSIDE DUNES.”

The wheels spun, the sand sprayed. We were hopelessly stuck. I think we had to hike about five miles into town. Starved and grimy, I remember we passed two or three perfectly suitable restaurants until he found one to his liking.

The grill was behind the bar and the sizzle started right away. I don’t remember what was on that great burger. I just remember it being delicious and that the old man drank like 40 beers.

I’ll bet the old timers are still telling Paul Rodell stories in that divey little seaside bar.

Today, a good burger for me includes bacon, dried blue cheese, tomato, dark mustard and, yes, lettuce.

That puts me at odds with Ray Kroc, who despised lettuce the way my wife now despises him.

He demanded every burger be exactly the same: patty, precise equal squirts of mustard and ketchup, two pickles. No deviations.

And no goddamned lettuce.

There’s a hilarious scene in “The Founder” where Kroc is spying on a franchisee’s store when he sees the menu offering — horrors! — chicken. But what really sets him off is seeing a young man eating a McDonald’s burger topped with a leaf of iceberg. 

As Kroc, Keaton sees the lettuce and channels greater rage than he did as Batman after the Dark Knight saw the Joker slay thousands of innocents.

His anger looks so volatile I feared he was going to shoot the hapless customer and then shoot the lettuce. Quaking with anger, he takes the lettuce burger and tracks down the franchisee on the golf course for a nasty confrontation.

Kroc heaves the burger at the offending restaurateur, insults are exchanged. It’s the only part of this otherwise outstanding film that didn’t ring true.

You don’t exchange insults when someone throws a burger at you.

You say thank you!

Then you eat the burger.

Related …

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A B*L*O*G on M*A*S*H

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I made one of those bone-headed mistakes last weekend that will now haunt my nearly every day for the rest of my run. What did I do?

I googled Gary Burghoff.

Now, I knew better. The less you know about any performer the better. Just enjoy their art for what it is. 

But I’m on a bit of a M*A*S*H resurgence. AMC has been running hours and hours of it and I often click the channel guide and check in if it’s one of my favorites. 

The series finale, “Goodbye, Farewell, Amen,” aired February 28, 1983, and was watched by 126 million Americans, more than the Super Bowl and more than “Roots,” the landmark mini-series.

It remains the 9th most viewed program of all-time. It is the only show in the top 20 that was not a Super Bowl.

Running for 256 episodes from 1972-83, it started out fresh and hilarious and spiraled into tedious and moralizing — sort of like an hour conversing with me in in any bar after 10 p.m. on any Friday night.

It starts with that indelible “Suicide is Painless” theme song, at once dark and jaunty. The lyrics — and most of us know them remotely through the movie — are perfectly evocative of a show that for so many years nimbly careened between humor and despair. Did you know the lyrics were written by director Robert Altman’s 14-year-old son Mike and that he earned $1 million for the effort or $930,000 more than his dad was paid to direct?

Whatever genius for soundtrack composition the young Altman had, it seems to have peaked before he was old enough to drive. His cultural foot print beyond co-writing the M*A*S*H theme is faint.

Some M*A*S*H re-runs are among the funniest anyone in TV’s ever produced. These uniformly included the characters Trapper John, Henry Blake and Frank Burns.

Burns, especially, was critical to the humor. He was bumbling, mean-spirited, greedy, ambitious — sort of like Tony Soprano if instead of creating wounds Soprano sutured them with 3-Oh silk.

But Trapper and Henry were also essential. I think the show found the perfect balance between light and dark with the Season 3 finale when — Spoiler Alert! — Henry Blake dies in a plane crash. Still chokes me up.

The show remained funny at times but I believe it began to fade when it forsook its comedic emphasis. It tried mingling comedy with drama, but the humor seemed strained, the drama heavy-handed.

In short, it became a hybrid, a sort of M*I*S*H  M*A*S*H.

Yet, I still find it oddly compelling and am still intrigued by the cast, and enjoy sharing with friends obscure facts like Muppets creator Jim Henson based Miss Piggy on Hot Lips Houlihan.

Pursuit of facts like that are what got me into trouble.

See, I was watching the episodes where Radar departs.

What a great character. So innocent, so sweet, so much like the Teddy Bear he cuddled in his bunk.

So in his last episodes — it was a two-parter from Season 8 — he kind of mopes. He’s not funny, not sweet, a bit of a drag.

I start thinking about his character’s arc. Specifically, did Walter O’Reilly in eight years of drama and pathos ever get laid? Ever even take a tumble with a prostitute at Rosie’s?

He did not.

Radar left Korea a virgin! No wonder he was so mopey. Petting caged rabbits out behind the mess tent can only relieve so much stress.

I wondered if the trait extended to his real life. As always, the internet beckoned.

So I googled Gary Burghoff.

Guess what?

He’s 73 years old. And he’s a jerk!

This from the TV Guide story hailing the show’s run: “Although nobody wanted to be quoted for the record, the feelings about Gary Burghoff's leaving were fairly unanimous: loved Radar, hated Burghoff. As summed up by one of the principals: 'Gary had personality problems. He always felt there was a conspiracy against him. He was rude to everyone, but if anyone ever said anything back to him, he'd throw a tantrum. He had frequent spats with his cast members, particularly with Alan Alda. Once Mike Farrell told him that his problem was that he could dish it out but he couldn't take it, and Gary said, “And I'm getting real sick and tired of dishing it out." The poor guy didn't even realize what he'd said.’”

So now that’ll be in my head every single time sweet, lovable Radar appears on screen.

Distraught, I then compounded my error with another bone-headed mistake.

I googled Klinger and found out he’s a big Republican!

I wonder if I can get a 45-year-old sitcom declared a pre-existing condition for the lobotomy I’ll soon be seeking.

Related …

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