There was a time not long ago, though it’s hard to remember now, when the talk of fellatio in our office was confined to whispered exchanges of Pamela Lee Web addresses. But Monica Lewinsky has changed that. The president has again embarrassed the media into making his privates public. Decorum is on holiday throughout the country, and grown men freely euphemize about “knob polishings” before convulsing in titters.
Such junior-high catharsis is natural enough as we grapple with our national shame. But to some, this is no time for levity, as I discovered last week at the College Democrats’ “1998 State of the Union Watch Party” on Capitol Hill. The word “party” may be stretching things a bit. The festivities involved packing into a rented microbrewery to watch an embattled Bill Clinton give a distended speech on the African Trade Act and the Clear Water Initiative — — not exactly the recipe for a successful kegger.
I can think of cheerier ways to drink: Tippling brown-bag Thunderbird over a trash-can fire in Anacostia comes to mind. But the junior Dems made a valiant effort. They invited other leftoid worker bees from organizations like the Human Rights Campaign and Democrats With An Attitude. They crammed the place with 900 bodies, until young hipsters were scuffing their chunky- heeled Joan & David pumps and getting their Merino-wooled elbows dunked in neighbors’ nacho-cheese tubs.
They partook of the puppy treats of Washington’s intern class: proximity to power and free appetizers. They sipped “Pumpkin Ale” and “Blueberry Wheat” and other flavors that sound more like muffins than beer. They dug into Sternolicked tanks of potato skins, while roving camera crews with fuzzy boom- mikes toppled plates heaped high with buffalo-wing remnants. But the healthy turnout was not due to the victuals or the speech. Like our embattled president, the student arm of the Democratic party was there for one reason: to pretend Monica Lewinsky doesn’t exist.
The junior Dems are a solemn lot — they refer to themselves as “policy people.” You’ve heard of the “business of the country” to which the president must return? They conduct it. Every day, they slave in legislative offices and advocacy nonprofits in the hope that someday all Americans will be able to say “Speaker Gephardt” and reduce CO[2] emissions with energyefficient showerheads.
So when I canvass the bar with Lewinsky queries, they don’t look amused. There is no time for amusement. The country’s business is a jealous mistress. They have to “initiate dialogues!” Exchange “program ideas!” Disseminate ” coalition-building binders!” with an exclamation point after every objective!
According to my hosts, such noble lives of public service leave no room for reflection on private moral or legal lapses. This has been the tattered refrain of Clinton defenders at least since 1992, and the polls suggest it’s catching. The junior activists hope that when the rest of us bohunks get hip to that notion, we will put down our pot pies and Mountain Dews, telephone C- SPAN, and say, “Dammit, Lamb, we don’t want to talk about the president’s suborning perjury or caulking interns. We want to talk about repealing the cap on taxexempt-bond issuance by colleges — and all the other issues that galvanized the public before this ugly business started.”
As the night wore on and I had a refreshment or two, my questions grew blue, my hypotheticals more explicit. I asked a Rock the Vote staffer from MTV whether her network would tolerate a 50-year-old married veejay’s diddling 21- yearold interns in the control room. “Probably not,” she said, “but Clinton’s still in a position where he’s leading the country.” He should, therefore, be held to a lower standard than the guy who introduces Puff Daddy videos.
A few busty patriots admitted they would relish Clintons amorous attentions. Even those without presidential crushes expressed no revulsion at the alleged events (which most of them say never occurred). “If I got a dress from the president,” says 18-yearold Crystal, “I’d be proud to show it off.” And if it had a DNA keepsake? “I’d just wash it — and wear it again!”
It is generally bad form to pass judgment on your hosts after accepting their hospitality. But like the president’s senior shills, mine were terminally earnest, woefully lemming-like, selectively myopic, and unmatched in their willingness to lie to themselves and others. Many have brilliant futures as the Ann Lewises of tomorrow.
It’s just too bad the president didn’t stop by after his address. He could have enjoyed a nice pale ale with a roasted nutty finish and inspected a lifetime reserve of suitable dating material.
MATT LABASH
