The first law of journalism is that the reporter is the one who gets to ask the questions. It may not be a fair arrangement (though I like it), but it is customary. So it was a little disconcerting when I got a phone call the other day from the subject of an unflattering article I was writing.
“We’ve decided to turn the tables and do a little research on you,” the man said. “I was interested to note that your father is quite progressive on social issues.” He is? I said. Yep, said the man. “Your father is Arne Carlson, governor of Minnesota. And he’s pretty liberal. How did you get to be so right wing?”
I laughed. It was obvious what had happened. The man had punched my name into Lexis-Nexis, the electronic database of news stories, and come up with articles about Gov. Carlson’s oldest son, whose nickname is Tucker.
I’d first learned of the other Tucker Carlson’s existence a few years ago when a television producer I had never met introduced herself to me with the enthusiasm of an old friend. “We just had your dad on the show the other day,” she said. “He did a great segment on school choice.”
I explained this all to the man on the phone. Plus, I said, I’m a writer in Washington. As far as I know, Arne Carlson’s son is a theater producer in Minnesota. In fact, I’ve never even met Arne Carlson (though I did interview him by phone once; he yelled at me, as I remember).
My protests were ignored. The next day, the man sent me a hand-delivered letter scoffing at my unlikely story. “It is extraordinary,” he wrote, “that the only Tucker Carlsons of note are the same age and attended school in Rhode Island at the same time.”
Extraordinary, maybe. Embarrassing, definitely. Being the son of Arne Carlson would, among other things, make me the son of the governor’s former wife, Barbara Carlson, a radio personality and sometime mayoral candidate in Minneapolis. Mrs. Carlson hosts a call-in show so lowbrow People magazine described it as “brassy” — in other words, horrifying. “I love oral sex,” the 59-year-old grandmother once announced on the air. Other topics have included Mrs. Carlson’s cosmetic surgery, her Prozac regimen, and her ex- husband’s performance in bed. Several years ago, People reported, ” Barbara had her station’s call letters tattooed across her buttocks.”
All of this, too, is on Nexis, though I was blissfully unaware of it when I arrived in New York last month to give a speech to an organization of Republican women. The group’s president met me at the door.
“I knew your grandmother,” she said. “She was a lovely person.” Thank you, I said, wondering how my grandmother, who lived in Hawaii for most of her life, had found time to strike up friendships with New York Republicans.
Before I could ask, another woman approached to explain the night’s speaking format. I had forgotten to fax her a bio, but she seemed to know a lot about me. “Did you ever marry Emery?” she asked. No, I didn’t, I said, totally confused, but trying to be polite. She looked crestfallen. “Well, that was so romantic,” she said, “how you dedicated all of that to her. I just wanted to know how it turned out.” I smiled, unsure of what to say. She tried to comfort me. “With all your experience as a disc jockey, I know you’ll do great tonight.”
It was becoming clear there had been some terrible misunderstanding, but I decided to ignore it. I was almost at the dais when the woman threw out one last compliment. “I really admire the work your father is doing,” she said. A blank expression must have come over my face, because she then tried to jog my memory. “You know, your father, the governor of Minnesota.”
There was no avoiding it now. As I explained my lack of connection to Arne Carlson, the woman who had said she knew my grandmother glared at me, as if I’d somehow lied about my heritage. The other woman just looked panicked. ” But I’ve written a long introduction for you,” she said, waving a sheet of paper in my face. (“Tucker Carlson was born into politics,” it began.) “I need something else to say. Give me a couple of sentences, and I’ll write them down verbatim.”
No problem, I said, and began dictating: “Tucker Carlson, a staff writer at THE WEEKLY STANDARD, has been awarded the Victoria Cross for gallantry.”
The woman scribbled furiously. She got to the end of the sentence, paused (” Two ‘l’s in ‘gallantry’?”), then abruptly stopped. Suddenly she looked very irritated.
Under the circumstances maybe it wasn’t funny, but I’m going use that line again. If I say it enough, it will probably end up in Nexis.
TUCKER CARLSON
