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I took that particular need and blended it with another one, stepping up to a group of three women who had been hovering near the table. " I asked, and one of them, the one with the smile that seemed to be about nothing in particular, dug into her purse and handed me one. It was a first date, one I wasn't sure would be followed by a second, and how was I to know that the woman on the other side of the table would set the presidency into seismic rumblings?
I thanked her, introduced myself, and resumed hunting my target stripes. She struck me as cheerful, open, a bit too much a resident of Planet Hap-Hap-Happy in my acerbic view. She mentioned, more by way of observation than complaint, that her transcribing duties for the DOD were massively challenging for someone who had more skill in communication than in typing—a tidbit now used as bimbo ammo, though it seemed reasonable to me at the time.
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.
(You know how some photos of yourself can make you cringe? My sum total experience is a meeting of eyes at a boring bar party and a B-minus date afterward.
Imagine if one of those became a new international icon. quislings are hissing about her "wacky" dress is because she has a sense of style, and this city, simply, does not. If fate, Vernon Jordan, and Ken Starr hadn't intervened, who knows, maybe I'd be the only reporter in the world pursuing her.
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.
2.) It didn't happen at all, and she was/is lying, or, as a drunken, fairly high-ranking administration Clintonista bellowed at me in not-quite-subliminal talking points Saturday night, "She's an ugly girl with a crazy fantasy life!
The rest of you had been huddling around your cable-news campfires to all hours, swapping "I know a guy who knows a guy"s, riveted by all the mumblenewsing, quidnuncing, hearsaying, tattling, and idle-chattering. But a funny thing happened to me on the way from Cayman to the States.
When you scuba dive, if you plunge deep into the abyss—say, deeper than 66 feet, or two "atmospheres"—you can't rise to the surface too quickly or you risk a serious medical problem with a silly name, the bends.
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.
But the fucking barracuda just hover, and wait, and wait. "Everyone is dying to hear about your date with Monica Lewinsky!