I'm Back for More Cash

by Tony Kornheiser

  They took $21,819 worth of china.

  Yeah, sure, they plan on entertaining. But they now control more china than Li Peng!

  They took $17,966 worth of flatware.

  This is like calling Crate & Barrel and instead of ordering “service for twelve” you order “service for New Jersey.”

  They took $52,021 worth of furniture.

  That leaves, what, the Lincoln footstool? When Bar and Poppy drop over for an evening of highly competitive cribbage, what are they going to sit on—Jeb?

  I guess the Clintons figured: Hey, we’ve just bought two houses. Somebody’s got to furnish them.

  The Clintons’ position was that “good friends” had sent them all this stuff and meant for them to have it. I believe that. Over the years I, myself, sent Bill autographed copies of two books I wrote. In retrospect, I feel bad sending books. The way the guy’s scrounging around, I probably should have sent him a leg of lamb and a lob wedge.

  Lately I’ve tried to put myself in the Clintons’ place. What would I want from my many generous friends?

  I would want a Mercedes-Benz S600.

  Black, thanks.

  Of course, if I were in the Clintons’ place, and I’d just gotten an $8 million advance on a book the way Hillary did, I could easily afford to buy the Benz myself. But like the Clintons, I’d enjoy it so much more if you bought it for me.

  That’s the part that gets me—the eight big ones Hillary just reeled in. And it’s not like Bill’s begging for spare change on Pennsylvania Avenue. He’s pulling down $150,000 a speech. (And a great speech it is: “I did good, didn’t I? Okay, there was that messy thing. But ten years from now who’s gonna remember? Take Al Gore. Please. You believe what a putz he was, not running on my record? Talk about blowing it, er … hey, who’s ready for me to play ‘The Girl from Ipanema’ on my sax?”) The Clinton family income will probably be $15 million this year. They can’t afford flatware on that? What are they making flatware out of these days, weapons-grade plutonium?

  Plus, Clinton’s getting this primo office space in midtown Manhattan. Originally, the approximately $800,000-a-year rent was supposed to be absorbed by taxpayers. But Clinton has recently committed to contribute $300,000 with funds from his charitable Bill Clinton Foundation (motto: “Oh, Please, You Don’t Expect Me to Live in Arkansas, Do You?”).

  Some folks, I’ve read, are angry at the Clintons for leaving nothing in the White House but the doorknobs. Not me. I’m impressed. I’d love to live in a fancy, furnished house, rent-free, for eight years, and then haul all the furniture out with me. That’s so cool. It’s like they cashed in 750,000 Marriott Rewards points.

  Ultimately, whether you think the Clintons acted badly is a matter of perception. Take what happened at the Miami Seaquarium the other day. A big sea turtle met an untimely death, and while everyone felt terrible about it … well, let me quote from the Associated Press: “Flesh from a protected species of sea turtle that died … was turned into stew and eaten by some of the facility’s workers.” Hmmm. Maybe they ought to change the name to Miami Seaquarium and Chowder House.

  I concede there was probably a better way to dispose of Mr. Turtle. But if it had been a chicken, would anyone be squawking? (Except the chicken. Bada-bing!) Of course not. The bad part wasn’t that the workers ate the turtle. What were they supposed to do? Let it lie in state and then give it a Viking funeral? The bad part was that people found out!

  It isn’t illegal to make turtle bisque, but it presents what the pros call “an image problem.” Now, any time a lobster dies in that aquarium, everybody’s going to sniff the guards for lemon and butter sauce.

  Essentially, what happened to the Clintons was: They were caught eating the sea turtle.

  I Logged Lewinsky

  White House Log. December 11, 1996: M. Lewinsky arrived, seeking meeting with president on “a matter of grave economic importance.” Spent fifteen minutes in Oval Office with door closed. Upon leaving Lewinsky was overheard saying, “Then I can put you down for two boxes of Thin Mints, two Samoas, and a box of Trefoils?”

  White House Log. April 14, 1997: M. Lewinsky arrived for “Cabinet-level discussion of troop deployment in Bosnia.” Had one question before private meeting with president. “How do you spell ‘Bosnia’?”

  White House Log. July 13, 1997: M. Lewinsky cleared to enter after confusion at security gate, where she claimed to have a package for the president. “Actually,” she clarified, “I am the package for the president.”

  Don’t ask me how I obtained the annotated “Lewinsky Logs.”

  All I can say is it was rough. Rougher than being Linda Tripp’s hairdresser.

  According to White House records, Monica “The Sweetheart of Rodeo Drive” Lewinsky made thirty-seven visits to the White House between April 1996 and December 1997. This was after Lewinsky left her job at the White House for her job at the Pentagon. That’s a lot of return visits to the White House for an intern. That would be about thirty-seven more than Warren Christopher.

  “It doesn’t seem high to me,” Lewinsky’s lawyer, William Ginsburg, said of the number of visits.

  Maybe not if she was working for Domino’s.

  White House Log. June 9, 1997: M. Lewinsky arrived for the seventh time in the last two weeks. “Hee-hee, I came back because I left my Tic Tacs in my desk,” she said. (Note from Betty Currie: Even though the door was closed, I heard everything, right?)

  I’m sure there are many explanations besides sex why Monica Lewinsky had such free and easy access to the president of the United States.

  Um, just give me a second here.

  Ummm.

  Oh! Ginsburg has asserted that his client and the president were “colleagues.”

  White House Log. November 2, 1997: M. Lewinsky arrived and identified herself as having “served the president in a variety of positions.” She was wearing a long T-shirt dress and carrying a book of poetry she said was given to her by “The Creep.” (Note from Betty: Is this when she turned the gifts over to me?)

  Of course, it’s possible that Monica wasn’t there to see the president at all. Kenneth Starr has twice called White House valet Bayani Nelvis to testify. Nelvis is said to have been fast friends with Monica; the two reportedly dined together and exchanged gifts. (Was Monica an intern or a catalog rep for Lillian Vernon?) Maybe it was Nelvis whom Monica went to see thirty-seven times.

  White House Log. November 10, 1997: M. Lewinsky departed abruptly when informed, “Nelvis has left the building.”

  I realize that by concentrating on an inconsequential scandal that I am giving terribly short shrift to political issues of great importance. For example, last week President Clinton presented the nation with its first balanced budget in thirty years. Wow. That’s swell.

  Now back to Monica:

  I worried about her being so cooped up here in Washington. I worried she wasn’t eating correctly. (“Who’s Feeding Lewinsky?” was actually a suggested Washington Post “Style” section story.) I worried she’d blow up like the Hindenburg if all she ate were the Dunkin’ Donuts her Watergate neighbor Bob Dole brought over.

  I worried she wasn’t able to do much of anything—except, apparently, tell everybody in the world that she was having sex with the president of the United States. She told her high school friends. She told her college friends. From everything I read in Newsweek and People, the last two folks in the country to know were me and Hillary.

  So I was glad to see Monica return home to Beverly Hills this week, in search of what her lawyer called a “normal” life. I think just about everyone in America thinks of Beverly Hills as a place where you can live a normal life—after your cosmetic surgery scars have healed and you’ve undergone laser hair removal and colon hydrotherapy, of course.

  “She wants to go shopping,” Ginsburg said.

  Of course she does. She needs some new outfits for the impeachment proceedings.

  It’s great that Monica’s back in her element, and
, like, what an element it is. Here is what Monica’s classmate at Beverly Hills High, Eden Sassoon, daughter of Vidal Sassoon, told People magazine: “If we had, like, parties, Monica would be there. But, like, I wouldn’t call up Monica and be, like, ‘Hey, we’re going to do this and that.’ ”

  Thank you, Eden, I know it was difficult to, like, string as many as four words together in, like, English. Now go get yourself a Frappuccino before somebody from The New Yorker asks you to spell “cat.”

  I’m glad Monica’s at home with her dad and her lawyer-on-a-leash. The only one I worry about now is Monica’s mom, Marcia Lewis, the author. The two are supposedly very close. One story I read said they shared everything.

  White House Log. February 8, 1998: M. Lewinsky arrived at White House gate in long T-shirt dress, showed hopelessly outdated photo ID. Upon interrogation, visitor confessed to being Lewinsky’s mother, Marcia Lewis. Asked to see president despite having no appointment. Bragged, “If he liked my daughter, he’ll love me.”

  Courting Monica

  Where’s Monica, already?

  I’m ready for her. We’re all ready for her.

  She’s the grand jury’s star witness. It’s time for her oral presentation. (Forgive me, a poor choice of words.)

  Why shouldn’t Monica talk to the grand jury? She told everybody else on Earth she was having an affair with the president. She told her mother, for heaven’s sake. Doesn’t that beat all? In my day a girl kept sex secrets from her mother.

  A letter came to my house addressed to: “Mr. T. Kornheiser or Current Occupant,” which starts out: “I’m Monica Lewinsky, and I’ve been authorized to offer you 4.9 percent APR on a new Visa card—and, by the way, I’m boinking the president.”

  Others she e-mailed. Newsweek even printed some messages Monica allegedly sent to serial tapist Linda Tripp. Monica refers to “the Big Creep’s” wife as “Babba,” which may be the female version of “Bubba”—or it may indicate Monica thinks Bill Clinton is married to Barbara Walters.

  I’m tired of White House aides, Secret Service officers, and presidential scut boys parading in to testify. Like Steve Goodin, a Clinton aide described in print as “tending to a variety of largely menial duties, like carrying [the president’s] coat, briefcase, and water glass.” Why bring in that guy? Bring in the guy who carried the president’s pants.

  I’d like to hear more from Monica’s mom, Marcia Lewis, but she won’t be testifying again anytime soon—unless they get a dehumidifier in the courtroom, because the air in there is just mangling her hair. And Kenneth Starr probably won’t be calling Monica’s dad to testify, since Bernard Lewinsky last week compared the special prosecutor to Joseph McCarthy, the Spanish Inquisition, and Adolf Hitler—not exactly the Three Tenors.

  Hearing from Kathleen Willey might be fun. Suppose Willey arrived at court disheveled, with her blouse untucked and her makeup smeared, and it turned out she wasn’t groped by anyone, that’s just her look—early Madonna! (How great would a story like this be: “A high-level administration source, speaking on the grounds of anonymity, said yesterday that Kathleen Willey often pads through the White House with hat-head, her shirttail hanging out, and her lipliner off target. ‘This babe must get dressed in the dark,’ the source said.”)

  But it’s Monica’s moment. I want to see her march into the courthouse—and as she goes in I want to hear that boxing announcer say, “Let’s get rrrrreaadddddy to rrrrrrrruummmbbbllle.”

  But it’s secret grand jury testimony, Tony. You’ll never hear it.

  Oh, dear, you’re right. No one will ever divulge what Monica says. There’ll be no leaks at all. Well, then, I guess this is the end of the story. I’d better stop here and start writing a column about how we’re backing off bombing Iraq and have decided instead to install a huge boombox on the Kuwait-Iraq border, and blast Spice Girls songs at top volume until Saddam Hussein kills himself.

  Please.

  Secret testimony? With Monica’s lawyer William “Testing: One, Two, Three” Ginsburg? Are you kidding me? This guy will do thirty minutes into a red light on Connecticut and K.

  The second Monica is done talking, CNN will have her testimony word for word. Wolf Blitzer will be reading it so quickly, he’ll look like the guy in the sign language circle.

  Then we’ll know exactly what White House spokesman Mike McCurry meant when he said that the relationship between Mr. Clinton and Ms. Lewinsky could turn out to be “a very complicated story.”

  How complicated?

  More complicated than the story that’s in everybody’s head now? The perfectly innocent one about the nice old duffer who took a professional interest in the perky young intern, and left her a few voice mails on her home answering machine, and gave her a few small gifts—and let her drop by his office, um, thirty-seven TIMES.

  Here’s what could really complicate that story:

  If that was the story.

  My feeling is the president would be better off with the “Stalker Nymphos from Outer Space” story, in which an alien lands on Earth in the guise of a White House intern, with only one purpose: to drain the very life force out of the leader of the Western World.

  McCurry says of the Clinton-Lewinsky relationship: “I don’t think it’s going to be entirely easy to explain maybe.”

  Why not?

  The president said he had no sex with “that woman.” Simple, right?

  Why do I think in a couple of weeks somebody in the White House is going to say, “Oh, that woman, Miss Lewinsky? No, no, I thought you were talking about this woman, Tara Lipinski. I can’t speak for Lewinsky. The president never had any sexual encounter with Lipinski. Or this other woman here, Mrs. Kaczynski, Ted’s mom.”

  I like the “alternate story line” some of the president’s men are floating, that Monica Lewinsky was seduced by the animal magnetism of the president, but that she is fantasizing about the carnal nature of their relationship—and that the president was simply being kind to someone who is a very needy person. Bill Clinton’s whole career indicates that he reaches out to the needy; he feels their pain.

  Thirty-seven visits.

  Remember the neediest.

  A Coupla Chicks Talking

  It’s Linda like you’ve never seen her before: Linda Tripp, beauty consultant: “You in red. Yes. [But] just because you wear a red sweater does not mean you have to wear red lipstick.”

  Linda Tripp, code master: “You can tell your grandchildren you had an affair with the you-know-what of the you-know-what.”

  Linda Tripp, comforter: “It’s a taint on your integrity and your reputation and your character, all of which is so richly undeserved.”

  Linda Tripp, special friend: “And this outfit makes you look thin and beautiful.”

  Linda Tripp, she-wolf of the SS: “I really am finished, Monica. Share this sick situation with one of your other friends, because, frankly, I’m past nauseated about the whole thing.”

  Linda Tripp, blushing phone-sex apprentice: “You’re so good at it. No wonder he likes phone sex with you.… You’re just like a little Marilyn Monroe vixen. I know, in my wildest dreams, I could never have phone sex.”

  “Oh yes you could,” Monica promised.

  It’s Monica as you’ve never dared dream.

  Monica Lewinsky, biker chick: “He had a big scar on his forehead. And I like that.”

  Monica Lewinsky, hopeless romantic: “Why can’t he just say, ‘Look. Go enjoy your life, and in three years we’ll get married’?”

  Monica Lewinsky, realist: “My mom would vomit if she saw him.”

  Monica Lewinsky, minimalist: “My lawyer. He said, ‘Did you ever have a sexual relationship, da, da, da?’ And I said, ‘No.’ ‘Was your job, da, da, da, da, da, ever connected with?’ ‘No.’ ‘Nah, nah, nah?’ ‘No.’ … I said, ‘Well shouldn’t we put something there like I was twenty-two at the time? You know? Like, hell-o?’ ”

  Monica Lewinsky, super-sleuth: “You know what’s really weird? I k
eep hearing these double clicks.”

  “That’s my gum,” Linda said.

  “Oh, okay.”

  These tapes are what all the fuss was about? This is what we get for $40 million?

  A couple of lonely fat babes yapping? This is like a bad Wendy Wasserstein play.

  Linda and Monica weren’t the only things dumped into the public trough last week. There was also Sidney Blumenthal’s exchange with Hillary Rodham Clinton, in which he talked to the first lady about Monica, and Hillary assured him the president was “ministering” to a troubled young person.

  Oh, is that what they call it?

  Who do I have to call to get ordained?

  As conversations are revealed, words come back to haunt people. When Hillary did an interview on Today last January, host Matt Lauer asked about reports that the president had given Monica gifts. Praising her husband’s generosity, Hillary said, “I’ve seen him take his tie off and hand it to somebody.”

  His tie? Hahaha.

  As long as people are piling on Clinton, let me say for the record that like the Big Creep, I am outraged at the notion that anyone would think the president’s latest offer to pay Paula Jones $700,000 would in any way imply that he was guilty of any wrongdoing in their relationship—which, as I interpret it, was very brief and consisted of only a couple of words and a physical gesture indicating Mr. Clinton’s pants were constricting him as he continued to do the people’s business.

  What’s this country coming to if the president can’t give some big-haired honey $700,000 just for the fun of it?

  If Mrs. Jones doesn’t want the money, sir, I do.