I worked evenings this week. The American News Women's Club hosted its annual dinner Tuesday night, a toast and roast for CNN's Larry King. Mary Matalin emceed the event, and the roasters were a distinguished bunch, including F. Lee Bailey, Sen. Fred Thompson (R-Tenn.), and veteran UPI White House correspondent Helen Thomas. I found myself at the Four Seasons in Georgetown, a Heineken in hand, sometime after 6:30 p.m. It was all quite pleasant, until the formal program started.
Note to event planners: If it's a roast you're after, don't book a current TV interview show host as the roastee and a bunch of publicity hounds as the roasters. What you'll get is a giant butt-kiss--the roast version of a Larry King interview.
The roasters rotated from the present to the absent, mostly ex-presidents, who sent their love by letter. Matalin had the painful job of reading these toasts--none were roasts--and none said anything the least bit interesting.
There were the obligatory references to King's wives. "He never met a man he didn't like or, for that matter, a woman he didn't love," said Hollywood producer Michael Viner, in a typically gut-busting line. The only people who were consistently funny, and harsh, were Matalin, who at one point said she "felt like a NATO general apologizing for all of these bombs," and former Texas Gov. Ann Richards, whose accent and hair alone would have kept us laughing.
The night's most painful presentation came from Sally Quinn, Georgetown society hostess and Washington Post style maven. Quinn revealed that she had sought advice on her roast from her funny friends--two comedy writers, a Broadway writer, and a Clinton speechwriter. She must have gotten voicemail.
Quinn just couldn't seem to get past talking about herself, and the results were less than uproarious. She described the time she invited King to her famous New Year's Eve party, where he was unable to hold a conversation with anyone. He told her afterward that he was shy. She told the audience how Larry fell asleep during an on-air radio interview with her seven years ago. This, by the way, was supposed to reflect poorly on King. She kept talking about her parties, her books, and her husband, the Post's Ben Bradlee. After dropping his name numerous times, she chastised King for actually introducing her one time as "Mrs. Bradlee." Can you believe it?
The event ended well, which is another way of saying it ended. By having the birthday closest to Larry's at my table, I got to take the centerpiece home to my Lovely Wife, along with a goodie bag that included an array of fancy lotions and a key-chain whistle for safe navigation of D.C.'s streets.
Wednesday night, I headed to the Hill for one of those can't-miss Washington receptions--a screening of the hot new documentary Prostate Cancer: A Journey of Hope, and the unveiling of a new postage stamp, inscribed with the male circle-and-arrow symbol, "Annual Checkups and Tests," and "Prostate Cancer Awareness."
As I stood leafing through the press materials, drinking a Michelob Light, and watching the waiters circulate mozzarella kabob appetizers to the 100 or so guests, I thought to myself: "This is why it's great to live in Washington. We find out first about everything of national importance." The rest of America won't see the postage stamp for another 10 days and won't catch a glimpse of the documentary until well into next month.
It also occurred to me that this is the perfect Washington event. It captures the essence of both the nanny state--get yourself tested and tell a friend--and the regulatory state--I'm from the government and I'm here to give you a digital rectal exam. Even the most unappetizing of topics--limp and leaky penises, castration--is an occasion for free food and drink, and, of course, calls for more federal spending. The National Cancer Institute's executive director, Dr. Jill O'Donnell-Tomey, said she "hoped the lawmakers here would help us by allocating more federal funds for research." As for the Fourth Estate, she wants us to "help publicize it." Hence this e-mail.
Although I left before the entire 16-minute screening had finished, I was struck by the optimism expressed in the footage I was privileged to see. One man dolefully described the disappearance of his sex drive upon entering treatment. His wife, however, was less concerned. "It's fine for me," she said, "but that's just a woman's point of view."
With that, I knew it was time to hit the exit.
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