From the Shelves of the Paco Library

Andrew Ferguson is one of my favorite political essayists, and a peek inside his 1996 book, Fools Names, Fool’s Places will show you why (P.J. O’Rourke’s introduction is an added bonus).

As I have indicated on a couple of occasions before, Ferguson has my undying admiration for coining a particularly snarky description of beltway mercenary, David Gergen. I’ll let him tell the story:

As a journalistic hit man, I am definitely second or even third tier, ranking far below such masters of our craft as Sally Quinn, Stephanie Mansfield, R. Emmett Tyrell, or Christopher Hitchens. But I will say this in my defense: I once called David Gergen a “goggle-eyed melon head.”

This was in 1986 or 1987, in Washington City Paper. The phrase came offhandedly as I was in the midst of composing a thoroughly unprovoked hit on the real estate mogul and publisher Mort Zuckerman, Gergen’s boss at U.S. News & World Report…As the bile flowed, I started sputtering in all directions, and when, in a discussion of Zuckerman’s truculent management style, it came time to mention Gergen, the insult appeared unbidden…

The piece was published a few weeks later and made some noise, especially in the offices of U.S. News. I didn’t give the Gergen insult a second thought…until a friend at U.S. News told me that some prankster had snuck into Gergen’s office one evening and placed a melon on his desk. I tried to laugh but in truth felt uneasy. Had I gone too far? About six months later, I was inadvertently introduced to Gergen at a party. He didn’t recognize my name, but soon a little light bulb went on. His eyes – I’m sorry, there’s no other way to put it – popped out like a pair of goggles. He said, “Oh, God,” and turned away…I felt terrible. Should I write him a note? Send flowers or a box of candy? (A fruit bowl was out of the question; they might throw in a melon.) I never did any of that, needless to say. I just went through the next several years feeling like a heel.

…my little anecdote has a happy ending. One fine spring day in 1993 all my self-recriminations vanished. I turned on the television and saw Gergen standing in the rose Garden at the White House with his new boss, Bill Clinton. The one-time salesman of Reaganism enlisting in the cause of undoing Reaganism! It was a move of such staggering cynicism that the next day, when I overheard a colleague disparaging Gergen, I proudly butted in: “I once called him a ‘goggle-eyed melon head’!”

Although the book was written more than a dozen years ago, it’s amazing how so many of Ferguson’s targets are still active public figures: Bill Clinton, Newt Gingrich, Barbra Streisand, Bill Moyers. But the book isn’t just about people; there are fine pieces on places and institutions. Take this comic gem, for example, a description of the Supreme Court building:

The unwashed pass through metal detectors and massive bronze doors to the chamber itself, a marble room built to the dimensions of a college gym but with worse acoustics and no cheerleaders. Impossibly tall curtains of red plush fall between twin columns of white marble. A frieze depicting lawgivers through the ages adorns the upper walls. There is much brass and gold brocade. It looks like a set from Samson and Delilah.

Ferguson’s breezy, ironic style, and his elegantly straightforward prose make his essays a genuine pleasure to read. And there is the tone, as well. He is refreshingly free of the catty maliciousness of a Maureen Dowd (who, during the Bush years, also had the disadvantage of being pretty much a one-act circus); you will look in vain, here, for the hysterical earnestness and – let’s face it – inanity of that other, lesser Andrew. There is sharp wit, to be sure, and fearless criticism, but the whole is shot through with a kind of affable, humane bemusement over the foibles of mankind (including the author's own); not a mailed fist, but a joy-buzzer, is to be found under this velvet glove.