I never did feel that Crossfire was somehow “hurting America,” as Jon Stewart famously said when he came on the show with Carlson and Begala one night in 2004. Even CNN’s president, Jonathan Klein, told the New York Times in 2005 that he wanted to move the network away from “head-butting debate shows.”
That’s perfectly fine. CNN can do whatever it wants with its programs. But I didn’t see any truth to the notion that what’s wrong with Washington are the cable news shows where partisan pundits go back and forth at each other about politics. No, what’s wrong with Washington is all the money and all the power that the interest groups have. What’s wrong is the mindless gridlock on Capitol Hill and a general lack of leadership. It’s not some TV show that airs in the late afternoon and is eventually going to get canceled. That’s an asinine conversation, and it misses the bigger picture.
It also misses a much more significant and disturbing shift: the fragmentation of the media. Today, conservatives can get all their information from conservative outlets, and liberals can get all their information from liberal outfits. And you can spend your whole life never being challenged, never having to hear or think about or confront viewpoints that are different from your own.
Back when I went to LSU a million years ago, we got the Baton Rouge paper. But if you wanted to read the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal, you had to go to the reading room of the student union, and you got the edition several days after it had been published, and you had to read it on a wooden stick. Meet the Press was already on television. You had the nightly news on the networks. That was about it for news sources.
I tell my students today, look around you at Tulane. They give away copies or online access to the Times or the Journal or the Washington Post, not to mention all the local papers. No more wooden sticks. These kids have access to hundreds of TV channels and an infinite number of websites without ever leaving their dorm rooms. They have Twitter feeds and news apps on their smartphones. They’re never more than a finger swipe away from answering almost any question they might have about the world.
Compared to the information available to me in 1962, kids today have way more information at their fingertips. Endless amounts of information. But do they have more knowledge? Not really. They aren’t any more informed than I was then. I wasn’t even that good a student, but I knew what was happening in the state and in the country. I knew the names of every senator. I could talk halfway intelligently about most any current event. A lot of kids today don’t have that capacity or don’t have a deep interest in understanding the world around them.
Seeing that makes me believe the proliferation of information has actually been a bad thing because people don’t use it properly. They use it to become more insular instead of more engaged in the world. So if you are a liberal, you never have to look at, read or consider a conservative thing for the rest of your life. You can visit Daily Kos or go to Talking Points Memo. You can watch Rachel Maddow. And if you’re a conservative, you have all kinds of liberal-free media to choose from. You can listen to Rush Limbaugh. You can surf Townhall.com or RedState.com. You can watch Fox News to your heart’s content.
Instead of taking all this information and using it as a window on the entire world, a big part of the media industry now exists in large part to confirm your beliefs. People have figured out that there’s a lot of money to be made telling you that you were right in the first place. It makes both sides more dug in.
On Crossfire, at least you had to face the other guy. My job was to defend or articulate a position. Not just preach to the choir.
MARY
JAMES HAS BEEN OFFERED all kinds of television shows over the years, but he has always said he couldn’t do it every night—or every week—that he has no attention span for that. It would be too hard. But he makes it look easy to me.
Over the years, before going on Russert’s show, I had to know six weeks out so I would have time to prepare. I’d be tormented and stressed the whole time and studying like crazy. I’d wake up every morning with an anxiety headache from just anticipating going on Russert’s show in the distant future, and it would continue all day, thump-thump-thumping at my temples like a drumbeat. Russert, Russert, Russert. I’d read newspapers, magazines, briefs, anything I could get my hands on, and start scouring the Internet. Then I’d call friends for inside stuff, things that hadn’t gone public yet. It was a total grind.
After every show, I’d feel like I’d been hit by a car. Since I was actually hit by a car when I was thirteen, I know what I’m talking about. (This reminds me of one of Tim’s favorite jokes—he had a vast repertoire of them, repeated regularly, a personal iPod shuffle inside his head—“If Mary Matalin ran over James Carville in their driveway, in full view of their entire neighborhood, then backed up and ran over him three more times, a jury of her peers would acquit her.”)
Tim liked to laugh. I like to laugh. James is a laugh (in a good way). This might not always have made the most sophisticated Sunday morning television, like the time Tim and I convulsed in a laughing fit while discussing the sexual orientation of various Teletubbies, which, believe it or not, was once a serious D.C. political topic.
When he first started booking us, Tim got a lot of grief from members of the chattering class who ascribed to the narrative that ours was a stunt marriage. It tickled him and reinforced his affection for the audience he loved best, normal people outside the Beltway. He also knew how to get the best out of his guests. He delighted us and everyone who came on (except BS’ing pols).
Though a source of high-pitched horror for TV reviewers, Tim loved booking our whole family at the holidays. We had standing Thanksgiving, Christmas and Mother’s Day appearances. Tim always had an anniversary cake for us at Thanksgiving, Santa gifts for the girls on Christmas and roses for me on Mother’s Day. Tim was a real family guy; the girls came to all the shows—they adored him. That part of those Sunday mornings was always joyful, except for the Mother’s Day that fell three weeks after Emerson was born. In the customary postshow photo, I tried to hide my exhausted, blubbery mug behind the roses.
So we had plenty of laughs and lovefests on Meet the Press, which did mitigate the angst of those shows, but afterward, no matter what, I was always wiped out on a cellular level—and, believe me, I have never been able to watch a recording of any of our appearances later. It is like reliving a near-death experience.
James is another story. He has the confidence and coolness of a natural raconteur. Before he goes on Russert, or any show, people send him briefs, which he might (at most) give a cursory glance. He doesn’t do briefs, doesn’t need to. For one thing, James is never not gathering intel; from dawn till dusk, if he is breathing, he is on the phone. On top of that, TV leverages his ADHD, I think—because it offers the kind of intense stimulation that he needs to focus really well. The whole experience is just a walk in the park for him. He loves it, feels good doing it. It’s his sweet spot.
On the mornings of Meet the Press, after a night that I hadn’t slept a wink, James would pop out of bed, take a run, skim the New York Times and the Washington Post, ignore the briefs, and then plop down in front of the camera and deliver one amazing line after another.
He’s the Zen master of sound bites. He can say the most pointed things in the least number of words of anybody you’ve ever known. He has coined more expressions that are in ubiquitous daily use than you can count. Take “It’s the economy, stupid.” If we had a nickel for every time that appeared, we wouldn’t have to work anymore.
TV is a cool medium and James is as hot as a jalapeño. He thrives in overheated conditions, like an exotic hothouse orchid. TV is a visual medium populated by stud muffins and cleavage, and James has been likened to everything from ET to Skeletor. He always tells me how good I am at TV, but we both know I’ll never be in his league.
But I do have better hair.
JAMES
YOU NEVER
KNOW WHAT will bring you lasting fame. I played a big role in getting a U.S. president elected. I’ve won Senate campaigns and gubernatorial campaigns. I’ve consulted to candidates from Israel to Ecuador. I’ve been on every political talk show more times than I can count.
People know me for more than just politics. They know I’m a rabid LSU fan, that I chaired the Super Bowl committee when it came to New Orleans. I had a sports talk show on XM Satellite Radio. I’ve been parodied on Saturday Night Live.
But of anything I’ve ever done, the one thing that got the most reaction—the one thing people still ask about more than almost anything else—is my cameo in the comedy Old School. Its staying power is remarkable.
Todd Phillips, the director, had called me and asked if I wanted to do it. It sounded fun. I had made an appearance in The People vs. Larry Flynt several years earlier and enjoyed that. So why not do it again? What the hell.
I flew out to Southern California, and we filmed it at a studio there. The scene involves a debating competition, in which I get brought in by this ass of a dean (played by Jeremy Piven) to make sure these frat boys lose a debate. I’m supposed to be the ringer. As I’m about to answer the first question, something about America’s investment in biotechnology, Will Ferrell’s bumbling idiot of a character interrupts and says he’d like to give it a shot.
“Have at it, hoss,” I say.
To everyone’s amazement, he comes up with this incredibly articulate answer to a question about America’s investment in biotechnology. Our side is speechless.
“We have no response,” I say. “That was perfect.”
The audience goes wild. The frat boys win the debate. That was it. Those were the lines. It took half an hour to film, if that, and I was on my way.
That was a decade ago, and I’ve never stopped hearing about Old School. I got invited to give the graduation speech at Cornell University. “Everybody wants you to come because of Old School,” one of the organizers told me.
It’s a lesson in fame. Just when you think you’re hot shit in your chosen field, something comes along to remind you that whether you like it or not people might remember you for something else entirely.
3.
Mysteries of Marriage
MARY
THE TOP TEN THINGS WE FIGHT ABOUT:
10. THE GIRLS. And the twenty-first-century teenage wasteland. How to raise our kids is more of an obsessional conversation rather than full-blown argument at this point.
9. AIR-CONDITIONING
8. THE BATHROOM. Just because you remembered to put the seat down does not absolve you from other potty etiquette, like flushing.
7. HIS NEED FOR TEDIOUS ROUTINE VS. MY NEED FOR NEWNESS (see ADHD section)
6. THE IRAQ WAR. For a long time, it was number one or number two, but then it became a case of either shut up or move out.
5. RELIGION. James delights in playing devil’s advocate on all subjects, but he thinks because he’s a cradle Catholic, he’s entitled to some special indulgence permitting him to subject me to endless soliloquies about every doubting Thomas in history, the creation of the universe, the existence of evil, guitar Masses, women priests (or the lack thereof), contraception, thirteenth-century popes, Church collusion with the Nazis, the right way to do an examination of conscience, whether or not Mary and Joseph had sex, why Jesus was a liberal, etc. And just because he can recite the entire Mass in Latin—frontward and backward—does not give him the authority to deny that my guardian angel’s name is Alphonso. This subject hasn’t been relegated to the never-bring-it-up-again pile, which I wish included the ones you will be reading about soon.
4. ANIMALS (see below, this chapter)
3. REAL ESTATE. Every roof we’ve put over our heads—every apartment, condo, house, garden, barn, dog house and shed, including every renovation project and inch of sod—that we have jointly purchased has been precipitated by massive meltdowns over money. This happens in penniless and flush days, no difference.
2. FURNITURE and DECOR. Every stick we have put under our roof—or in proximity to it—every rug, lamp, table, shred of fabulous fabric, houseplant, dish, appliance, garden hose, piece of patio furniture, pool cleaner and every spectacular one-of-a-kind antique I’ve painstakingly researched, fully considered and judiciously purchased has been debated like the Florida recount. Not to mention every painting, piece of sculpture, any and all vintage silver or crystal from highball glasses to chandeliers. No matter what it is, from the attic to the basement, no matter how life-enhancing, how beautiful, how hard to get—even if he loves it—does James ever think we need it?
1. MONEY. James sometimes talks to me, and about me, as though he were living with Marie Antoinette or Catherine the Great. Do I wear a different gown every night of the week? Do I have any rooms covered in giant ancient amber? Not that I wouldn’t love to live like a queen for a day, but I am a working-class girl from South Chicago. Despite our similar shoot-the-moon, go-big-or-go-home tendencies on everything else, when it comes to money, James doesn’t practice healthy, oxygenated, vital behavior. With money, he doesn’t believe in energetic movement; he likes stagnancy. Once it comes in, he never wants it to go out. Unless it’s your tax money.
So now you know why our move to New Orleans was a perfect storm. Money, real estate, furniture, fabrics, religion, teenagers, air-conditioning and animals . . . all in a new time zone.
Some years later, when every corner of the house was done (or almost done, since you never say never when it comes to decor), I would frequently find James standing in the central hall, looking around with a smile on his face, talking to himself, his chest all puffed up. He couldn’t believe how beautifully it all turned out.
When people visit, he tours them around, so proudly, admiring every single thing as if for the first time. The details, the colors, the dining room mural, the antique silver tea service, and vintage creamy white Oushak rug, every source of his former torment and tumult. Now he’s gloating and giddy with his own good fortune.
The coup de grâce was last spring when President Clinton was visiting for a fund-raiser. I left after exchanging pleasantries, but before I did, Bill Clinton grilled me in his customary way about an antique Italian corona, which James never understood. As it turns out, the former president has a vast knowledge of obscure furniture and fabulous taste to boot. Not that I would ever vote for him, but I will be eternally delighted with the quote from the fund-raiser that made the Times Pic the next day.
“Carville,” the former president told the newspaper, “has obviously done well since I let him escape government service. There were parts of his home here in New Orleans that made the White House look like public housing . . . His wife could at least take comfort from the fact that he is now living like a Republican.”
JAMES
THE ANIMALS. God help me, I will never understand Mary’s obsession with animals. We had one dog that I really liked, a King Charles spaniel named Reyes. But the rest of the dogs and cats, I tolerate them out of necessity.
We’re up to four dogs and who knows how many cats—too many to count. There’s also a bird or two. I don’t even know all their names, nor do I care to. It’s not that I hate them. It’s just that I don’t really care for them. They’re in my house, always barking and pissing and smelling up the place. They add absolutely nothing to my life. I wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep if they all vanished into the ether tomorrow.
But somewhere along the way, I decided that Mary loves the animals more than I hate them. That’s not the hill I wanted to die on. For anybody who’s married, that’s always a good question to ask yourself before you pick a fight: are you sure that’s a hill you want to die on? Because I’m pretty confident I could get the dogs and cats out of the house if I really, truly wanted that. But the price I’d pay—the immediate anger on top of long-term resentment—isn’t even close to being worth it. So, the dogs and cats r
emain. I tolerate them and they tolerate me; and Mary and I stay happily married.
The need to be surrounded by a small army of animals is just one of so many things I still don’t get about Mary, even after two decades together. For instance, why do we have to turn on every light in the house? I grew up Catholic, and they taught us a Latin phrase, tantum quantum. It means “so far as.” Basically, “as needed.” That’s how I feel about lighting. If you need a light, turn it on. If you don’t, turn it off. Not Mary. She has to have lights all over the house blazing for no apparent reason. Also, no overhead lighting. It’s all lamps and diffused lighting. Every room has to have at least four lights, and every single one is turned on. It’s hardly anything to get a divorce over, but that kind of thing drives me nuts.
Another thing: she used to open the doors and windows, and put the air conditioner on wide open. I’d say, “Look, you can’t do that. You’ve got to go one way or the other. Because the air conditioner will pull the hot air in and overwork itself.” Mechanically, morally, financially—however you looked at it, it didn’t make any sense.
True story: I have seen her with a fire in the fireplace, the doors open and the air conditioner on full blast.
I don’t know how many air conditioners we had to bust before she finally figured out you can’t do stuff like that. We even did a series of commercials for Mitsubishi air conditioners. The premise was that I was always trying to sneak around and turn the air lower, and she was the one trying to save power. Art does not always imitate life.
I can count quite a few little battles like those that we have fought for years. But what’s more important are the battles we haven’t fought.
Love & War Page 7
