The Great Shark Hunt Part 11

2) We expect the main elevators to be jammed up, day and night, by a never-ending swarm of crazies attempting to drag huge wooden crosses and other over-sized gimcracks into the building. To circ.u.mvent this, we are even now in the process of installing a powerful gla.s.s/cube electric lift on the exterior exterior of the building for employee/business & general editorial use. The ingress/egress door will be cut in the east wall, behind Dave Felton's cubicle. The ground-floor door will be disguised as a huge packing crate in the parking lot. An armed guard will be on duty at all times. of the building for employee/business & general editorial use. The ingress/egress door will be cut in the east wall, behind Dave Felton's cubicle. The ground-floor door will be disguised as a huge packing crate in the parking lot. An armed guard will be on duty at all times.

3) We expect the phone lines to be tied up almost constantly by hired and/or rabid Jesus Freaks Jesus Freaks attempting to get things like 'Today's Prayer Message," etc., into our editorial columns. Our policy will be attempting to get things like 'Today's Prayer Message," etc., into our editorial columns. Our policy will be not not to reject these things: No, we will to reject these things: No, we will accept accept them. They will all be switched to a special automated phone-extension in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the building. Yail Bloor, the eminent theologist, has prepared a series of recorded replies for calls of this nature. Any callers who resist automation can leave their names & numbers, so Inspector Bloor can return their calls and deal with them personally between the hours of 2 and 6 AM. them. They will all be switched to a special automated phone-extension in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the building. Yail Bloor, the eminent theologist, has prepared a series of recorded replies for calls of this nature. Any callers who resist automation can leave their names & numbers, so Inspector Bloor can return their calls and deal with them personally between the hours of 2 and 6 AM.

These are only a few of the specific horrors that we will have to come to grips with between now and September. There will, of course, be others -- less tangible and far more sensitive -- such as Subversion of Key Personnel. As always, there will be a few brainless sc.u.mbags going under -- succ.u.mbing, as it were -- to the lure of this latest cult. We expect this, and when these organizational blow-holes appear, they will be plugged plugged with extreme speed & savagery. with extreme speed & savagery.

It is the view of the Sports Desk that a generation of failed dingbats and closet-junkies should under no circ.u.mstances be allowed to foul our lines of communication at a time when anybody with access to a thinking/nationwide audience has an almost desperate obligation to speak coherently. coherently. This is not the year for a ma.s.s reversion to atavistic bulls.h.i.t -- and particularly not in the pages of This is not the year for a ma.s.s reversion to atavistic bulls.h.i.t -- and particularly not in the pages of R ROLLING S STONE.

We expect the pressure to mount in geometric progressions from now until December, & then to peak around Christmas. Meanwhile, it is well to remember the words of Dr. Heem, one of the few modern-day wizards who has never been wrong. Dr. Heem was cursed by Eisenhower, mocked by Kennedy, jeered by Tim Leary and threatened by Eldridge Cleaver. But he is still on the stump. . . still hustling.

"The future of Christianity is far too fragile," he said recently, "to be left in the hands of the Christians -- especially pros." pros."

The Sports Desk feels very strongly about this. Further warnings will issue, as special problems arise. Which they will. We are absolutely certain of this, if nothing else. What we are faced with today is the same old Rising Tide that's been coming for the past five years or more. . . the same old evil, menacing, frog-eyed trip of a whole generation run amok from too many failures.

Which is fine. It was long overdue. And once again in the words of Dr. Heem, "Sometimes the old walls are so c.o.c.keyed that you can't even fit a new window." But the trouble with the Jesus Freak Jesus Freak outburst is that it is less, a window than a gigantic Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials, the Rape of the Congo and the Conquest of the Incas, the Mayans, and the Aztecs. Entire civilizations have been done in by vengeful monsters claiming a special relationship with "G.o.d." outburst is that it is less, a window than a gigantic Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials, the Rape of the Congo and the Conquest of the Incas, the Mayans, and the Aztecs. Entire civilizations have been done in by vengeful monsters claiming a special relationship with "G.o.d."

What we are dealing with now is nothing less than another Empire on the brink of collapse -- more than likely of its own bad weight & twisted priorities. This process is already well underway. Everything Nixon stands for is doomed, now or later.

But it will sure as h.e.l.l be later later if the best alternative we can mount is a generation of loonies who've given up on everything except a revival of the same old primitive bulls.h.i.t that caused all our troubles from the start. What a if the best alternative we can mount is a generation of loonies who've given up on everything except a revival of the same old primitive bulls.h.i.t that caused all our troubles from the start. What a horror horror to think that all the fine, high action of the Sixties would somehow come down -- ten years later -- to a gross & mindless echo of Billy Sunday. to think that all the fine, high action of the Sixties would somehow come down -- ten years later -- to a gross & mindless echo of Billy Sunday.

This is why the Sports Desk insists that these waterheads must be kept out of the building at all costs. We have serious business to deal with, and these f.u.c.kers will only be in the way.

Sincerely, Raoul Duke Rolling Stone, #90, September 2, 1971 #90, September 2, 1971 Memoirs of a Wretched Weekend in Washington One of my clearest memories of that wretched weekend is the sight of Jerry Rubin standing forlornly on the steps of a marble building near the Capitol, watching a gang fight at the base of a flagpole. The "counter-inaugural" parade had just ended and some of the marchers had decided to finish the show by raping the American flag. Other marchers protested, and soon the two factions were slugging it out.

The flag slipped down the pole a few feet, then went back up as a group of anti-war patriots formed a sort of human anchor on the main pulley-rope. These defenders of the flag were part of the Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam (MOBE), organizers of the "counter-inaugural". . . the liberal, pacifist collegiate wing of the protest. The attackers, screaming "Tear the d.a.m.n thing down," were a wild and disorganized h.e.l.lbroth of young streetfighters, ranging from local SDS militants to a motorcycle gang called the "Huns." There were blacks on both sides of the argument, but most of the fist-action involved young whites.

As I backed away from the brawl, two dogs began fighting behind me and a march leader shouting "Peace!" into his bullhorn was attacked by a freak wearing a Prussian helmet. The anti-war parade had turned savagely on itself.

Rubin, a Yippie organizer and veteran of every major protest since the first Berkeley uprising in 1964, was staring at the chaos around the flag-pole. "Awful," he muttered: "This whole thing is depressing. . . no life, no direction. . . this may be the last demonstration."

His words echoed a notion I'd just scribbled in my notebook: "No more singing, no more speeches, farewell to all that. . ." I understood what Rubin meant; our paths had crossed constantly in the past four years, from the Bay Area to Chicago. . . always on different levels of involvement, he as a central figure and I as a journalist. . . but now, in 1969, it was obvious to both of us that the scene had changed drastically.

Violence and confrontation are the themes now. The whole concept of "peaceful protest" died in Chicago, at the Democratic Convention. n.o.body invited Joan Baez to Washington; n.o.body sang "We Shall Overcome." There were other, newer slogans here, like "Kill the Pigs!" "---- the War," and "Two-Four-Six-Eight. . . Organize to Smash the State!"

Vicious dissidence is the style. n.o.body goes limp. They throw rocks at the cops, then run. . . and two minutes later they pop up somewhere else and throw more rocks. We have come a long way from Berkeley and the Free peech Movement. There is a new meanness on both sides. . . and no more humor.

For Rubin, the change is bitterly personal. As a result of the police riot in Chicago, he is now free on $25,000 bail, charged with solicitation to commit mob action, a felony carrying a possible five-year prison sentence. In the good old days, three months in jail was considered harsh punishment for a protest leader. Now, in the Nixon era, people like Rubin are candidates for the bastinado.

As for me. . . well, the change is not yet physical. With press credentials, I usually manage to avoid arrest. . . although I suspect that, too, will change in the new era. A press badge or even a notebook is coming to be a liability in the increasingly polarized atmosphere of these civil conflicts. Neutrality is obsolete. The question now, even for a journalist, is "Which side are you on?" In Chicago I was clubbed by police: In Washington I was menanced by demonstrators.

The Inauguration weekend was a king-h.e.l.l b.u.mmer in almost every way. The sight of Nixon taking the oath, the doomed and vicious tone of the protest, constant rain, rivers of mud, an army of rich swineherds jamming the hotel bars, old ladies with blue hair clogging the restaurants. . . a horror-show, for sure. Very late one night, listening to the radio in my room I heard a song by The Byrds, with a refrain that went: "n.o.body knows. . . what trouble they're in; n.o.body thinks. . . it might happen again." "n.o.body knows. . . what trouble they're in; n.o.body thinks. . . it might happen again." It echoed in my head all weekend, like a theme song for a bad movie. . . the Nixon movie. It echoed in my head all weekend, like a theme song for a bad movie. . . the Nixon movie.

My first idea was to load up on LSD and cover the Inauguration that way, but the possibilities were ominous: a scene that bad could only be compounded to the realm of mega-horrors by something as powerful as acid. No. . . it had to be done straight, or at least with a few joints in calm moments. . . like fast-stepping across the Mall, bearing down on the Smithsonian Inst.i.tution with a frenzied crowd chanting obscenities about Spiro Agnew. . . mounted police shouting "Back! Back!". . . and the man next to me, an accredited New York journalist, hands me a weird cigarette, saying, "Why not? It's all over anyway. . ."

Indeed. He was right. From my point of view -- and presumably from his -- it was all over. Richard Nixon had finally become President. All around us these 18 and 19 year old loonies were throwing firecrackers and garbage at the mounted police. From inside the Smithsonian, Agnew's people were looking out, crowded against the doorway gla.s.s, watching the mob as it menaced late-arriving guests. A cop lost his temper and rushed into the crowd to seize an agitator. . . and that was the last we saw of him for about three minutes. When he emerged, after a dozen others had rushed in to save him, he looked like some ragged hippie. . . the mob had stripped him of everything except his pants, one boot, and part of his coat. His hat was gone, his gun and gunbelt, all his badges and police decorations. . . he was a beaten man and his name was Lennox. I know this because I was standing beside the big plainclothes police boss who was shouting, "Get Lennox in the van!"

Lennox was not in full control of himself; he was screaming around like a guinea hen just worked over by a pack of wild dogs. The supervisor bore down on him, raging at the spectacle of a chewed-up cop running around in full view of the press and the mob. . . adding insult to injury. They put Lennox in the van and we never saw him again.

How could this happen? With Spiro Agnew and his guests looking out from the elegant museum on the eve of his inauguration as Vice-President of the U.S., a mob of dissident "pacifists" mauls a cop a.s.signed to protect the party. This man Lennox had read too many old newspapers, too many reports about "cowardly, non-violent demonstrators." So he rushed in to grab one of them -- to enforce The Law -- and they nearly did him in. A man standing next to the action said: "They took turns kicking him in the head. They tore everything off of him -- thirty more seconds and they'd have stripped him completely naked."

Rotten behavior, no doubt about it. Several hours later, riding in a cab in another part of Washington, I told the black cabbie what had happened. "Beautiful, beautiful," he said. "I used to be on The Force and I was ready to go back. . . but not now; h.e.l.l, I don't want to be a public enemy."

I went to the Inauguration for several reasons, but mainly to be sure it wasn't a TV trick. It seemed impossible that it could actually happen: President Nixon. Enroute to Washington, crossing the Rockies in a big jet with a drink in my hand I wrote in my notebook: "One year later, flying east again to cover Nixon. . . last time it was to New York and then on the Yellowbird Special to Manchester, New Hampshire. . . to Nixon headquarters at the Holiday Inn, greeted by speechwriter Pat Buchanan who didn't approve of my garb. . . Mistah Nixon, he doan like ski jackets, boy -- and Where's yore tie? Buchanan, a rude suspicious geek, Liberty Lobby type. . . but now he's in Washington, and so is "The Boss."

All the staffers called him "the boss." His speeches and campaign appearances were called "drills." I'm not sure what they called me, but it must have been ugly. Here is an excerpt from the article I wrote after following him around New Hampshire for ten days: Richard Nixon has never been one of my favorite people. He was. . . a man with no soul, no inner convictions. . . The "old Nixon" didn't make it. Neither did earlier models of the "new Nixon." So now we have "Nixon Mark IV," and as a journalist I suppose it's only fair to say that this latest model might be different and maybe even better in some ways. But as a customer, I wouldn't touch it -- except with a long cattle prod.

At the Baltimore airport I ran into Bob Gover, arriving from New Orleans with a new wife and a big movie camera. Gover is a writer (One Hundred Dollar Misunderstanding, (One Hundred Dollar Misunderstanding, among others), but he's into a film gig now, making a movie of the impending revolution that he thinks will be out in the open before 1970. Not everyone involved in "The Movement" is that optimistic; the timetable varies from six months to four years, but there is near-unanimous agreement that some kind of shattering upheaval will occur before 1972. . . not just riots, or closing down universities, but a violent revolution. among others), but he's into a film gig now, making a movie of the impending revolution that he thinks will be out in the open before 1970. Not everyone involved in "The Movement" is that optimistic; the timetable varies from six months to four years, but there is near-unanimous agreement that some kind of shattering upheaval will occur before 1972. . . not just riots, or closing down universities, but a violent revolution.

This ominous prospect has already cracked the fragile solidarity of the "new left." Until now, the war in Vietnam has been a sort of umbrella-issue, providing a semblance of unity to a mixed bag of anti-war groups with little else in common. The "counter-inaugural" in Washington showed, very clearly, that this alliance is breaking down.

Indeed, the whole scene is polarizing. Wtih Nixon and John Mitch.e.l.l on the Right, drumming for Law and Order. . . and with the Blacks and the Student Left gearing down for Revolution. . . the Center is almost up for grabs. The only centrist-style heavyweight these days is Senator Ted Kennedy, who seems to be playing the same kind of Build and Consolidate game that Richard Nixon perfected in 1966.

Kennedy began to haunt Nixon even before he was sworn in. On Sat.u.r.day, two days before the Inauguration, Teddy dominated local newscasts by unveiling a bust of his murdered brother, Robert, in the courtyard of the Justice Department. Then, two days after the Inaugural, Teddy was the star of a big-name fund raising rally at the Washington Hilton. The idea was to pay off Robert's campaign debts, but a local newspaper columnist said it "looked like the kickoff of Teddy's campaign." The senator, ever-cautious, was quoted in the Washington Post as saying he hadn't picked a Vice President yet, for 1972. Nixon's reaction to this boffo was not reported in the press. The only public comment came from Raoul Duke, a visiting dignitary, who said: "Well. . . n.o.body laughed when Banquo's ghost came to the party. . . and remember the Baltimore Colts."

In any case, the battle is joined. . . Revolution versus the Wave of the Past. Rumors persist that Mr. Nixon remains confident -- for reasons not apparent to anyone under 50, except cops, evangelists and members of the Liberty Lobby. The rest of us will have to start reading fiction again, or maybe build boats. The demands of this growing polarization -- this banshee screaming "Which side are you on?" -- are going to make the Johnson years seem like a Peace Festival. Anybody who thinks Nixon wrote that soothing inaugural speech should remember the name, Ray Price. He is Nixon's Bill Moyers, and -- like Moyers -- a good man to watch for signs of a sinking ship. Price is Nixon's house liberal, and when he quits we can look for that era of b.l.o.o.d.y chaos and streetfighting. . . and perhaps even that Revolution the wild turks on the New Left are waiting for. President Nixon has moved into a vacuum that neither he nor his creatures understand. They are setting up, right now, in the calm eye of a hurricane. . . and if they think the winds have died, they are in for a bad shock.

And so are the rest of us, for we are all in that eye -- even the young militants of the New Left, who are now more disorganized than even the liberal Democrats, who at least have a figurehead. The Washington protest was a bust, despite the claims of the organizers. . . and for reasons beyond mud and rain. Jerry Rubin was right: it was probably "the last demonstration" -- or at least the last one in that older, gentler and once-hopeful context.

On Monday night, around dusk, I went back to the big circus tent that had been the scene, just 20 hours earlier, of MOBE's Counter-Inaugural Ball. On Sunday night the tent had been a mob scene, with thousands of laughing young dissidents smoking gra.s.s and bouncing balloons around in the flashing glare of strobe-lights and rock-music. Phil Ochs was there and Paul Kra.s.sner. . . and Judy Collins sent a telegram saying she couldn't make it but "keep up the fight.". . . the crowd dug it all, and pa.s.sed the hat for a lot of dollars to pay for the tent rental. A casual observer might have thought it was a victory party.

Then, after Nixon's parade, I went back to the tent to see what was happening. . . and it was gone, or at least going. A six-man crew from the Norfolk Tent Co. had taken down everything but the poles and cables. Thick rolls of blue and white canvas lay around in the mud, waiting to be put on a truck and taken back to the warehouse.

As the tent disappeared, piece by piece, young girls with long hair and boys carrying rucksacks drifted by and stopped to watch. They had come back, like me, half-expecting to find something happening. We stood there for a while, next to the Washington Monument. . . n.o.body talking, not even the tent-company crew. . . and then we drifted off in different directions. It was cold, and getting colder. I zipped up my ski jacket and walked fast across the Mall. To my left, at the base of the monument, a group of hippies was pa.s.sing a joint around. . . and off to the right a mile or so away, I could see the bright dome of the Capitol. . . Mr. Nixon's Capitol.

Suddenly I felt cold, and vaguely defeated. More than eight years ago, in San Francisco, I had stayed up all night to watch the election returns. . . and when Nixon went down I felt like a winner.

Now, on this Monday night in 1969, President Nixon was being honored with no less than six Inaugural b.a.l.l.s. I brooded on this for a while, then decided I would go over to the Hilton, later on, and punch somebody. Almost anybody would do. . . but hopefully I could find a police chief from Nashville or some other mean geek. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but go back to the hotel and watch the news on TV. . . maybe something funny, like film clips of the bastinado.

The (Boston) Globe, Globe, February 23, 1969 February 23, 1969

PART 2.

Presenting: The Richard Nixon Doll

(Overhauled 1968 Model)

No interview with Richard Nixon will end until he refers to himself, at least once, as a "political man." His opponents, by implication, are mere "politicians." Especially the man Nixon plans to defeat this November. . . for the Presidency of the United States. Selah.

The major polls and surveys in the country suggest that Nixon may be right, despite the outraged howls of all those voters who insist that a choice between Nixon and Johnson is no choice at all. Sen. Eugene McCarthy has called it "a choice between obscenity and vulgarity." Yet McCarthy is the political heir of Adlai Stevenson, who said that "People get the kind of government they deserve." If this is true, then 1968 is probably the year in which the great American chicken will come home to roost. . . either for good or for ill.

So it was with a sense of morbid curiosity that I went to New England not long ago to check on "the real Richard Nixon." Not necessarily the "new Nixon," or even the newest model of the old "new Nixon," who is known to the press corps that follows him as "Nixon Mark IV." My a.s.signment was to find the man behind all these masks, or maybe to find that there was no mask at all -- that Richard Milhous Nixon, at age 55, was neither more nor less than what he appeared to be -- a plastic man in a plastic bag, surrounded by hired wizards so cautious as to seem almost plastic themselves. . . These political handlers were chosen this time for their coolness and skill for only one job: to see that Richard Nixon is the next President of the United States.

One of the handlers, Henry Hyde, presumably felt I was a threat to the Nixon camp. He called P PAGEANT to check me out. This was after he got into my room somehow -- while I was away, eating breakfast -- and read my typewritten notes. The Nixon people, who wore baggy, dark-colored suits and plenty of greasy kid stuff (they looked like models at an Elks Club style show), seemed to feel I was disrespectful because I was dressed like a ski b.u.m. to check me out. This was after he got into my room somehow -- while I was away, eating breakfast -- and read my typewritten notes. The Nixon people, who wore baggy, dark-colored suits and plenty of greasy kid stuff (they looked like models at an Elks Club style show), seemed to feel I was disrespectful because I was dressed like a ski b.u.m. P PAGEANT rea.s.sured Mr. Hyde as to the purity of my mission and intentions in spite of my appearance. rea.s.sured Mr. Hyde as to the purity of my mission and intentions in spite of my appearance.

Richard Nixon has never been one of my favorite people, anyway. For years I've regarded his very existence as a monument to all the rancid genes and broken chromosomes that corrupt the possibilities of the American Dream; he was a foul caricature of himself, a man with no soul, no inner convictions, with the integrity of a hyena and the style of a poison toad. The Nixon I remembered was absolutely humorless; I couldn't imagine him laughing at anything except maybe a paraplegic who wanted to vote Democratic but couldn't quite reach the lever on the voting machine.

After 1960, though, I no longer took him seriously. Two years later he blew his bid for the governorship of California and made it overwhelmingly clear that he no longer took himself himself seriously -- at least not as a politician. He made a national a.s.s of himself by blaming his defeats on the "biased press." He called a press conference and snarled into the microphone: "You won't have d.i.c.k Nixon to kick around anymore, because, gentlemen, this is my final press conference." seriously -- at least not as a politician. He made a national a.s.s of himself by blaming his defeats on the "biased press." He called a press conference and snarled into the microphone: "You won't have d.i.c.k Nixon to kick around anymore, because, gentlemen, this is my final press conference."

There is no avoiding the fact that Richard Nixon would not be running for President in 1968 if John Kennedy hadn't been a.s.sa.s.sinated five years earlier. . . and if the GOP hadn't nominated Barry Goldwater in 1964. . . which guaranteed the election of Lyndon Johnson, who has since done nearly everything wrong and botched the job so that now even Nixon looks good beside him.

The situation is so obvious that Nixon, "the political man," can't resist it. And who can blame him for taking his luck where he finds it? He's back on the "fast track" that he likes to talk about, with the Presidency to gain and nothing at all to lose. He's obviously enjoying this campaign. It's a bonus, a free shot, his last chance to stand eyeball to eyeball again with the high rollers.

Richard Nixon has been in politics all his life; for 21 years he has rolled about as high as a politician can in this country, and his luck has been pretty good. His instincts are those of a professional gambler who wins more often than he loses; his "skill" is nine parts experience to one part natural talent, and his concept of politics is entirely mechanical.

Nixon is a political technician, and he has hired technicians to help him win this time. As a campaign team, they are formidable. They have old pros, young turks, crippled opponents, and a candidate who once came within an eyelash of beating the late John F. Kennedy.

The "new Nixon" is above anger, and he rarely has time for casual conversation. His staffers explain to the grumbling press that "Mr. Nixon is busy writing tonight's speech." He is grappling in private, as it were, with the subtle contradictions of the Asian mind. (He slipped once in public during a late February trip to Wisconsin. "This country cannot tolerate a long war," he said. "The Asians have no respect for human lives. They don't care about body counts." The implied racial slur was a departure from his carefully conceived campaign oratory.) At one point I asked Ray Price, one of Nixon's chief braintrusters, why the candidate was having such difficulty finding words to echo Dean Rusk's views on Vietnam. Nixon's speeches for the past four nights had been straight out of the Johnson-Rusk handbook on the "domino theory."

Price looked hurt. "Well," he said slowly, "I really wish you'd done your homework on this. Mr. Nixon has gone to a lot of trouble to clarify his views on Vietnam, and I'm only sorry that -- well. . ." He shook his head sadly, as if he couldn't bring himself to chastise me any further on the hallowed premises of a Howard Johnson's motel.

We went to his room, where he dug up a reprint on an article from the October 1967 issue of Foreign Affairs. Foreign Affairs. The t.i.tle was "Asia After Vietnam," and the author was Richard M. Nixon. I was hoping for something more current, but Price was suddenly called off on other business. So I took the article to the bar and went through it several times without finding anything to clear my head. It was thoughtful, articulate, and entirely consistent with the thinking of John Foster Dulles. The t.i.tle was "Asia After Vietnam," and the author was Richard M. Nixon. I was hoping for something more current, but Price was suddenly called off on other business. So I took the article to the bar and went through it several times without finding anything to clear my head. It was thoughtful, articulate, and entirely consistent with the thinking of John Foster Dulles.

I was disappointed with Price -- for the same reason I'd been disappointed all week with Nixon. In various ways they both a.s.sumed that I -- and all the other reporters -- would fail to understand that Nixon was not only being evasive with regard to Vietnam that week but that he was doing it deliberately and for good reason. George Romney's campaign was obviously on its last legs; New Hampshire was sewed up for Nixon, and the best way to maintain that lead was to stay visible and say nothing more controversial than "G.o.d Bless America." Romney tried desperately to provoke an argument, but Nixon ignored every challenge.

Nixon did confess that he had a way to end the war, but he wouldn't tell how. Patriotically he explained why: "No one with this responsibility who is seeking office should give away any of his bargaining positions in advance." (Nixon's wife, Pat, has confidence in his ability to cope with Vietnam. "d.i.c.k would never have let Vietnam drag on like this," she says.) Both Romney and McCarthy had their Manchester headquarters at the Wayfarer, an elegant, woodsy motel with a comfortable bar and the best dining room in the area. Nixon's Holiday Inn command post was on the other side of town, a grim-looking concrete structure. I asked one of Nixon's advisers why they had chosen such a dreary place. "Well," he replied with a smile, "our only other choice was the Wayfarer -- but we left that for Romney when we found out that it's owned by one of the most prominent political operators in the state -- a Democrat, of course." He chuckled. "Yeah, poor George really stepped into that one."

Nixon's pros had won another point; there was nothing newsworthy about it, but those who mattered in the state political hierarchy understood, and they were the people Nixon needed to win New Hampshire. Small victories like this add up to delegates. Even before the votes were counted in New Hampshire, GOP strategists said Nixon had already gathered more than 600 of the 667 votes he would need to win the nomination.

There is no denying his fine understanding of the American political process. I went to New Hampshire expecting to find a braying a.s.s, and I came away convinced that Richard Nixon has one of the best minds in politics. He understands problems very quickly; you can almost hear his brain working when he's faced with a difficult question. He concentrates so visibly that it looks like he's posing, and his answer, when it flows, will nearly always be right, for the situation right, for the situation -- because Nixon's mind is programmed, from long experience, to -- because Nixon's mind is programmed, from long experience, to cope cope with difficult situations. The fact that he often distorts the question -- and then either answers it dishonestly or uses it to change the subject -- is usually lost in the rhetoric. "I'm really better at dialogue," he says, "The question-and-answer format is good for me. I like it on TV. The set speech is one of those things like the Rotary Club luncheon. I can do it, but if I had my druthers, I'd make it all Q and A." The "old Nixon" would argue in public; the "new Nixon" won't. He has learned this lesson well, even if painfully. with difficult situations. The fact that he often distorts the question -- and then either answers it dishonestly or uses it to change the subject -- is usually lost in the rhetoric. "I'm really better at dialogue," he says, "The question-and-answer format is good for me. I like it on TV. The set speech is one of those things like the Rotary Club luncheon. I can do it, but if I had my druthers, I'd make it all Q and A." The "old Nixon" would argue in public; the "new Nixon" won't. He has learned this lesson well, even if painfully.

The "new Nixon" is a very careful man when it comes to publicity; he smiles constantly for the cameras, talks always in friendly plat.i.tudes, and turns the other cheek to any sign of hostility. His press relations are "just fine," he says, and if anyone mentions that "final press conference" he held in 1962, Nixon just smiles and changes the subject. He is making a conscious effort to avoid antagonizing reporters this time, but he is still very leery of them. Nixon takes all his meals in his room, which he never leaves except to rush off to one of his "drills" -- the term he and his staffers use to mean any speech or public appearance. His staffers sometimes join reporters in the bar, but never Nixon. He neither drinks nor smokes, they say, and bars make him nervous. Humphrey Bogart would have taken a dim view of Nixon. It was Bogart who said, "You can't trust a man who doesn't drink." And it was Raoul Duke who said, "I'd never buy a used car from Nixon unless he was drunk."

People who talk like that are not the sort that Nixon likes to have around, especially when he's engaged in something else and can't keep an eye on them. Perhaps this explains why his staffers got so upset when I tried to attend a taping session one afternoon at a TV station in Manchester. Nixon was scheduled to make some television commercials, featuring himself and a group of citizens in a question-and-answer session. The press had not been invited; I wanted to watch Nixon, however, in a relaxed and informal setting.

My request to sit in on the tape session was flatly denied. "This is a commercial commercial taping," said Henry Hyde. "Would Procter & Gamble let you into their studios? Or Ford?" Hyde was a gear and sprocket salesman in Chicago before he became Nixon's press aide, so I wasn't surprised at his weird a.n.a.logy. I merely shrugged and took a cab that afternoon down to the TV station -- half expecting to be thrown out the moment I showed up. This didn't happen, perhaps because a CBS camera crew was already there and muttering darkly about Nixon's refusal to see them. They left shortly after I arrived, but I hung around to see what would happen. taping," said Henry Hyde. "Would Procter & Gamble let you into their studios? Or Ford?" Hyde was a gear and sprocket salesman in Chicago before he became Nixon's press aide, so I wasn't surprised at his weird a.n.a.logy. I merely shrugged and took a cab that afternoon down to the TV station -- half expecting to be thrown out the moment I showed up. This didn't happen, perhaps because a CBS camera crew was already there and muttering darkly about Nixon's refusal to see them. They left shortly after I arrived, but I hung around to see what would happen.

The atmosphere was very sinister. Nixon was off in another room, as usual, rehearsing with his cast. They spent an hour getting all the questions right. Meanwhile Hyde and other staffers took turns watching me. None of them knew who the "citizens" who were to appear on the program were, or who had chosen them. "They're just people who want to ask him questions," said Hyde.

Whoever they were, they were shrouded in great secrecy -- despite the fact that their faces would soon be appearing on local TV screens with monotonous regularity. At one point I was making notes near the studio door when it suddenly flew open and two of Nixon's staffers came at me in a very menacing way. "What are you writing?" snapped one.

"Notes," I said.

"Well, write them on the other side of the room," said the other. "Don't stand around this door."

So I went to the other side of the room and made some more notes about the strange, paranoid behavior that had puzzled me for the past few days. And then I went back to the Holiday Inn and waited for the next "drill."

Nixon's speeches that week are hardly worth mentioning -- except as indisputable proof that the "old Nixon" is still with us. On Vietnam he echoes Johnson: on domestic issues he talks like Ronald Regan. He is a champion of "free enterprise" at home and "peace with honor" abroad. People with short memories say he sounds in speeches like a "milder version of Goldwater," or a "Johnson without a drawl." But those who recall the 1960 campaign know exactly whom he sounds like: Richard Milhous Nixon.

And why shouldn't he? Nixon's political philosophy was formed and tested by the time he became Vice-President of the United States at age 40. It served him well enough for the next eight years, and in 1960 nearly half the voters in the country wanted him to be the next President. This is not the background of a man who would find any serious reason, at age 55, to change his political philosophy.

He has said it himself: "All this talk about 'the new Nixon.' Maybe it's there, but perhaps many people didn't know the old one." He understandably dislikes the implications of the term: The necessity for a "new Nixon" means there must have been something wrong with the old one, and he strongly disputes that notion.

There is probably some truth in what he says, if only to the extent that he will now talk candidly with individual reporters -- especially those from influential papers and magazines. Some of them have discovered to their amazement, that the "private Nixon" is not the monster they'd always a.s.sumed him to be. In private he can be friendly and surprisingly frank, even about himself. This was never the case with the "old Nixon."

So there is no way of knowing if the "private Nixon" was always so different from the public version. We have only his word, and -- well, he is, after all, a politician running for office, and a very shrewd man. After several days of watching his performance in New Hampshire I suspected that he'd taken a hint from Ronald Reagan and hired a public relations firm to give him a new image. Henry Hyde denied this emphatically, "That's not his style," he said. "Mr. Nixon runs his own campaigns. You'd find that out pretty quick if you worked for him."

"That's a good idea," I said. "How about it?"

"What?" he asked humorlessly.

"A job. I could write him a speech that would change his image in twenty-four hours."

Henry didn't think much of the idea. Humor is scarce in the Nixon camp. The staffers tell jokes now and then, but they're not very funny. Only Charley McWhorter, the resident political expert, seems to have a sense of the absurd.

Oddly enough, Nixon himself shows traces of humor. Not often in public, despite his awkward attempts to joke about how bad he looks on television and that sort of thing. ("I understand the skiing is great here," he told one audience. "I've never skied, but" -- he touched his nose -- "I have a personal feeling about it.") Every now and then he will smile spontaneously at something, and it's not the same smile that he beams at photographers.

At one point I had a long conversation with him about pro football. I'd heard he was a fan, and earlier that night in a speech at a Chamber of Commerce banquet he'd said that he'd bet on Oakland in the Super Bowl. I was curious, and since Ray Price had arranged for me to ride back to Manchester in Nixon's car, I took the opportunity to ask him about it. Actually, I suspected that he didn't know football from pig-hustling and that he mentioned it from time to time only because his wizards had told him it would make him seem like a regular guy.

But I was wrong. Nixon knows knows pro football. He'd taken Oakland and six points in the Super Bowl, he said, because Vince Lombardi had told him up in Green Bay that the AFL was much stronger than the sportswriters claimed. Nixon cited Oakland's sustained drive in the second half as evidence of their superiority over the Kansas City team that had challenged the Packers in 1967 and had totally collapsed in the second half. "Oakland didn't fold up," he said. "That second-half drive had Lombardi worried." pro football. He'd taken Oakland and six points in the Super Bowl, he said, because Vince Lombardi had told him up in Green Bay that the AFL was much stronger than the sportswriters claimed. Nixon cited Oakland's sustained drive in the second half as evidence of their superiority over the Kansas City team that had challenged the Packers in 1967 and had totally collapsed in the second half. "Oakland didn't fold up," he said. "That second-half drive had Lombardi worried."

I remembered it, and mentioned the scoring play -- a sideline pa.s.s to an unknown receiver named Bill Miller.

Nixon hesitated for a moment, then smiled broadly and slapped me on the leg. "That's right," he said. "Yes, the Miami boy." I couldn't believe it; he not only knew Miller, but he knew what college he'd played for. It wasn't his factual knowledge of football that stunned me; it was his genuine interest in the game. "You know," he said, "the worst thing about campaigning, for me, is that it ruins my whole football season. I'm a sports buff, you know. If I had another career, I'd be a sportscaster -- or a sportswriter."

I smiled and lit a cigarette. The scene was so unreal that I felt like laughing out loud -- to find myself zipping along a New England freeway in a big yellow car, being chauffeured around by a detective while I relaxed in the back seat and talked about football with my old buddy d.i.c.k Nixon, the man who came within 100,000 votes of causing me to flee the country in 1960. I was on the verge of mentioning this to him, but just then we came to the airport and drove out on the runway, where his chartered Lear Jet was waiting to zap him off to the wild blue yonder of Miami for a "think session" with his staff. (There he rises early and works a 20-hour day. He skimps on food -- breakfast is juice, cereal, and milk; lunch is a sandwich, and dinner might be roast beef or steak, which he often doesn't finish -- and keeps his weight at a constant 175 pounds. He swims some, suns a lot, yet rarely seems to stop working. "I'll say this -- he has enough stamina to be President," says William P. Rogers, an old friend. "He has the most stamina of any man I have ever known.") We talked for a while beside the plane, but by that time I'd thought better of saying anything rude or startling. It had been exceptionally decent of him to give me a ride and an hour of his time, so I controlled the almost irresistible urge to gig him on his embryonic sense of humor.

It was almost midnight when the sleek little plane boomed down the runway and lifted off toward Florida. I went back to the Holiday Inn and drank for a while with Nick Ruwe, the chief advance man for New Hampshire.

"I almost had a heart attack tonight when I looked over and saw you poking around that jet engine with a cigarette in your mouth," Ruwe said. He shook his head in disbelief. "My G.o.d, what a nightmare!"

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't realize I was smoking."

But I remembered leaning on the wing of the plane, an arm's length away from the fully loaded fuel tank. Somebody should have mentioned the cigarette, I thought, and the fact that n.o.body did makes me wonder now if Nixon's human machinery is really as foolproof as it seems to be. Or perhaps they all noticed I was smoking and -- like Ruwe -- said nothing at all.

Or perhaps that's beside the point. Senator McCarthy's success in New Hampshire can hardly be attributed to the hard-nosed professionalism of his staff. . . and in his broader context the Nixon campaign seems flawed. There is a cynicism at the core of it, the confident a.s.sumption that success in politics depends more on shrewd technique than on the quality of the product. The "old Nixon" didn't make it. Neither did earlier models of the "new Nixon." So now we have "Nixon Mark IV," and as a journalist I suppose it's only fair to say that this latest model might be different and maybe even better in some ways. But as a customer, I wouldn't touch it -- except with a long cattle prod.

Granted, the "new Nixon" is more relaxed, wiser, more mellow. But I recognize the man who told a student audience at the University of New Hampshire that one of his biggest problems in politics has always been "that I'm not a good actor, I can't be phony about it, I still refuse to wear makeup. . ." Three weeks later this same man, after winning the New Hampshire primary, laughingly attributed his victory to the new makeup he'd been wearing. He thought he was being funny -- at least on one level -- but on another level he was telling the absolute truth.

Pageant, July 1968 July 1968

Author's Note

Dawn is coming up in San Francisco now: 6:09 A.M. I can hear the rumble of early morning buses under my window at the Seal Rock Inn. . . out here at the far end of Geary Street: this is the end of the line, for buses and everything else, the western edge of America. From my desk I can see the dark jagged hump of "Seal Rock" looming out of the ocean in the grey morning light. About two hundred seals have been barking out there most of the night. Staying in this place with the windows open is like living next to a dog pound. Last night we had a huge paranoid poodle up here in the room, and the dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d went totally out of control when the seals started barking -- racing around the room like a chicken hearing a pack of wolves outside the window, howling I can hear the rumble of early morning buses under my window at the Seal Rock Inn. . . out here at the far end of Geary Street: this is the end of the line, for buses and everything else, the western edge of America. From my desk I can see the dark jagged hump of "Seal Rock" looming out of the ocean in the grey morning light. About two hundred seals have been barking out there most of the night. Staying in this place with the windows open is like living next to a dog pound. Last night we had a huge paranoid poodle up here in the room, and the dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d went totally out of control when the seals started barking -- racing around the room like a chicken hearing a pack of wolves outside the window, howling & & whining, leaping up on the bed & scattering my book-galley pages all over the floor, knocking the phone off the hook, upsetting the gin bottles, trashing my carefully organized stacks of campaign photographs. . . off to the right of this typewriter, on the floor between the beds. I can see an 8x10 print of Frank Mankiewicz yelling into a telephone at the Democratic Convention in Miami; but that one will never be used, because the G.o.dd.a.m.n hound put five big claw-holes in the middle of Frank's chest. whining, leaping up on the bed & scattering my book-galley pages all over the floor, knocking the phone off the hook, upsetting the gin bottles, trashing my carefully organized stacks of campaign photographs. . . off to the right of this typewriter, on the floor between the beds. I can see an 8x10 print of Frank Mankiewicz yelling into a telephone at the Democratic Convention in Miami; but that one will never be used, because the G.o.dd.a.m.n hound put five big claw-holes in the middle of Frank's chest.