Editor's
note: These are remarks from a dinner honoring Robert L. Bartley,
October 17.
 hen
my father asked me to be on the program I happily agreed, for I feel
that it is now safe for the world to know about the Other Bob Bartley.
Not Bob Bartley, the great writer of editorials, or Bob Bartley, the
scourge of liberals, or Bob Bartley, the 34-year-old wunderkind, but
— as the character Max Bialystock in the movie and play The
Producersput it — "the Führer with a song in his
heart."
I first met
Bob at the National Review anniversary dinner in 1985. At
this grand occasion — attended by President Ronald Reagan,
blessings be upon his name — I found that I would be seated
next to him. When I noticed this placement on the program, I was
overcome with nervousness. I had worked in the previous years in
the White House, where the Wall Street Journal editorial
pages were taken as Holy Scripture, and now I was about to have
several hours of close proximity to The Great Bob Bartley.
In something very close to panic, I sought guidance during the cocktail
hour from someone I knew who was close to him personally. What was
he like? I asked. What topics of conversation should I pursue? Did
he have any hobbies? This person, who shall remain nameless, but
whom, at the time, I underestimated, took in my distress and suavely
replied, "Oh, not to worry. He's casual as can be. A great
one for small talk. And he loves — loves — above
all things in life — a really good off-color joke. As for hobbies,
not many people know about it, but he has this thing for soap opera.
He tapes them and watches them at night. He has an encyclopedic
knowledge of As the World Turns and Guiding Light.
Get him going on soap opera and you'll have to stuff a napkin in
his mouth to shut him up."
I was greatly
relieved by this intelligence. I would be spending the dinner hour
not only with one of the great minds of our time, but also, clearly,
with a regular guy, a man of the common touch. Indeed I found myself
wishing I knew more about soap opera. Presently I found myself at
Table 38 with the great man. I found him entirely pleasant, if not
quite the bubbly small-talker I had been told to expect. Perhaps
it had been a hard day at the office. So I awaited my chance. As
soon as my wife and Edith Bartley were engaged in their own conversation,
I leaned over and said, "So, how many lesbians does it take
to screw in a light bulb?"
His reception
of my little jeu d'esprit seemed somewhat muted. I put it
down to the acoustics of the Grand Ballroom. When the main course
had been served, I seized my chance to engage him in something I
knew to be close to his heart. And in full hearing of all at the
table said, "So, Bob, I hear you're a great aficionado of soap
opera. Do you think Susan Lucci will finally win a daytime Emmy
this year?" Again his response struck me as muted. Indeed,
quite so. He looked at me owlishly, with an expression of seven-eighths
disdain and one-eighth contempt, as if he had been suddenly thrust
into the company of someone prematurely released from an asylum
for the mentally feeble. My wife, who at the time worked for the
CIA and was adept at evaluating disastrous situations, kicked me
under the table.
Thus began
— and ended — my long personal association with Robert
Bartley. After the dinner was over, I sought out the person who
had given me the pre-dinner briefing. I found him hiding in a bathroom
stall, convulsed in hysterics.
I shot him,
and disposed of the body in what is now the Meadowlands Sports Complex.
And yet as
I look back upon it, I'm somewhat grateful to the fellow. If he
hadn't given me that meretricious briefing, I probably would have
attempted to engage the Great Man conversationally in such matters
as the Laffer Curve, the conquest of Grenada, or David Stockman.
And no doubt he would have found my offerings on those banal, if
somewhat less alarming than the conversation I ended up offering
him. This way I can at least look back and say that for a brief,
if not shining, moment, I had the whole of Robert Bartley's attention.
We connected. If he himself has no recollection of it — having
put it out of his mind long ago — I do, a vivid one, and it
remains somehow one of the great moments of my life, rococo, improbable,
proud.
Thus the theme
of my toast to him. I feel like the tumbler in the medieval tale
who, amidst all the wise and scholarly monks, had only his one small
talent to offer up, and performed his humble and awkward obeisance.
But seldom do I get the chance to play the fool so gladly, or with
such awe and respect.
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