Another nematode dining off the fat intestine of world events, Dan Rather is. Believe me, the iron jockey on your front lawn has more native wit and imagination. And Rather, hand him credit, may have known this about himself. So, like a nostril-pierced rockgroup roadie, he took service with war, disaster, and daily great men, to draw some residual significance from them. Could be he may even outlast them all, this hanger-on of death and crisis, his personal ember gives off such small heat.
Here, at the 92nd Street YMHA, Rather has met with friendly interlocutor Jeff Greenfield in a public dialogue. Extempore, Rather is nervous. He probably had a Teleprompter at his wedding. His handsomeness seems gasripened: each feature an ideal library shot, put together in the splicing room. His eternal seriousness worn like some attractive latex scar. Son of a smalltown Texas manual laborer, Rather took every available assignment—local reporter, London, Vietnam, White House, Afghanistan—on the CBS corporate upgo to chief news anchor and managing editor. With sincerity that might approximate sordidness. Humble now as only someone earning more than $2 million per year can afford to be.
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