Clinton & Co-



By Tony Kornheiser



Sunday, June 23 1996; Page F01

The Washington Post 



As you can see from today's front page, Bob Woodward, the Michael Jordan of American

journalism, has another book out. Like Mike, this guy operates on a whole different level

from the rest of us. His last book, "The Agenda," delivered a detailed autopsy of the Clinton

administration, based on hundreds of sources and thousands of documents -- and reached

America's bookstores roughly an hour after the inauguration. This time he has created the

first-ever history of a presidential campaign published BEFORE THE CANDIDATES

HAVE EVEN BEEN NOMINATED!



I will admit to an occasional fantasy about being Bob Woodward. He is the best-selling

nonfiction writer since Moses. He uses hundred-dollar bills for coasters. He has more people

wanting to confess to him than the pope. Redford played him in the movies. (I'd probably get

Newman. No, not Paul Newman -- Newman, the fat schlub on "Seinfeld.")



I'm starting this column with Woodward because it's about Watergate. (Otherwise I'd have

started by lampooning John Feinstein.) Let's face it: You can't be Woodward without

Watergate. That got the whole ball rolling. So I put my little fantasies aside because, after all,

there'll never be another Watergate.



Or so I thought . . . 



Then, just the other day, I saw the magic words -- "unindicted co-conspirator" -- on the front

page of The Washington Post. Be still, my ink-stained heart.



Some folks are partial to stirring words like "a date which will live in infamy." Or "Old soldiers

never die, they just fade away." Or even "Who put the bomp in the

bomp-ba-bomp-ba-bomp?"



Give me "unindicted co-conspirator" every time.



It has gravitas. It has resonance. It has everyone at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. running for the

Kaopectate.



Oh, sure, call me a hopeless romantic, call me a nostalgic fool -- just don't call me late for the

hearings. Hahahaha.



The unindicted co-conspirator in this case is Bruce R. Lindsey, who is identified as "one of

President Clinton's closest confidants."



Whoops!



I don't want to say this too loudly, because Whitewater is nothing at all like Watergate.

Nothing at all. Watergate was simple to understand. It was about a bunch of insane

commando wannabes with masks and burglary tools who ate rats and stuck their heads in

Bunsen burners, and went on to become evangelists and talk radio hosts.



Whitewater, on the other hand, well, nobody understands Whitewater. Is it a land deal? Is it

a savings and loan deal? Is it like Travelgate? Is it like Filegate? Does it have anything to do

with Paula Jones? Hmmm, there appears to be some, uh, luggage in this administration,

doesn't there? (There's this eerie pattern of things turning up in the Clinton White House years

after people began looking for them. Any day now I expect a maid to discover D.B. Cooper

in Chelsea's hope chest.)



Yes, the Clinton administration finally has its own unindicted co-conspirator. But it's

premature to suggest that we can begin watching for a helicopter on the White House lawn

and somebody waving goodbye. So even though it seems that everyone in Arkansas who

ever shook hands with the Clintons is heading off to the pokey, keep reminding yourself:

Whitewater is nothing at all like Watergate, nothing at all.



Watergate had such colorful characters. Remember Martha Mitchell, calling reporters at all

hours of the night to blab about the Nixon people? Remember Mo Dean, certified babe,

sitting at the hearings as cool as the underside of the pillow? Who does Clinton have to match

that, Donna Shalala?



Woodward had a secret source, code name Deep Throat. These days, everything is so bland

and PC, the source would have to be called Safe Sex.



Which reminds me -- did you see my second-favorite news item of the week? It seems a

Hungarian man, Ferenc Kovacs, has invented the singing condom. And you thought romance

was dead! The condom uses technology familiar to anyone who has received a musical

greeting card: a tiny computer chip plays a melody as the condom is "unfurled."



Unfurled? Who is this condom for, Mr. Ed? Anyway, the condoms play either "Arise, Ye

Worker," an old communist ditty, or "You Sweet Little Dumbbell," a rocker, I assume, from

the Hungarian hit parade.



I know what you're thinking: "Oooooh, I want one." We all do. Nothing enhances the mood

like music. But we need a better jukebox for this baby if it's going to get, uh, large in

America. A man might want his condom to play "Up, up and away in my beautiful balloon."

It's possible a woman may prefer "I hear you knocking but you can't come in." Given the,

shall I say, expanding serenading-condom market, a soulful, lust-soaked singer like Barry

White picked the perfect time for a comeback.



Barry's first career, you may recall, was going strong back in those glorious summers of 1973

and 1974, when first the Senate and then the House held Watergate hearings. (How's that for

a segue?) Remember Sam Ervin's eyebrows? Man, you could plant corn in those things.

Remember "At this point in time I have no recollection, Senator"? Remember the 18

1/2-minute gap? Wow, I feel like Don Kirshner bringing back the golden oldies. C'mon

everybody, put your hands together for Egil Krogh and the Plumbers!



This time, all we've got is Al "I Have Some Friends Who Will Break Your Kneecaps if You

Don't Answer My Question" D'Amato, and poor Bruce R. Lindsey. Personally, I'm not sure

that Bruce R. Lindsey -- whoever he is -- rates being an unindicted co-conspirator. Shouldn't

you save a distinction like that for someone special?



Calling Kenneth Starr: Bill Clinton has a lot of friends; I'm begging you, just give me one

major name in the next criminal trial. Please, please, make it "Streisand." 



© Copyright 1996 The Washington Post Company