Impenitent
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- Oct 5, 2013
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Excerpt from Bob Woodward's Autobiography, "A Modern Prometheus" (reprinted without permission)
The Watergate Complex of D.C. was the watering hole for old politicians on the Hill and misfit over-the-hill celebrities, whose countenance and character ran counter to the youth counter-culture characterizing the Vietnam era. That fateful Fall of 1971, I attended a high-end Halloween Grand Ballroom bash in the Watergate Hotel, hosted by Alfred "Maven-of-the-Macabre" Hitchcock.
Intriguing my interest, a mad scientist stood out among the ghoulish ghouls and vampish vampires, seemingly outside his element, with spiraling orbs for eyes and an electric blue aura dancing about his otherwise level head.
Magnetically pulled to him, I introduced myself to no other than Timothy Leary.
(And no, he wasn't aware this was a Halloween party; otherwise, he would have come in costume!)
He enlightened me that beneath their dramatic masquerade, masking this eclectic collection of clowns, these stuffed-shirt organization men were obviously oblivious to the kaleidoscope of life: Never tuned in, never turned on, but couldn't drop out!
Entreating me to join him, he handed me two dangerously deceptive harmless-looking pills. Leary glided over to the sycophants surrounding Hitchcock, covering thirty feet with one backwards step, which looking forward was "moonwalking," like God on Earth defying not only gravity but time and space itself! We fortuitously arrived as Hitchcock issued a formidable formal challenge (as hefty and tall an order as he was around the middle) to write a mystery novel of deep delight, adding, "Follow the money!"
As groupies oohed and aahed while a creep donning a Nixon mask slow-roasted his own hand over a lighted candle, my date-for-the-night, aspiring actress Linda Lovelace, an astronomical beauty not yet a full-blown star, suddenly gagged, remembering her early shoot the next day, and begged to leave to rehearse. In departing, my newfound friend palmed me more pills, saying, "Stay tuned in! Stay turned on! Enjoy!"
Author's Note:
Epilogue:
''...this story formed in my mind: It should appear dictated to me--but by whom?--by God?--by my neighbor's dog? No, it must be a tale woven by an anonymous being with credibility somehow impervious to impeachment! I felt for a name, but only a lump, deep in my throat, was felt."
The Watergate Complex of D.C. was the watering hole for old politicians on the Hill and misfit over-the-hill celebrities, whose countenance and character ran counter to the youth counter-culture characterizing the Vietnam era. That fateful Fall of 1971, I attended a high-end Halloween Grand Ballroom bash in the Watergate Hotel, hosted by Alfred "Maven-of-the-Macabre" Hitchcock.
Intriguing my interest, a mad scientist stood out among the ghoulish ghouls and vampish vampires, seemingly outside his element, with spiraling orbs for eyes and an electric blue aura dancing about his otherwise level head.
Magnetically pulled to him, I introduced myself to no other than Timothy Leary.
(And no, he wasn't aware this was a Halloween party; otherwise, he would have come in costume!)
He enlightened me that beneath their dramatic masquerade, masking this eclectic collection of clowns, these stuffed-shirt organization men were obviously oblivious to the kaleidoscope of life: Never tuned in, never turned on, but couldn't drop out!
Entreating me to join him, he handed me two dangerously deceptive harmless-looking pills. Leary glided over to the sycophants surrounding Hitchcock, covering thirty feet with one backwards step, which looking forward was "moonwalking," like God on Earth defying not only gravity but time and space itself! We fortuitously arrived as Hitchcock issued a formidable formal challenge (as hefty and tall an order as he was around the middle) to write a mystery novel of deep delight, adding, "Follow the money!"
As groupies oohed and aahed while a creep donning a Nixon mask slow-roasted his own hand over a lighted candle, my date-for-the-night, aspiring actress Linda Lovelace, an astronomical beauty not yet a full-blown star, suddenly gagged, remembering her early shoot the next day, and begged to leave to rehearse. In departing, my newfound friend palmed me more pills, saying, "Stay tuned in! Stay turned on! Enjoy!"
Author's Note:
Epilogue:
''...this story formed in my mind: It should appear dictated to me--but by whom?--by God?--by my neighbor's dog? No, it must be a tale woven by an anonymous being with credibility somehow impervious to impeachment! I felt for a name, but only a lump, deep in my throat, was felt."
