Of course he’d deny it, a mere ampersand in his elephantine self-tribute to presidential hunk-hood of a memoir. But somewhere between the historical bookends of his initially denied, ah, tryst-fest with Monica Lewinski, and his initially denied, although quite possible, um, affair with Gennifer Flowers, I might have had my own date with Bill Clinton.
Hey, I don’t usually punctuate and tell.
I’m taking the high road here. So those delectable, dishy details really don’t concern me. And yet, speculation is soooo deliciously addictive, isn’t it?
Right up front, I must postulate I’m not an outright bad girl and have not now nor ever owned a pair of kneepads. Though admittedly, way back, I may have exhibited certain slightly waywardly flirtatious tendencies in my former celebrity interviewer career as a journalist for the mainstream media. Although I have repented, I concede it previously led me to pursue stories, or their subjects, in an overly assiduous manner some would now consider stalking.
If you get a crush on a news source, should you reveal it in the confessional, or call a priest and receive extreme unction?
Perhaps I’m better now. Years of therapy with the pseudonymous “Dr. Meg Briggs” have somewhat helped me put men back in their proper perspective: no longer objects of worship, and certainly not prone, but as home improvement gurus, traffic cops, lipless world leaders itching for war and conquest and, most important, essential adjuncts to computer peripherals with overly complex consumer manuals.
After Bill Clinton’s publishers proclaimed the ex-prez would flog “My Life,” his multi-million-dollar blockbuster memoir, at a Costco in Washington state, I’m waiting for him to suddenly show up, unannounced and very soon, at Trader Joe’s in downtown Philly.
Be still my heart!
But first a few words about what these cut-rate promotional pit stops mean to America and, yes, to you, dear readers.
Costco, a wholesale chain once labeled “a cathedral of consumption,” offers self-service, no-frills warehouses crammed with deeply discounted products – both national brands and private label – to armadas of everyday shoppers paying modest membership fees starting at $45 to share the plunder. Couple Costco’s plebeian cachet with Clinton’s phenomenal popularity and you have a major marketing event.
Never before has an ex-presidential personage hawked his books in such populist surroundings – the company reputedly beginning 25 years ago in a San Diego airplane hangar. Can you imagine Bill Clinton competing with cardboard flats of fluffy Kirkland toilet paper?
I guess you can.
Costco’s website, however, does carry pricey and prestigious Mont Blanc pens for $89, so maybe Clinton’s appearance is a harbinger of upscaling their inventory.
Anyway, I fantasize standing kind of hypnotized outside Trader Joe’s to see Bill C., though naturally, I can’t get in because lines snake their way around the block and up Market Street almost all the way to City Hall, where beleaguered Mayor John Street poignantly rehearses his trademark greeting in the mirror: “I have a surprise announcement to make – I am having a great day.”
While some say Costco appeals to the overfed smorgasbord crew who crave quantity over quality, Trader Joe’s adventurous groceries have a more exotic flair. I can personally recommend their Chai teabags.
But I digress.
No, my alleged date with Bill C. wasn’t during those two not especially torrid months “Philadelphia Weekly” editor Tim Whitaker claims the maritally challenged Bubba spent on the couch while his husbandhood to Hillary was being, um, reconfigured: “… Like getting hit with a frying pan or a rolling pin, being forced to sleep on the couch happens all the time in America. It must. You see it all the time in comic strips. It’s a uniquely American thing,” writes Whitaker. “It’s probably a safe bet that men in the Muslim world are rarely told to get their raggedy [rumps] out of the bedroom and onto the couch.”
Like any author, I need an economic incentive to crank up the bittersweet memories. The past is such a cruel taskmaster and mine has temporarily flown south to Saratoga, er, Sarasota. Nor will I list the others, if he did, or does, have others. Have you noticed that new book-signing photo of him with that odd multicolor bracelet? Remember the tie he used to wear as a secret signal to his illicit paramour?
Stop that!
OK, I’m still not warmed up enough to spill. Look, even if you’re hooked, don’t ask me for particulars, not until you send that multi-million-dollar book contract!
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WND Staff