Sexual Congress

DOUGLAS McGRATH adds some new entries to the diary of Bob Packwood, the senator who loves to love too much

November 2, 1993. I want to say something which I believe is true: life is never so unfair as when it's unfair to me. Today, the Senate subpoenaed my diaries. Now everyone and his brother will be pawing over my innermost thoughts and feelings. On the plus side, Carol Moseley-Braun also voted to read my diaries. I think that's her way of saying, "Hey, Senator, I want to get to know you better."

I still feel a need to keep a record of my life as a legislator and a man. So I bought a blankbook and on the cover I wrote, "Painful Choices We Must Make to Balance the Budget." My thoughts should be safe here. Even if Congress finds it, no one will read it.

(Note to myself: Always hide this diary behind the bottle of good scotch, in case someone comes over—and hide the bottle of good scotch behind the bottle of cheap scotch, in case they want a drink.)

November 5, 1993. Tonight PBS had that timber special I've been waiting for, so I put on my nice soft sweats and got all comfy in bed. (Note to myself: November 4, 1993. I left the office early today. It's become awful there. Hostile faxes pour in without stop. The machine got so hot that one of the secretaries burned her hand on it. I offered to lick it and make it feel better, but she went to the hospital instead.

Drove home and tried to work out answers to some of these ridiculous charges. Here's what I came up with:

The charge: I grabbed a woman by her ponytail, stepped on her toes, and forcibly kissed her.

My response: "If I hadn't stepped on her feet, I might have knocked her over backward with what may have been the unexpected advance of my tongue into her mouth. By anchoring her toes to the ground and securing her head, I supported her, just as I have supported women's groups for years."

The charge: I attempted to take off a volunteer's girdle.

My response: "Hey, she was a volunteer. "

Only 22 more to go. Diary is beginning to show behind scotch bottle. From now on, hide it behind the Southern Comfort.)

I guess I'm just worn out by all the stress because I passed out right at the climax of an exciting section on soil erosion. When I woke up, everything was fuzzy and then I think there was a Mark Russell special on. Usually I like him—he's so cutting-edge—but, to my horror, he was singing new words to "Old Man River."

Old man Packwood!

He hurt his back good!

By making passes

At female masses

He once wowed Steinem

But she's not be-hein him no more!

November 9, 1993. I guess I'm not a total outcast! I had a meeting in the Oval Office with President Clinton. He said that if I voted for NAFTA he would sign an executive order making sexual harassment by any five-term senator from Oregon legal. Gergen looked up and slapped him. Clinton apologized and took the offer back.

On my way back to the Senate, I saw one of my former staffers on the Capitol steps. When she saw me, she screamed and ran the other way. It was pretty obvious that she wanted me to chase her. I didn't, but do you think the press gave me any credit for that?

November 10, 1993. Last week I called President Bush to ask if he'd make a statement in my defense and tonight he left a message on my machine. He said, "Hey, O.K., yeah, no, let's listen up there, Woodpacker. Listen and learn. The Bush ears can tell that you're in a help-needing mode. I'm a—you're a harassment-wrapped-up kind of guy. So let me help you out there sympathywise: Know the feeling. Ducked my share of sticks and arrows till the failed governor of a small state took the Bush parking place at the White House. And so, but, yes. I'll send a statement, as well as a thankyou note for asking me. This is the first ring on the Bush phone since Yeltsie was a little over-Smimoffed one night and called by mistake. Well, Woodpacker, love to Chattanooga, but better rip-cord this. Bar seems to be choking on a leg of lamb.''

November 11, 1993. At the office, the hate mail keeps coming. I looked into the mailroom and they were warming nachos on the fax machine. One of the faxes was from Anne Frank's greatniece. She said I was a disgrace to diaries. Asked me to call her so she could yell at me live. Maybe I will. Her handwriting turned me on.

I did have a nice message from William Kennedy Smith. He said that when he was on trial his lawyer advised him to get a dog to soften his image. He said he wasn't sure if that would help me, given that the odds against me are so large. Recommended I get a pony.

November 12, 1993. Alan Dershowitz called. He told me he wanted to serve as a mediator between me and the Senate—indeed, between me and the whole country. I asked him who would pay. He said he would bill me, the other 99 senators, and every citizen of the United States. "I'm helping all sides,'' he said, "so I should be paid by all sides." I said no thanks. He said fine, he'd only wanted to help and he'd bill me for the call. I said, "But you called me/" He said, "Hey, you picked up!"

(Note to myself: Diary is beginning to show behind Southern Comfort. From now on, hide it behind peach schnapps.)

November 13, 1993. Is there no sanctuary? I went to morning services to ask God to give me strength, and at the end of "Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee" the choir spotted me and started booing.

November 16, 1993. Things get worse and worse. I had my pollster do a poll and these were the results:

• 66 percent said I should resign.

• 34 percent said I shouldn't resign, but only because they didn't want to be denied the pleasure of my impeachment.

I feel completely under siege. I was watching Nightline last night and Janet Reno was saying, "If the impasse with Packwood goes on much longer, we should go in and seize the diaries. If he lights his house on fire, that's not our fault! But we've got to act! Babies might be being abused!"

I did not become a senator for this. If I wanted the whole country to be angry with me, I would have become president.

The whole thing had me so agitated that I left the office and walked the city for hours. Around midnight I saw the lights were on in Mitchell's office, so I decided to go up. When I went in, he, Kennedy, Nunn, Helms, and some pages were playing Nude Twister. Strom Thurmond had been playing too but his leg had locked and they'd moved him to a comer.

What a great bunch of guys. Even though they said they couldn't help me, they were really sympathetic. Helms said, "All this fuss is caused by high taxes on tobacco! Folks stop smoking and they can't think straight!" Kennedy said, "Jesse, left foot, green!" Nunn said that he'd help me get into the navy if I promised not to harass any males. Kennedy said, "George, right hand, red!" Mitchell said I'd have to resign because it wasn't about politics anymore, it was about the honor of the Senate. Kennedy said, "Stop stalling, George, and get your hand on red. There's only one way to get there, and if Jesse can't handle it, that's his problem."

Went home and started feeling better. (Note to myself: Diary is beginning to show behind Aqua Velva. Either need to get taller bottles or a shorter diary.)

November 23, 1993. Congress is adjourning for the holidays, so, to cheer myself up, I went Christmas shopping. Let's just say my spirits weren't lifted at the mall. There's a Bob Packwood doll on sale. You press a button in the back and its tongue falls out. The slogan says, "You don't squeeze the doll. It squeezes you." It comes with a humiliating set of accessories: motel keys, a little diary, and a lawyer.

It's just not fair. I've worked so hard for women. I stood up to Reagan on abortion. I fought for laws to make life better for all women. I'm not saying I'm perfect, but I think my qualities as a legislator outweigh my deficiencies as a man. To put it in the most extreme terms, let's say I made a woman have sex with me against her will and I got her pregnant. Thanks to my legislative work, she could get an abortion!

I've learned my lesson: You can embrace women's causes, but not the women in them. Now that I understand this, I shouldn't have to resign. The subpoena for my diaries is totally unconstitutional. It represents a flagrant invasion of my privacy, and if anyone knows about invading privacy, it's me.

I will not give up. I will fight this all the way to the Supreme Court. I know I can count on at least one vote there.