One of my readers (not you--the other reader) asked me why I haven't written yet about the Porter Goss resignation and the seemingly related scandal involving prostitutes, wild parties, bribery, felons, limousines, Congressmen, spies, cigars, and "hospitality suites" in the Watergate Hotel. (Did I leave anything out?)
As my friend pointed out, the story has all the subjects that he thought would interest me: "Bribes, Babes, and Booze." (Okay--two out of three ain't bad.) And, hell, if they could make a sequel to that other Seventies classic, The Poseidon Adventure, I suppose Watergate: Part Duke wouldn't require too much imagination.
I have a reasonable excuse for my neglect: It turns out it's very difficult to type while you're constantly hitting the refresh button. But one thing has been irking me while I've been gaping at my monitor like William Bennett in front of a slot machine:
What is it with straight men and their nicknames?
"Dusty"? (What--the name "Foggo" wasn't enough for him? My family's poodle was named Dusty, for Chrissake.)
And, holy crap, "Nine Fingers"? (I wonder what kind of discount he got at those parties.)
For pure camp value, these names--well, they suck.
Listen up, men: The Fifties aren't even retro anymore. Our hardworking agents in the intelligence community deserve immediate upgrades for their sobriquets, and I'm more than happy to suggest a few to whoever succeeds Mr. Goss: Willie Poker... Cassian Carey... Mokha Montrese... Tequila Mockingbird... Linda Tripp...
I'm sure we can get John Waters to direct the movie.