The Solomon Scandals A Washington newspaper novel by David Rothman

3Jun/104

Sally Quinn, snobbery and the Mink Stole Ladies Syndrome

image Wash­ing­ton is full of peo­ple telling oth­ers how to live their lives or at least wish­ing they could. Same for the media world. I call it the Mink Stole Ladies Syn­drome, based on a party scene in The Solomon Scan­dals from the D.C. of sev­eral decades ago.

Sally Ster­ling Quinn, with her judg­men­tal dis­sec­tions of social-climbers such as the late Steve Mar­tin­dale, isn’t entirely inno­cent (nor am I, since this post is a bit of a Catch-22).

Hav­ing enter­tained for eons on the George­town party cir­cuit, not to men­tion all her media work, Ms. Quinn prob­a­bly has com­mit­ted her own share of solid-gold gaffes. She might admit to as much. On top of every­thing else, her rela­tions with her stepchil­dren have been Katrina-stormy at times.

But could cri­tiques of Ms. Quinn’s life, in Van­ity Fair, Gawker and else­where, be a lit­tle over the top—complete with Gawker’s high-schoolish head­line, “Sally Quinn Is a Creep”?

imageEven the Van­ity Fair writer, Evge­nia Peretz, acknowl­edges the obvi­ous; yes, Ms. Quinn has been a hyper-dedicated mother toward Quinn Bradlee, who suf­fers from learn­ing dis­abil­i­ties. She could eas­ily have fol­lowed an expert’s advice and have locked him up in an insti­tu­tion, free­ing many thou­sands of extra hours for her jour­nal­ism and enter­tain­ing. On top of that, despite all the time Ms. Peretz must have lav­ished on her highly read­able pro­file of Ms. Quinn, do we know the full story of the soci­ety doyenne’s rela­tions with the stepchil­dren? Fam­i­lies can mys­tify and sur­prise even friends. Con­sider the sep­a­ra­tion of Al and Tip­per Gore. Remem­ber? The Gores’ mar­riage would last for­ever, while the Clin­tons would race to the courts for a divorce  the very nanosec­ond Bill left the White House.

imageI’d also cau­tion the media against the reflex­ive dis­missals of Ms. Quinn as a pure elit­ist snob. There is that side of her, granted, and Sally-haters have even sum­moned upcom­par­i­son between Ms. Quinn and Marie Antoinette, who, like her, glo­ried in the rural life or, as the crit­ics might put it, the syn­thetic rus­tic. But wait. The ulti­mate elit­ist wouldn’t blog for the Wash­ing­ton Post and write party tips for the masses; do you really think Ms. Quinn is the same as Washington’s old cave-dwellers? What’s more, con­sider her enthu­si­as­tic approval of Quinn’s engage­ment to a yoga instruc­tor named Pary Williamson (photo). For all I know, maybe Ms. Williamson is a Vas­sar hon­ors grad­u­ate born to blue-blooded mil­lion­aires. But buried in the Van­ity Fair arti­cle are a few facts that sug­gest oth­er­wise: “While some observers ques­tion Pary’s motives—she seemed to appear out of nowhere and is said to have had a hard­scrab­ble life—those who know her dis­agree. ‘She really is a very upbeat, very exu­ber­ant, sweet, nice per­son and believes in all the spir­i­tual val­ues of yoga and all that stuff,’ says one of her stu­dents. ‘The whole idea of your life lived out in pub­lic is not her style at all.’”

image Let’s decode that, or try to. What does Ms. Peretz mean by “hard­scrab­ble life”? That like most other small-business peo­ple, Ms. Williamson has had to strug­gle? That she might actu­ally come from a mere middle-class back­ground or, gasp, even below? If so, the facts would not jibe very well with the image of Ms. Quinn as an unmit­i­gated snob. Granted, Ms. Williamson is an instruc­tor to such lumi­nar­ies as David Gre­gory, Rahm Emanuel and Katharine Wey­mouth, but who’s to say her con­nec­tions will endure for­ever? Might Sally Quinn’s eager­ness to do the right thing for her son have beaten out snob­bery? Based on what I’ve read, I think so. Quinn Bradlee has writ­ten of his family’s prepa­ra­tions for his life after his elderly par­ents die. If the pub­lic­ity is right—I can’t say—Ms. Williamson will be a part­ner rather than a mere “caretaker.”

While Ms. Quinn’s rela­tions with parts of her extended fam­ily are dys­func­tional in the extreme, I sus­pect that her own imme­di­ate fam­ily, step-children excluded, has been far, far more func­tional than those of many of the crit­ics. Could a lit­tle jeal­ousy be at work here? I won­der after hav­ing read A Dif­fer­ent Life (Quinn’s mem­oirs) and A Life’s Work: Fathers and Sons, a col­lab­o­ra­tion between Ben and Quinn Bradlee, “with obser­va­tions by Sally Quinn.” Father and son love to saw down trees and do other yard work, and Ms. Quinn has bought her own pink model. In fact, the fam­ily acquired a retreat in rural Mary­land because the one in West Vir­ginia was too remote, in case Quinn needed med­ical help for one of his many health prob­lems. Antoinette syn­thetic? Hardly. Tree-work is what Ben Bradlee enjoyed as a boy: “Pop and I worked out in the woods from the begin­ning.” Ms. Quinn rec­og­nized her husband’s love of tree-chopping and learned to feel com­fort­able with a saw. In this case she might as well have been a Wal­mart mom.

imageGoing by some morsels in the Van­ity Fair arti­cle, I’d won­der, too, about Ms. Quinn’s ene­mies por­tray­ing her as a full-strength home-wrecker. The mar­riage may already been doomed. Tony Bradlee “had found Wash­ing­ton jour­nal­ism shal­low,” writes Ms. Peretz, and “was get­ting increas­ingly swept up in the mys­ti­cism of the George Gur­d­ji­eff spir­i­tual move­ment.” By con­trast, accord­ing to Bradlee’s mem­oirs, Sally Quinn “found the all-consuming nature of my involve­ment with the Post nat­ural, even exhil­a­rat­ing.” If Sally Quinn hadn’t appeared, might another woman? I’m not con­don­ing Bradlee’s tim­ing. But it’s his life, and I find it end­lessly baf­fling how peo­ple ded­i­cated to the right of cor­po­ra­tions to foul the Gulf of Mexico—or at least try to lobby away the reg­u­la­tory apparatus—would want to dic­tate their “moral­ity” to Bradlee and wife.

Sim­ply put, although I’d never con­fuse Sally Quinn with Mother Teresa, it’s time for some tolerance.

imageAma­zon mys­tery: As of this writ­ing, I don’t see a sin­gle cus­tomer review of A Life’s Work (rank 28,940 in Books) on Amazon—rather strange, given Sally Quinn’s stature in the media. Part of the rea­son could be that Quinn Bradlee’s mem­oirs have already scooped the new book and more directly address the needs of par­ents of chil­dren with learn­ing dis­abil­i­ties. Another could be what oth­ers have already noted—the dueling-weddings con­tro­versy. Still another could be that A Life’s Work is so full of inti­mate details that out­siders might feel they are tres­pass­ing, espe­cially if they believe they can­not be com­pletely lauda­tory. I’d rate Work four out of five stars. The book has its flaws but is worth read­ing if you want between-the-lines knowl­edge of the ways of cer­tain mem­bers of the Post media élite. Ditto—as in the case of A Dif­fer­ent Life—if you’re the par­ent of a child with learn­ing disabilities.

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27Feb/102

The Washington Post, Sally Quinn and the Mink Stole Ladies: How much VIP-watching is too much?

image How closely should the world fol­low VIP jour­nal­ists and politi­cians and—for that matter—celebrities in general?

“News­pa­pers spend too much time explain­ing them­selves.” So  said Mar­cus Brauchli, exec­u­tive edi­tor of the Wash­ing­ton Post; and a media watcher even gave the pro­nounce­ment a name—the Brauchi Doc­trine. Look, Mar­cus. Your paper is in decline for the moment despite some bright spots; but essen­tially it’s still a pow­er­ful monop­oly daily at the metro level, trad­ing off the fame of its writ­ers or at least its Water­gate-glo­ri­fied self. Why the devil shouldn’t the Wash­ing­ton City Paper and the rest keep call­ing up the Post on var­i­ous top­ics? From all signs, Barnes & Noble won’t even stock The Solomon Scan­dals unless the Post reviews it. Even with the sacred names of Chan­dler and Ham­mett invoked, an enthu­si­as­tic City Paper write-up by a Yale lit major just didn’t count (Post bypass infor­ma­tion here).

I’m end­lessly amused when cer­tain VIPs at the Post and else­where com­plain of too much pub­lic­ity. Come on, guys. On the whole you love it—if noth­ing else, as a reminder you’re still alive. 

image image That’s partly why I’m sym­pa­thetic toward Sally Quinn even though I wish she’d stop defend­ing her wed­ding col­umn about her “dys­func­tional” fam­ily. As a jour­nal­ist she is more com­mit­ted to dis­clo­sure than Brauchli appears to be. Emer­son be damned, here’s to Ms. Quinn and con­sis­tency! Media crit­ics, blog­gers, nov­el­ists and other info-parasites—mea culpa—should join me in my quixotic call for a Quinn at Large col­umn for both the print and elec­tronic edi­tions. Some­times pri­vate and pub­lic lives should inter­sect. What if the Sally Quinn of the 1980s had been on the trail of John Edwards, a liv­ing, breath­ing Scan­dal who almost ended up A Heart­beat Away?

The other side: The Mink Stole Ladies Syndrome

image Despite the above, I can also see the VIPs’ side, and I agree with Carol Joynt on the need to fac­tor in “col­lat­eral dam­age” to peo­ple writ­ten about, both celebri­ties and the obscure. What I’m really call­ing for is bal­ance. As Exhibits A and B for the Joynt view­point, may I intro­duce to you Mink Stoles One and Two from The Solomon Scan­dals? They’re sub­ur­ban­ites at a party that a some­what Quin­nish columnist—no, not the Quinn—has thrown for “name-in-the-paper peo­ple” and those a few lev­els below. The Mink Stoles are jab­ber­ing away sev­eral decades ago, but the same scene could just as eas­ily unfold in the PETA era. An excerpt follows.

I went to get myself a drink from Wendy’s bar, but instead stopped to over­hear two fat women in mink stoles. They looked like clones; even the folds in the dou­ble chins matched. Both wore Elkins hairdos.

“It’s absolutely dis­grace­ful, the way she car­ries on,” Mink Stole Num­ber One was say­ing about an unnamed person.

“You’ve heard the pony story, haven’t you?” asked Two.

One shook her head.

“It’s sort of ancient,” said Num­ber Two, “but it gives you an idea of why she’s so mixed up. She fell off this pony one day when she was lit­tle, and the fam­ily didn’t even see if she was hurt. They just ordered her back on. Tough, demand­ing people—both par­ents. She must have been starved for affec­tion. So you can see why she’s so mixed up.”

“I’m glad she’s not mixed up with my daugh­ter,” sighed Mink Stole Num­ber One.

“I bet she’s on drugs.”

I was about to think it might be Wendy when one of the hus­bands mate­ri­al­ized and presently asked whom the women were gos­sip­ing over.

“Why, Car­o­line Kennedy.”

“You know her?” asked the hus­band, a small, timid-sounding man who belonged to Num­ber One.

“Well, not exactly,” said Num­ber Two. “But you hear things.”

I’d spent years in McLean with­out meet­ing one Kennedy, and yet this woman spoke in the tones of a dis­ap­prov­ing next-door neigh­bor. I won­dered which tabloid was the source of her malarkey.

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22Feb/100

The Sally Quinn post

It should be online by 7 p.m. East­ern tonight, and, yes, it’s mostly sym­pa­thetic toward her. I’ll make my case in detail.

Update, 6:45 p.m.: Here’s the promised post.

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20Feb/100

Rexwood Garst and the darker side of ‘meritocracy’ in journalism, politics and other fields

image In The Solomon Scan­dals, I have a lit­tle fun with a hyper­spe­cial­ized Yalie named Rex­wood Garst, a reporter at a Wash­ing­ton Post-type newspaper.

“Serbo-Croatian,” says this young resume jock who lives in a con­verted car­riage house in George­town, “that’s the key. I know how to speak it.” It all jibes with my sug­ges­tion that the real-life Post become less aloof and start car­ing more about project man­agers and teach­ers and a lit­tle less about an élite Slate–style audi­ence. Slate can be a delight; the Post newspaper’s fix­a­tion on “upscale” is not. Sol­vency ahead of snob­bery, please—including the mer­i­to­cratic kind.

Now David Brooks (Uni­ver­sity of Chicago, ‘83) has weighed in with the sen­si­ble opin­ion that “con­text,” not just aca­d­e­mic and tech­ni­cal creds, should mat­ter. In fields such as jour­nal­ism, pol­i­tics and bank­ing, says the New York York Times colum­nist, traits like com­pas­sion and decency are los­ing out too often among Ivy-educated meritocrats.

Result? More scan­dals, fewer effec­tive orga­ni­za­tions. “The tal­ent level is higher, but the rep­u­ta­tion is lower.”

Hear, hear! For decades, James Fal­lows has warned against “cre­den­tial­ism,” and it’s good to see Brooks writ­ing in a sim­i­lar vein. Class dif­fer­ences fig­ure promi­nently in The Solomon Scan­dals, which depicts Wash­ing­ton as it is: a white-collar fac­tory town.

Brooks him­self notes that social gaps are widen­ing, as bankers marry other bankers rather than, say, sec­re­taries. Noth­ing against such banker-to-banker trans­ac­tions; but could intra-class mar­riage now be too com­mon? And are we afflicted with too much credentialism?

Speak­ing of the Post: In the next few days, I’ll run an item on Quinn Bradlee, son of ex-editor Ben Bradlee and his wife, Sally Quinn, the colum­nist. No, it won’t at all be like the oth­ers you’ve read about young Quinn’s forth­com­ing mar­riage to Pary Williamson. Check back in on Mon­day or Tues­day. Mean­while, from afar—since I don’t know the Bradlee fam­ily or the bride-to-be’s—congratulations to Quinn and Pary.

Image of Yale com­mence­ment: CC-licensed photo from Pol­davo.

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2Nov/090

The Georgetown name game: Roffman, Rothman, Solomon and The Georgetowner

image Two kinds of par­ties show up in The Solomon Scan­dals, my D.C. media novel: the pri­vate vari­ety (“party-parties”) and “name-in-the-paper par­ties” (where the givers and the guests want publicity).

For both, the loca­tion is still the George­town sec­tion of Wash­ing­ton, famous over the years as home to the lib­eral élite. I’ve never applied for “élite” mem­ber­ship. In fact, I  live and work across the Potomac in Alexan­dria, Virginia.

George­town, how­ever, in an odd, amus­ing way, has come to me. I’m just two let­ters away from being the edi­tor at large of The George­towner (“the news­pa­per whose influ­ence far exceeds its size”).

The real one is named David Roffman, and in past years I received a few of his phone calls. Nowa­days I’ve started get­ting his Face­book and Twit­ter invi­ta­tions. It’s an easy mis­take to make. When it hap­pens online, I con­fess to being the Vir­ginia Rothman instead, but some­times end up drop­ping by the vir­tual par­ties anyway.

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