Only two people—an unidentified massuese and a famous politician—know what happened in a Portland, Oregon hotel room four years ago. She said. He said. And she offered to say a lot more about her encounter with Al Gore if the National Enquirer paid her a million bucks. The tabloid declined, but claimed she said enough in a freebie conversation. I can guess the extent of information.
“Hi, I’m with the National Enquirer. Did you file a police report in 2006, accusing Al Gore of sexually assaulting you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“Yes, but you have to pay me $1-million.
“I can’t do that.”
“Goodbye.”
“Stop the presses,” the reporter screams to his editor. “We’ve confirmed the story.”
There may have been more corroboration. But I doubt it. Through a spokesperson, Gore denies the woman’s allegation. But without trying to contact him, the scandal sheet went with a thinly sourced story of a woman, who waited two weeks to report the alleged attempted assault to police. Then, she withdrew the complaint. Now, nearly four years later, the story is revived. Do I smell a lawsuit? Is this the reincarnation of Paula Jones? Oh, Paula’s not dead. Just forgotten. At least by me.
Actually, massueses are part of my illustrious career. And a tale is forthcoming. First, though, a recapitualation of Gore’s rub down, which has the smell of a shakedown. For juicy details, I refer readers to a Seattle Internet news site.
http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/2010/06/al_gores_portland_massuese_pro.php
It doesn’t take a journalistic wizard to discern that the story is filled with holes. Yet, versions have begun appearing in the mainstream media. Editors must make decisions based on the fact that the National Enquirer was accurate in its revelations about the “love child” of former U.S. Senator and Presidential candidate John Edwards. Therefore, everything it prints must be true. It’s a sad commentary on the quality of contemporary newsgathering.
But here is a true story about an ambitious redneck reporter willing to risk his soul to get ahead (no pun intended) in television. I lift the anecdote from my “less selling” memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger. In 1973, the Miami Beach Vice Squad was among the early news sources I developed in my first TV job as the chief investigative reporter for south Florida’s then NBC affiliate.
Miami Beach morals protectors provided me material for the tawdriest story of my career. I launched a fearless probe of massage parlors. Salons with exotic names like Salome, Grecian Girls, and China House were actually “jerk-off” joints. Undercover detectives made the discovery while assigned to the dangerous task of getting massages.
“When she began to manipulate my penis,” one arrest report stated, “I identified myself as a police officer and placed her under arrest. Did not ejaculate.” What a guy.
Based on the police reports, I proposed a single story to News Director Gene Strul. He wanted a series―plus corroboration. He sent me on a company-paid tour of every south Florida massage parlor that advertised in local newspapers. Traveling the grease circuit, I determined beyond a shadow of doubt what services were offered.
“Ironically, the movie Deep Throat has been banned from Miami Beach,” I intoned in my first report. “Yet, it’s possible in Miami Beach to purchase the real-life version of the sexual activity that is the movie’s theme. Oral sex.”
I disclosed the services offered by thirteen places. An on-screen graphic designated “M” for masturbation, “OC” for oral copulation, and “I” for intercourse. Below each was a price list. A massage parlor at the rear of an auto body shop in an industrial area charged five-dollars for a hand-job. The bargain probably caused a traffic jam in the neighborhood. How I developed conclusive evidence of these services remains confidential. To paraphrase a Las Vegas motto, what happens in massage parlors, stays in massage parlors.
However, if the National Enquirer will give me a million bucks, or any fraction thereof, I will gladly share my secrets. And speaking of journalism low-lifes, how about the Minnestoa “reporter,” who slipped into a 12-step recovery meeting to “out” the homosexuality of a gay Lutheran pastor. The group, a spin-off of Alcoholics Anonymous and similar confidential fellowships, was formed to help its members deal with their sexuality.
The rationale for the so-called ”exposé” was the minister’s homophobic statements on a radio show he hosted. The “outing” appeared in a gay publication that, ironically, is headed my a man with 27-years of sobriety in AA. I wonder what kind of AA meetings he attends? There is no excuse for violating a tradition of confidentiality that other journalists have abided by for decades.
Readers of this blog and my memoir are aware of my 39-plus years as an AA member. But it was only after much soul-searching that I wrote about my membership. That’s because my recovery from the depths of alcoholism defines me personally, spiritually and professionally. There is no way I could have otherwise given an account of my achievements—and failures. But with respect to identifying others in the fellowship, the Tradition of anonymity is sacrosanct. I cannot imagine identifying folks who attend meetings without their permission to do so. And even then, only in a need-to-know context—usually in discussions involving AA friends.
For the most part, journalists have abided by the Tradition. Indeed, Alcoholics Anonymous celebrates its 75th anniversary next weekend. Thousands of members will gather in San Antonio, Texas to express gratitude for a program that offered a new way of life.
I will be among the grateful.
My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.
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