![]() Bill can’t handle the indignity of the questions, the implication that he has had affairs with women who aren’t Hillary. ![]() The president’s lawyers are playing Paula Jones’s team Bill is playing Bill. Over at the White House, it’s depo prep day. Between them, there’s little worse in this world than looking heavy. Convinced by Lucianne, Linda commits what I believe to be among her most reprehensible violations of Monica’s trust: She says Monica looks heavy in the dress. One day they may need the DNA preserved on that dress to corroborate Linda’s account of their sexual relationship. At all costs, Linda must prevent Monica from laundering the dress, she says. Linda immediately calls Lucianne, who is her lit agent, her lawyer, and now, apparently, a qualified forensic consultant. She tells Linda she’s planning to get the executive semen washed off her blue dress for the event. I suppose it’s not that risky a letter of rec from the commander-in-chief is likely to open doors. ![]() Monica is planning a trip to NYC for her Revlon interview, which means she gave notice at the Pentagon before actually getting the job. She enlists Monica as head elf, tasked with delivering invites around the office, which is surprising because Linda is mostly a Scrooge who holds her colleagues in extreme contempt. At least Tapper pays.īetween her subpoena and the 110-pound card-stock Christmas party invitations, Linda’s desk is covered in personal paperwork. They mostly talk about work, which is all anyone talks about in federal Washington, a city inside a city that is mostly populated by young people who would like to be president one day and older people who never became president. Years later, Tapper would embarrassingly defend himself on Twitter: “Yeah i regret those two words but largely the piece stands up i think.”) Tapper is wearing the Knives Out sweater. And nice.” Deeper in the story, he adds “chubby” to his litany of descriptors. It’s December 1997, a year into Bill Clinton’s second term and the night of Jake Tapper’s date with Monica Lewinsky, the one he would embarrassingly chronicle for D.C.’s alt-weekly. “The closer you get,” she tells Monica, “the nearer you are to the end.” I almost cried for my own mortality. On the night of her annual Christmas party, she sits in a parked car in front of her immaculately bedecked home. Characters, drunk on glögg and nostalgia, can’t quash their sentimentality, even tough characters like Linda. (To this point, the Tripp family’s Christmas pajamas are magnificent). I like seeing what other people do on a morning when we’re mostly invisible to one another. I like the hazy glow of a well-lit tree on-camera.
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