High life
War on truth
Taki
INew York f you think comedy is dead, you should have been in the Big Bagel earlier this week. Slam Barn Pam Harriman's ill-gotten gains were being auctioned off, and the freak-gazers were out in force. And when I say ill-gotten, only the Harriman family knows the extent of the theft, but they are not talking.
Just consider this: Brooke Hayward, whose father was the penultimate husband of the grande horizontale, was not even Did I say 'have a nice day?' I should have said 'enjoy your meal!" given a chance to buy what is rightly hers. When Leland Hayward died he left half his estate to Brooke and her brother Bill, the other half to the female equivalent of Al Capone. (And I apologise to any Capone descendants for the comparison.) Neither Brooke nor her big brother ever got a thing. The widow managed to 'disappear' any assets the producer left. Now Hay- ward's theatrical memorabilia, his awards, posters and original scripts, have suddenly surfaced at Sotheby's and are being auc- tioned off. The black widow has struck again — this time, thank God — from the grave.
The family even seems to have been denied the opportunity to buy Governor Harriman's personal mementoes. Averell Harriman's only living child, Kathleen Mortimer, granted Pamela's request to be buried next to the governor, despite the disgusting way that Pamela went through the Harriman fortune. This is what she gets in return. Amazingly, Mrs Mortimer has refused to complain and has kept a digni- fied silence. Hers is, alas, the kind of breeding Shamela could never understand.
This is the woman whom the Draft Dodger eulogised as a patriot and public servant (she sure serviced a hell of a lot of rich men) and one of the officiating clergy- men at her funeral declared that 'like the Allied troops who died on D-Day almost 53 years ago, Mrs Harriman had given her life for freedom'.
Do you believe such crap, gentle readers of the Speccie? How can you draw a paral- lel between her life (more than 50 years spent on her back) and the lives of the young men who died in Omaha Beach? If that's not an obscenity, I don't know what is.
The person who re-introduced Harriman and Slam Bain was being feted around London over the past few days. She is Katharine Graham, owner of Newsweek, the Washington Post and a myriad televi- sion stations. Graham is supposedly the queen of DC, but the poor little Greek boy will side with the great Paul Johnson for a change. In his review of her autobiography — shamelessly promoted by the organs she owns — Dr Johnson wonders if she sleeps well at night after having helped the Khmer Rouge murder 3 million men, women and children by her emasculation of Richard Nixon.
I found that a very good touch. Also, I have always thought that Deep Throat was made up by Woodstein in order to con- vince their superiors that what they were making up was actually true. Three million dead aside, Mrs Graham was responsible, as I have already said, for re-introducing Harriman to Slam Barn, and we all know the results. (Katharine Graham should commit seppulcu, but even that wouldn't be enough to make up for fixing up Ave and Pam.) What grates even more is when a hustler like Clinton and his kind in Washington organise a memorial service which was the closest thing to a state funeral. Here's the Draft Dodger on the woman who looked at ceilings longer than Michelangelo: 'I shall never forget how she was there for Hillary and for me in 1992 — wise counsel, friend a leader in our ranks. .. Today I am here in no small measure because she was there.'
Oy veh! In other words, Slam Bam is an even bigger sinner than we thought. If the Draft Dodger is telling the truth (it will be a first) no wonder the Clintons have had their hands in the till right from the start. Pammy baby was their teacher. And no one knew better how to relieve people of their valuables than the woman whom President Chirac lauded as 'a beautiful ambassador, one of the best since Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson', and then went on to pin the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour on her flag-draped coffin.
Comparing a woman whose talents lay in giving it away like a Frisbee (she could walk into a room and tell within $1,000 the exact worth of every man) to Ben and Thomas is like a declaration of war on truth. Words no longer mean anything. Pamela debased everything she touched and continues to debase from the sauna- like place below.
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