Open Mouth, Insert Feet

By Rick Horowitz

Needless to say, I was stunned by the news. And devastated -- don't forget devastated. That's the way it is when things you've grown used to are suddenly flung overboard like so much flotsam. (Or is it jetsam? I can never remember which is which. Whatever.)

Apparently things haven't been lousy enough for me lately. It's not enough that I have to cope with Ginger Spice leaving the Spice Girls. (I knew it had to happen -- but so soon?!) But now Bill and Monica are breaking up, too.

Not President Bill. Lawyer Bill -- but still.

The latest, awful truth: William Ginsburg is off the case. After months of trying to keep his little Miss Lewinsky out of Ken Starr's clutches, Bill Ginsburg has been handed his walking papers. By "mutual agreement," the statement says, but you know how these things go. He was canned. He was axed.

Sundays will never be the same.

Not that he was shy about the other six days of the week, God knows, but Sundays were special. Who else could do five (count 'em, five!) Sunday talk shows in one day? And who will fill the void now that he's going home?

After all, it's not every lawyer who'll announce to the nation, "I kissed that girl's inner thighs when she was six days old" -- "that girl" being his famous client, and that image being less than totally helpful, perhaps, when the client happens to be caught up in a major sex scandal. Maybe we shouldn't be thinking about her inner thighs...

But that was our Ginsburg, our Bill -- always something to say. Even if the particular something he was saying today seemed to contradict something he was saying just a few days ago. Consistency was for the small-minded; you could tell just by watching that Bill Ginsburg knew that down to his very soul.

He was everywhere, and all the time; it would have been boring delivering the same lines over and over again. So if he made nicey-nicey with the independent counsel in one appearance and called him a "monster" in another -- well, that's just the way he was feeling that particular minute. Come back next week for another dose.

It was all so comforting. No matter what else was going on in the world, I knew I could turn on my TV and find him there. So calm (except for the occasional rant), so forthright, ever present and ever quotable. He was like a brother to me.

No, that's not it -- he was like a cousin to me. No, that's not it either -- he was like Weird Uncle Seymour to me, Weird Uncle Seymour, who buttonholes you every chance he gets and tells you exactly what's on his mind and no matter what you do to get away from him, he simply will not shut up.

Did he seem to be enjoying himself a bit too much? (Bill Ginsburg, that is, not Weird Uncle Seymour.) When he wasn't making the rounds of the talk shows, did he seem to be making the scene -- squiring his "young lady" around the fancy clubs and the fancy restaurants -- a bit too eagerly? No doubt about it.

And that sarcastic "open letter" to the lawyers' magazine, the letter that may have finally cooked his goose -- was that really such a good idea? "Congratulations, Mr. Starr! As a result of your callous disregard for cherished constitutional rights, you may have succeeded in unmasking a sexual relationship between two consenting adults."

Of course, he had to deny he'd been referring to Monica -- good luck getting anyone to believe him. And then he was out, tossed aside for a couple of cagey Washington lawyers who know how to keep their lips zipped in public.

We all make mistakes. Did it have to cost him his job? I feel my pain -- deeply. My world is in turmoil. Will we ever see Bill Ginsburg again? Will we ever gaze on his cute little bow ties, thrill to his rich and mellow voice? Will we --

Wait a minute.

How does Chatty Spice grab you? I hear there's an opening.

6/5/98