You're Wearing That, AGAIN?

Christmas at the White House; the ties that bind...

(1994 party, I’m wearing THE TIE!)

I don’t know what Hillary was thinking, but I do know I was a little perplexed. We were supposed to be having our Christmas photo taken, but Bill Clinton was standing a few feet away from us, yukking it up with my 12-year-old son. I groped for a proper response.

“Christopher! Mr. President! Don’t make me come over there! You’ll be sorry!”

You see what I mean? That just doesn’t sound right. It sounds a bit dangerous, in fact.

I guess I should back up for a moment. After eight years of living in Hong Kong, we had come home to the States in the fall of 1994, and we were adjusting to the way things worked in our new home, Washington, DC.

As a senior Reuters news executive, I got an invitation to a White House Christmas Party. I chucked it aside and almost forgot about it. I wasn’t a big party guy, but my stunned colleagues assured me that nobody ever declined that invite. It was a chance to see the White House decorations, enjoy excellent food and drink, and have our picture taken with the President and First Lady.

I guess that didn’t sound so bad. Where did I put that pesky envelope, anyway?

On the very day of the party, our Washington Bureau Chief and I were over at the White House to interview Clinton’s Chief of Staff. People were trying to be serious, but who were we kidding? We were already in a party mood.

I was wearing a conservative business suit, but because it seemed like a special day, I had strapped on THE NECKTIE that morning. This was no ordinary tie, and everyone who saw it felt its magic immediately.

It was an Hermes knock-off I had bought for $4 at a street stall in Seoul, South Korea. I had gone to a heavenly dinner of kalbi, a marinated beef barbecue dish, with the Reuters bureau. Heading back to my hotel, I hurried past a street stall, glanced at the ties on display, and kept walking for several seconds before the image got to my brain and catapulted me back.

People love THE tie. A friend made a generous offer to buy it from me. I wasn’t even tempted. You don’t sell the magic.

Amid the hustle-bustle at the White House that day, a secretary approached me. Was I going to the party tonight? Yes. Great. Be sure to wear THIS tie, she said. The President is crazy about ties, and he’ll notice this one, for sure.

We went to the party, and all was just as advertised. Better, in fact. An open bar at the top of a short flight of stairs led to an elegant dinner buffet. You could sit down with your plate, or you could just keep moving and reminding yourself that you were someplace special.

There were no desserts at the buffet, which was a bit disappointing until we learned they were in a different room, at the other end of the long hallway. The White House Dessert Room. We sampled them while sipping Cognac and listening to the Marine Corps Band play Christmas Carols.

As we had arrived at the White House, we had been handed a slip of paper with a very specific time on it – ours said 7:20 p.m. That was our time to leave the food behind and walk downstairs for our photo op.

There was a very short line – maybe six or seven couples – and a staffer double-checked pronunciation of our names, so the announcer would get it right. When it was our turn, he said, with fanfare, “Robert and Barbara Basler” as we crossed the small room heading toward Bill and Hillary.

We were allowed a scant few seconds of small talk. “Merry Christmas, thank you for inviting us,” was about the limit, and we had to talk fast. Except, the conversation wasn’t quite over.

“That’s a beautiful tie,” the President of the United States told me, pumping my hand. “I really like that one!”

Damn, that secretary had been so right.

Then, we turned to face the photographer, smiled, and left.

When we got to the door a uniformed Marine cordially escorted us out – I don’t mean out of the photo room, I mean out of the White House. It was time for Cinderella to leave the ball. They did not want us going back upstairs to the bar, which as far as we were concerned had just turned back into a pumpkin.

The party was over, at least for us. We walked through the evening chill and left the White House grounds.

Three or four days later we got our proof that the evening had really happened, in the form of our photo. There, see, we really were there, after all.

Fast forward one year. Same holiday, same party, same deal, and the only surprise was that Hillary wore the same clothes. Are you kidding? She only has one Christmas outfit? How were we supposed to prove to people that our new photo wasn’t actually from last year’s party?

(1995 party. Hillary, we’ve seen that outfit before!)

The year after that, on the day of our third party, Barbara awoke feeling sick. I was in shock. Where was I going to get a last-minute date?

Our son, Christopher, was twelve, and I had heard that fourteen was the age cutoff, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. The White House Social Office was amazingly helpful. They were so sorry to hear about Barbara, and of course they would add our 12-year-old son to the list as my plus-one.

I quizzed him as we zoomed downtown in the taxi. “Christopher, what are we supposed to say?”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. President.”

“And what else?”

“Nothing else, no matter what.”

“Exactly.”

As we left the taxi and walked the final block, Christopher stuck his hand in the pocket of his blue blazer.

“Hey, Dad, look what I found! It’s my Reuters pocketknife!”

My jaw sagged to the sidewalk. It was, indeed, a small pen knife with the iconic black and white Reuters logo. I had given it to him.

“What the fuck, Christopher! You can’t take that into the White House!”

“It’s just a pocketknife.”

“Right. If you break down that sentence, do you notice it has the word knife in it?”

A screaming bold-face headline, “Thirteen-Year-Old Arrested With Knife at White House Gate,” flashed through my mind. Very reluctantly, he dropped the thing in a trash container.

(1996 party. Hillary, Hillary, Hillary! Go shopping!)

As always, the party itself was delightful. If ever a person was hard-wired to appreciate the food, the surroundings and the hearty cheer, it was our son.

In the line to take our photo, I quizzed him once more.

“Christopher, what are…”

“Nothing,” he replied. “I say nothing.”

Here is where this story began, raising the question of why my son and the President were laughing their asses off.

I held my tongue until the uniformed Marine had safely escorted us out the door.

“Dad, before you say anything, the President saw my tie, with Santa playing golf,” Christopher said. “He ran his hand down it and said he had the same tie but that his played music when you touched the button.”

“Go on.”

“I told him mine used to do that, but my science teacher made me remove the insert because I was annoying the class.”

So that was what had cracked up the President of the United States. I could live with that explanation – I know a solid gold anecdote when I hear one. It’s my job.

The next day, in science class, Christopher raised his hand, bursting to tell his story. The teacher said no.

“But it has to do with President Clinton, and the White House, and this class!”

“Sorry, we don’t have time for that,” the teacher replied.

With an intro like that one, I think I might have let the kid take a minute of class time.

But maybe that’s just me.