Maureen Dowd

And my nerves in front of our kettle corn crowd

I was nervous for weeks.

So nervous about performing my assigned task I made the supreme sacrifice of remaining sober for weeks beforehand. For an Irishman that’s an extraordinary depth of sacrifice. But, as me dear father never said to me, when interviewing a Pulitzer Prize winning author sober clarity is key.

I have interviewed many notable figures in my forty plus years of feigning public confidence and yet no assignment had left me more wracked than that of interviewing Maureen Dowd. I’d met Presidents, Senators and stars and yet something about my upcoming conversation with the notorious New York Times columnist about her most recent book “Notorious: Portraits of Stars from Hollywood, Culture, Fashion, and Tech” was daunting. Here she was, an elegant auburn haired world-famous Manhattan columnist and here I was, an aging retired cartoonist, fumbling with his bola tie in front of his mirror the Friday of our initial meeting. I told myself I’d be fine. I had read and reread her book. I had enjoyed it. Her writing was fresh and wonderful.

I got an advance proof of Dowd’s book in February. I took tiny notes, like “good quote” and “good bio” on tiny post it notes and marked the book with hundreds of these notes. Hundreds. I was a Dowd scholar. I was armed with more questions than a Grand Jury.

Cruising through multitudes of YouTube interviews with Dowd I noticed a pattern. Because she was such an accomplished intellectual, a sage for our century, Dowd was often interviewed by serious moderators in a very serious tone.

That was not for Maureen and me.

Her writing shimmers often with savage wit. It would be a travesty to not tap her humor. I underlined entire quotes that were delicious shark bites. When she asked a “notorious” subject a provocative question I decided I’d asked her the same question about her life.

If she quotes Jane Fonda regretting not sleeping with Marvin Gaye why can’t I ask the questioner if she has similar regrets from her storied life?

I was ready for Saturday morning’s interview.

But first I’d have to weather the Tucson Festival of Books cocktail party and banquet on Friday where we were to meet our authors.

We met at the cocktail party preceding the Tucson Festival of Books Author’s Table banquet.

I was schmoozing in the chill in front of the campus store where authors and guests were arriving when I saw Maureen and her sister Peggy arrive in their warm and elegant long coats. I yelled like a New Yorker and escorted them in. I confessed I was a fan of her writing. No hard-bitten journalist here. Just a fan. My beleaguered defeated manner made her smile. She appreciated and was amused by my candor. She introduced me to her sister Peggy and together we talked weather and the book tour grind. She marveled at the friendliness of Tucsonans. I shared stories of my Irish Manhattan roots.

Later that night in the ballroom, despite recovering from an exhausting tour and a touch of sniffles Dowd delivered her keynote speech and charmed the throng in the ballroom.

Saturday morning, I arrived at 8AM.

Ellen was already on the campus, working the book festival, to insure everyone who wanted a book found their book on the campus for purchase. I was set to interview Maureen at 1PM. This gave me enough time to skim her book one last time and to time the script I had written for myself. Fifty minutes with the American cross between Mary McGrory, Molly Ivins and Dorothy Thompson.

I arrived at the side of the Star tent minutes before our program. Maureen arrived wearing an informal hot pink sports coat and regal cowgirl boots. “I wore them for you! They’re from Austin.”

“Lovely.”

I didn’t ask her about the too-much-pot-in-the-candy-bar-in-Colorado incident or Trump or Hillary. Or any of the questions she’s parried hundreds of times. I’d leave those inquiries to the reader’s Q & A session.

We returned to talking about our Irish roots, the weather, writing, and the state of the world. I couldn’t believe I was talking about the craft of writing with Maureen Dowd.

She liked coming here. This was her second Tucson book festival. She repeated her mantra, “People here are so friendly!”

I asked for a selfie. She cheerfully agreed. Inches from my face she held her compact in her hand and applied cherry red lipstick and asked her sister Peggy if she had gotten the bee stung look just right. She had.

As I leaned my head towards her I was touched by her resemblance to my late sister. The tough as lacquered nails Irish Catholic girl template.

And then it was our cue to go on stage inside the tent and for me to introduce the marvelous Ms. Maureen.

The overflow audience embraced us. I was liberated by the spirit of relaxed fun we had cultivated.

We toured her book, highlighted the highlights and our 50-minutes flew. We talked about her insightful interviews with Larry David, Uma Thurman, Elon Musk, Jane Fonda, Paul Newman, Daniel Craig, Sean Penn and many other notorious notables. Our conversation ended, the applause burst, and in closing I introduced the master wordsmith to a word she was unfamiliar with. Chingona. On behalf of the festival I held up the gift of a T-shirt with the word Chingona across the chest.

She laughed. “Chingona. Isn’t that a bad thing?”

“Not here. Not for a woman. To be a Chingona is to be a badass.”

To more applause Maureen left the stage to sign books for the fans waiting for her at the side of the Star tent. I was swept away by local well-wishers before I could say adios.

I had survived Maureen Dowd

Instead of being transformed into a newt I had been charmed. Wandering the bustling book fest aglow later that afternoon I checked my email. I clutched my chest. It was from Maureen, the Pulitzer winning New York Times columnist, to me.

“I couldn’t get to you, thronged by your fans, to thank you

That is the best interview anyone ever did with me

It was like dancing in Fred Astaire’s arms!

Or maybe Mel Brooks’s!!!”

I couldn’t believe what I read. I answered Maureen Dowd’s kindness the next day, by babbling, confessing my nerves.

“I was terrified to meet you. First time I had been nervous about an interview in thirty years. Here it is Monday, and I can’t believe the kindness I reread in your email.

I wish we’d had time to touch on your Mel Brooks’ interview. Your gift for getting subjects to relax and flower in front of you comes through in that piece. What a strange gift/skill that is.

I was blown away by how, at your height in society’s realms, you remain a generous, sane and balanced person. I will remember you as more fun than Truman Capote and funnier than Dorothy Parker. And dagger sharp. To have enjoyed very good natured exchanges with you moves me to keep you in my prayers, to wish you health and Irish strength. I also believe you are a great patriot, a psychoanalytical Dorothy Thompson for this moment.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, your sister Peggy rocks.

Ever onward, David

Dowd responded to my embarrassing confession. She insisted she’s not intimidating:

Awwww I’m a sweetheart!!

And this time she sent an image.

And I responded one last time.

“Chingona-You are so kind and generous to western strangers-And you are welcome. Visiting with you was a profound pleasure. Unforgettable for me. May you flourish.

Abrazos, David”

She’s right about Tucsonans. We are curiously friendly. And we know a Chingona when we meet one.