POOR NEWT GINGRICH. Washington is giving him the buildup. It's unprecedented for a mere congressman to get the buildup. Until now, the buildup has always been reserved for presidents.
"We build 'em up because it's so much fun to knock 'em down," as nobody ever says in Washington. It's a sly little city. They don't talk plain there.
If they told you what they were going to do to you, you wouldn't be surprised when you picked up the newspaper and found out what they'd done to you, would you?
A lot of the sport lies in not letting the poor guy know what's been done to him until he reads it in the newspapers.
Remember that, Newt Gingrich, you surpassingly brilliant philosopher and master of politics whose excellence in everything from bowling, both tenpins and duckpins, to the conjugation of irregular Persian verbs has not been seen in Washington since the last mug who got the buildup.
This, come to think of it, was Bill Clinton.
What a magnificent president-elect he was just two years ago! Had there ever been a president-elect with such an extensive knowledge of everything governmental, departmental, elemental, supplemental, incidental, temperamental, sentimental, endodental and fundamental?
No president-elect can escape the buildup, even though he's been around long enough to know what they're building him up for.
Remember Jerry Ford becoming president even as helicoptered Richard Nixon rose from the White House lawn? Mr. Ford had been in Washington forever, had seen 'em built up, seen 'em knocked down, but even he couldn't stop the buildup artists from doing it to him.
What a superb president he was, this amazing Mr. Ford. He even made his own toast! The old-timers said Jefferson was the only president who could do it all -- write a declaration, design a university, invent a political party -- but could Jefferson make his own toast?
After that, Jimmy Carter. Carried his own suitcase! Made the bed after a superb night's sleep! Mister Fantastico!
The Gingrich buildup follows the classic pattern. After years of being widely regarded as a bit of a nit, he astonished all humanity, including most likely himself, by winning the lottery.
Becoming speaker of the House is truly a big deal, but Washington has never before laid on a buildup for a speaker. One reason is that the job doesn't fit into the simple sitcom formula necessary to attract TV news coverage in Washington.
For that you need presidents, preferably with colorful kin ("One President's Family") to keep Washington news entertaining.
The explanation for the Gingrich buildup is obvious enough. The indispensable president has been knocked down too fast. Yes, maybe Mr. Clinton can me-too his way back to favor with that surly character who is said to despise Democrats for making him feel like the Forgotten White Man. Maybe he can even pull off a restaging of the Truman plot and become the lovable scrapper whose indomitable spirit wins back the love of a soured nation.
Sure, but meanwhile what about the next two years? Where's the story? No use continuing the Clinton knockdown. He's already so knocked down that more hammering risks reviving him with a sympathy vote.
Washington without a mythically overblown figure to win absurdly overblown victories or suffer humiliating agonies is a Washington without much to live for, unless you're one of those gray types who think it ought to do something now and then about governing the country.
So Mr. Gingrich takes the fall. It's as though everybody had said simultaneously, "Let's make Gingrich it!" Since the election he's been lathered in the fatuous praise of columnists and interrogated with the aggressive sincerity of our gravest correspondents about matters on which they usually examine only presidents.
Mr. Gingrich the man is analyzed with a thoroughness that only presidents must normally endure. His divorce from his ailing wife, his tastes in literature, the hitherto unappreciated acuity of his philosophical and theoretical thought.
Even without Mr. Clinton, the story can go on. Come on, everybody, let's do a Clinton on good old Newt! You too, Rush. Cheerleading is for wimps.
Russell Baker is a columnist for the New York Times.
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