"Who's gonna get me a beer?"

Interview with Lee Marvin

Roger Ebert, 10 October 1970

MALIBU, 1970 -- The door flew open from inside, revealing Lee Marvin in a torrid embrace, bent over Michelle Triola, a fond hand on her rump. "Love!" he said. "It's all love in this house. Nothing but love. All you need is love . . ."

Michelle smiled as if to say, well . . .

"What's this?" Marvin cried. He snatched the Los Angeles Times from his doormat and threw it at the front gate. LaBoo went careening after it, barking crazily.

"You bring that paper back here and I'll kill you," Marvin told LaBoo. He snarled at LaBoo and walked down the hallway and into the living room. LaBoo charged past him and jumped onto a chair. "LaBoo, you son of a bitch, I'm gonna kill you," Marvin said.

"Hello, LaBoo," Michelle said tenderly.

LaBoo wagged his tail.

"I need a beer," Marvin said. "Who's gonna get me a beer? I'mgonna get me a beer? I feellike a beer. Hell, I need a beer. Where are my glasses?" He peered around him. "Ever read this book? I got it for Christmas or some goddamn thing. A history of the West. Look here. All these cowboys are wearing chaps. Workingmen, see. Look here Bronco Billy dressed up in the East's conception of the Western hero. See. From a dime novel. That's how authentic a Western we made when we made ‘Monte Walsh.’ Where's that beer? That author, he knows what it was reallylike. Get me a beer."

"Finish your coffee," Michelle said.

"I said get me a beer."

Marvin paged through the book of Western lore, stopping to inspect an occasional page. When he stopped, he would pause for a moment and then whistle, moving on. Then silence. Only the pages turning. Now and again, a whistle.

"Where's that fucking beer, baby?" He dropped the book on the rug. "Look, if I want to develop an image, I'll do it my own fucking way."

Michelle went into the kitchen to get a beer.

"Anne ... she seemed to be a nice girl" Marvin said "This was when I was in London for the Royal Command Performance of ‘Paint Your Wagon.’ Nice enough girl, Anne. Lord somebody or other kept pounding me on the back. I told him I'd already made other arrangements." Marvin whistled. "He kept poking me Lord somebody or other, never did catch his name. I advised him to fuck off." A pause. A whistle. "If that's swinging, I'll bring them back to Malibu Maybe to commit suicide . . ."

A record, ‘Victory at Sea,’ dropped on the stereo changer. "’Victory at Sea’," Marvin said "Well, thousands of ships went under, right? Tells you something."

Michelle returned with a bottle of Heineken. Marvin drank from the bottle, a long, deep drink, and then he smiled at her. "You gonna take off your clothes and jump on him now? Or later?" He smiled again. "Michelle, she's a good sport."

"Lee!" Michelle said.

"Where the hell are my glasses?" Marvin said. He took another drink from the bottle and looked on the floor around his chair.

"He took the lenses out of his glasses," Michelle said. "Last night. He said he didn't want to read any more scripts."

"Not another single goddamned script," Marvin said.

"So he took the lenses out of his glasses."

"I want simply to be the real Lee. The realLee. The real Kirk Lee."

You left the real Lee in London."

"Now I'm Kirk Lee. Not Lee Lee. Kirk Lee. I flew back from London with Sir Cary. I told him, I said, ‘Sir Cary, that's a nice watch you have’." Marvin pointed his finger like a gun and made a noise that began with a whistle and ended with a pop. "’A real nice watch, Sir Cary,’ I said." Whistle-pop. On the pop, his thumb came down.

"Cary has the same watch you have," Michelle said.

"No," Marvin said, " he has the same watch I have. If I saw his watch in a photograph, I could identify it anywhere. But, who gives a shit?"

Whistle-pop. "Going back to the old neighborhood. This was London. What was it? Bulgaria? No, Belgravia.Well it was only seven-thirty in the morning. Don't you want to stay up and watch the junkies jet in?"Whistle. "Fuck you, pal, I'm getting some sleep."

A moment's silence for symbolic sleep Marvin closed his eyes and threw his head back against his chair. There was a door at the other end of the living room, opening onto a porch that overlooked the beach. Through the door you could hear the waves hitting the beach, crush, crush,and at this moment, while Marvin pretended to sleep, the morning resolved itself as a melancholy foggy Saturday.

"Have another anchovy, sweetheart," Marvin said, rousing himself at last. He drained the Heineken. "I love them," Michelle said.

"She's been eating nothing but anchovies for the past day and a half," Marvin said. "You know why you like anchovies so much all of a sudden? You're knocked up. You're gonna have a little Lee Marvin."

"Lee!" Michelle said. "You can't say that."

"Why not?" he said. "Put it down: Michelle's knocked up. If you make it good enough, they'll never print it. And if they do print it, and come around and ask me, Did you really say that? I'll say, Sure, I said it.I need another beer."

Michelle got up and went into the kitchen.

"She's not reallyknocked up," Marvin said.

He threw a leg over the arm of the chair. "I got a haircut before I went to London," he said. "I mean, it got a little ridiculous there after a while. I didn't get my hair cut for two movies, and it got a little long. I'm going back to a . . . not a crew cut. Back to, oh, about a Presbyterian length. I'm tired of all this horseshit about hair." Marvin sighed, got up, and walked out to the porch. The air was heavy with fog.

"That goddamn buoy," he said. Just down from his stretch of beach, a buoy stood in the sand. "It floated in one morning and they stuck it up there. It's on their property. Christ, I hate the sight of it, but I can't do anything about it. It looks like a phallic symbol. Hell, it isa phallic symbol. You get up in the morning and come out here and there's that goddamn buoy staring you in the face."

He yawned. Down on the beach, a setter ran howling at a flock of birds. There was a chill this Saturday morning, and sounds were curiously muffled. Marvin peered out to sea. "Is that Jennifer Jones coming in on the surf?" he said "No? Good."

Michelle came up behind him with a Heineken. "Thanks, sweetheart." He walked back into the living room and sat down. "What was that we saw? ‘Bob and Carol and Bill and Ted’? What a piece of shit that was. Good performances, but what a piece of shit."

"I loved it," Michelle said.

"You go for all that touch-me-feel-me bullshit anyway," Marvin said. "Esalen. They take your money and teach you to put one hand on two nipples. Big fucking deal, baby."

"It's about love,” Michelle said. "It's looking at people. Look at me with love, Lee."

"Take off your clothes, baby." Whistle. "Who takes the Pill for us now?" Pop! "LaBoo, come in here, you mean black prince." LaBoo came in from the porch and settled down on the rug with resignation and a sigh. "And still she wants to marry me," Marvin said. "It used to be, we'd check into a hotel, it was Mr. Marvin and Miss Triola. So she changed her name to Marvin, to save all that embarrassment. Now it's Mr. Marvin and Miss Marvin . . ."

He yawned and took a pull of Heineken. Michelle excused herself and wandered down the hallway. Silence. The waves. "I never did read that interview in Playboy," Marvin said. "I read excerpts. It was all a lot of shit. They sent some guy to interview me. I sucked him in so bad. I even gave him the garbage-man story. How do you feel about violence in films, he says. I'll throw you the fuck out of here if you ask me that again, I say."

Michelle wandered back into the room. 'You took some pills?" Marvin said. "How many did you take? Should I call the doctor?"

Michelle smiled. LaBoo, on the carpet, sighed deeply.

"LaBoo," Michelle said, "you're supposed to stand around and pose in a movie star's home. That's what a poodle is for."

"He stands around and shits, that's what kind of star I am," Marvin said. "It's not everybody gets a Jap lighter from Hugh Hefner. Gee, thanks, Hef.” Whistle. Pop. "Well, the royal family seemed to like the movie, anyway. Lord somebody said he

liked Jean Seberg. That was something."

"Jean has good insides."

"What?"

"I said Jean Seberg has good insides," Michelle said.

"Jesus Christ, I'm living with a dyke!" Marvin said. Whistle! Pop! "My ex-wife had something about Playboy when I read it"

"Playboy exploits women," Michelle said. "Women's liberation is against Playboy."

"Against Playboy?" Marvin said. "Whyever more?"

"It exploits women," Michelle said. "It presents women as sex objects."

"Why not?" Marvin said. "Take a snatch away from a broad and what's she got left?" Marvin spread his legs and breathed deeply." Oh me oh my, why must I be a sex symbol? Why won't they let me act?”

LaBoo snorted in his sleep, waking himself. He stood up, made a circle, lay down again and closed his eyes.

The telephone rang. LaBoo growled with his eyes closed. Michelle went to answer it.

"Who's calling?" Marvin said.

"Meyer Mishkin."

"Tell him nothing for you today, Meyer, but call back tomorrow." Marvin finished his Heineken, turned it upside down, watched a single drop fall out. "My agent," he said. "He keeps wanting to know if I've read any more scripts. Fuck scripts. You spend the first forty years of your life trying to get in this fucking business, and the next forty years trying to get out. And then when you're making the bread, who needs it?

"Newman has it all worked out. I get a million. He gets a million two, but that includes $200,000 expenses. So, if that's the game . . ." Marvin shrugged. "I never talked to Newman in my life. No, I talked to him on Park Avenue once. Only to give him a piece of advice. This fifteen-year-old girl wanted his autograph. He told her he didn't give autographs, but he'd buy her a beer. Paul, I said, She's only fifteen. I don't give a shit, he said."

Marvin whistled. "I think it shows," he said. "With Newman, it shows. Cut to an old broad in Miami Beach looking at his picture in Life magazine. A Gary Cooper he ain't."

Marvin took another beer from Michelle. "I'm waiting for some young guy to come along and knock me off so I can go to the old actor's home and talk about how great we were in nineteen-you-know. Am I waiting for him? I'd hire guys to knock him off. Something the other day really brought it home . . ."

He rummaged in a stack of magazines and papers next to his chair.

"I lost it."

Michelle held up a book.

"No," he said, "the other one. Yeah, here it is. The United States Marine Corps in World War II. Wake Island. Let's see." He produced a pair of glasses and put them on. "This cat in command. Let's see here . . ." He paged through the book, looking for something. "This cat -- yeah, here it is. He was defending the island. When the brass asked the defender of the island if there was anything to be done for them, the cat wired back. Yes. Send us more Japs.”

Marvin whistled and squinted down at the page in wonder.

“Send us more Japs. Well, Japs were the last thing we needed at the time. Cut to John Wayne: Yes, send us more Japs! The bitch of it is, not until years later did it come out that it's the decoder's job to pad messages at the beginning and the end. So all the world was applauding this bastard's nerve, and what the world took as a gesture of defiant heroism was merely padding."

Marvin got up and went into the kitchen "Something good about Duke, I gotta admit," he called back over his shoulder. "When he's on, he's on. Send us more Japs."

There was a rattle of bottles from the kitchen. "You stole all the beer! Michelle? You drank it all?"

"We're out," Michelle said.

"Make the call," Marvin said, coming back into the living room.

"It'll take them two hours to get here," Michelle said.

"Make the call. Make the call, or I may have to switch to the big stuff."

"I have other plans for you this afternoon."

"No -- not that!" Marvin fell back in his chair. "Anything but that!" Horrified.

"It's such a foggy, gray old day," Michelle said. "We ought to just sit in front of the fire and drink Pernod I like foggy, gray days . . ."

"Can the dog drink Pernod?" Marvin asked. "Now why the hell did I ask that? The dog gets no Pernod in this house." He stood up and looked through the window at the surf, his hands in his pockets. "I mean she really could have hurt herself, Jennifer. Came floating in on a wave . . . What's the number of the liquor store, honey?"

"Oh, nine four six six something. Youought to know."

Marvin went into the kitchen to make the call. "Yeah, hi. Listen, this is Lee Marvin down at 21404." Pause. "Heh, heh. You did, huh? Yeah, well this is me again." Pause. "Heh, heh. Yeah, pal, get anything cold down here. Beer. Yeah. What? Whaddaya mean, light or dark? The green one" He hung up.

"Didn't you order any anchovies?" Michelle said. "It goes back to my Sicilian grandmother."

Another record dropped on the turntable: faint, ghostly harp music. Marvin whirled wildly, looking up into the shadows of the far corners of the room. "Jesus, mother," he said, "will you please stay out of the room? I asked you to come only at night." He hit the reject button. "I studied violin when I was very young," he said. "You think I'm a dummy, right? I'm only in dummies. ‘The Dirty Dozen’ was a dummy moneymaker, and baby, if you want a moneymaker, get a dummy."

By now he was rummaging around in the bedroom.

"Lee," Michelle said, "you're not going to put it on and parade around in it again? Are you?"

"Where is it?" Marvin said.

"I think it's in your second drawer," Michelle said "His cap and gown. He got an honorary degree."

Marvin came out of the bedroom with a pair of binoculars. "Look what I found," he said. He went out on the porch and peered into the mist at a thin line of birds floating beyond the surf. "What are they? Coots, or . . . are they ducks?"

Marvin's son, Chris, walked into the living room. "Hi, Chris," Marvin said. "Are these coots, or . . . ducks?" Chris went out onto the porch and had a look through the binoculars "Hard to say," Chris said. He put a leash on LaBoo and took him down to the beach for a walk. Marvin fell back into his chair. The grayness of the day settled down again. On the stereo, Johnny Cash was singing “Greensleeves." The beautiful music of "Greensleeves."

"Do you realize," Marvin said, "that he gets three million a year for singing that shit? I walk the line, I keep my eyes wide open all the time.I met him in Nashville. He said, You haven't heard my other stuff? No, I said, I haven't. He sent us his complete twenty-seven fucking albums. Jesus, Johnny, I like your stuff, but for Christ's sake ..."

Marvin got down on his knees and pulled twenty-seven Johnny Cash albums off a shelf.

"He's embarrassed," Marvin said, "I'm embarrassed. We have nothing to say, really. So he sends me all his albums. I tried to listen to all of them. It look me two weeks."

"How old is Cher?" Michelle said.

"Cher?"

"Yeah."

"We don't know yet," Marvin said. "These glasses are no goddamned good. Where are my glasses?"

"He went out on the porch and stepped on his other glasses." Michelle said. "They didn't break, and he said it was an act of God, telling him not to read any more scripts. So he took the lenses and scaled them into the ocean. Now he can't see."

"Why," Marvin said, "does it take sixty-seven percent of my income to pay the publicist? He says I should take some broad to lunch, right? It costs me thirty-seven dollars to get out of the joint, and then she knocks me. You know what I asked her? I'll bet you've never had an orgasm, have you? I asked her."

"Lee, you didn't say that? Really?"

"I never said anything like that in my life."

Another record dropped on the stereo. "When it comes to 'Clair de Lune,'" he said, "I have to go pass water. Tinkle, is the expression. Oh, sweetheart, do you think this day will soon be o'er? I have a hangover. We had fun last night. Went up to the corner, had a few drinks, told a few lies."

He disappeared down the hallway. Chris, a good-looking kid of sixteen or seventeen, came back with LaBoo, who was banished to the porch to dry out. LaBoo squinted in through the window, wet and forlorn. "Poor LaBoo," Michelle said. “It's the second time he's been rejected today."

Marvin returned. "So what have you decided on?" he asked Chris.

"I was looking at a four-door 1956 Mercedes," Chris said.

"Hitler's car?" Marvin said. Whistle. Pop! "Kid, you deserve the best because you're the son of a star. Why don't you get a job?"

"Chris is working at a record store," Michelle said. "He's working for free right now, until the owner of the store makes enough money to pay his employees."

"Jesus Christ," Marvin said.

"I was looking at a BMW," Chris said "It's $2,100. New, it would be three thousand."

"Why not get new?" Marvin said.

"I don't have three thousand."

"But big daddy does."

"Let's order pizza," Michelle said. She picked up the phone and ordered three pizzas, one with anchovies.

"You're pregnant," Marvin said. "She's got to be. Christopher, you're going to be a grandfather."

LaBoo, who had edged into the house through a crack in the door, walked out of the bedroom now with a pair of women's panties in his mouth.

"Christ, LaBoo, keep those panties out of sight," Marvin said. "Last night, she says, Where'd you get these panties? I dunno,I say. She says, Well they're not mine. I say, Honey, I sure as hell didn't wear them home.” Marvin sighed and held his hands palms up in resignation. "The only way to solve a situation with a girl," he said, "is just jump on her and things will work out."

He took the panties from LaBoo and threw them back into the bedroom. "So what do you think?" he asked Chris.

"The BMW has fantastic cornering, Dad," Chris said. "It has really fantastic quality."

Marvin paused at the door to look out at the surf. "Don't be deceived by quality," he said "Get something you like now, and trade it in later. The car may turn out to have such fantastic quality you'll puke seeing it around so long."

He sighed and sat down in his chair again.

LaBoo jumped into his lap.

"LaBoo, you mean black prince," Marvin said, rubbing the dog's head carelessly.

___________________________________

Stolen Gen and the apology

I got stuff to say about the apology but I haven't had time this week. It was good to see all the Stolen Generation happy for a change though.

It's time to get to know PM Kev

HOWARD'S gone, Maxine triumphed and McLeod's Daughters has been axed. Life just doesn't get sweeter than this. Unless of course, George Bush chokes on his own foot.

But how about Julia Gillard? Hands up who wants to be president of the Julia Gillard fan club? I can't look at that woman without wanting to burst into tears and give her a hug. Everyone's making a big deal about her being the first female deputy PM. I think it's far more significant that she's in such a powerful position despite the fact she has red hair, because everyone knows that people with red hair don't have souls. On Saturday night I was hoping Julia would say: "This is a victory for redheads, 'rangas and carrot tops everywhere."

So the question is "Who are we going to hate now?" If only Tony Abbott became Liberal leader. I can't really hate Malcolm Turnbull yet, I just like laughing at him in the same way I would laugh at a dog with a bucket on its head.

Highlights of the evening? Kerry O'Brien making the gaffe about "a swing to the ABC" in Bennelong. And Kerry's inability to repress his jubilation when it looked as if the Max Factor was going to make it over the line. And Julia, when they cut back to her after Rudd gushed about what a great deputy she was going to be. Such a disciplined, restrained woman so overwhelmed with emotion that the tears just welled. What a moment! And could Maxine's smile be any wider? Her joy seemed not about her but about bigger things. Justice, the people, fairness. Maxine and Julia were the luminous bridesmaids who may one day be the brides.

On Sunday morning I woke and felt like a woman in love. I felt buzzy and post-coital. Do you reckon Kev got lucky? It was a full moon that night. I bet there are going to be a swag of election babies born in August — all with the middle name Kevin. I'm beside myself that I'll be living in an Australia with a prime minister called Kev. If only we had a deputy called Narelle.

Despite drinking my body weight in tart fuel (cosmopolitan in a can) on Saturday night and only having five hours' sleep, I did a victory lap around the People's Republic of Moreland in my KEVIN07 T-shirt on Saturday morning. It was delicious. Horns beeped and people gave my T-shirt the thumbs up. A large section of Lygon Street was closed off for tramline work. As I ran past a group of 30 workmen, they downed their tools and applauded. It was a beautiful moment. I could have run for hours on an empty belly, a clear head and a heart just bursting.

I recalled the day after Howard won in 1996 going for a walk in the morning and thinking to myself: "Who are these people I am sharing my country with?" It's been a long 11½ years.

My mate Caitlin (who wore her Kevin 07 T-shirt all Saturday and slept in it that night) sent me an email on Sunday morning saying: "I feel like hiring a signwriter to paint the sky with 'John Howard, the people have spoken, now rack off!' "

I have to admit thinking last week that if Howard lost (did that really happen or was I dreaming?) I would drive up to Bennelong with a bunch of garlic and a stake to finish him off. But now he's been decimated I don't feel like that. I actually feel a bit sorry for him. I don't understand it either.

It's similar to bitter people who vow to take revenge on people from their past when they become successful.

But when they make it, they are so full of magnanimous love for all mankind all they can do is glow.

Is the election result just swapping one bunch of accountants and lawyers for another bunch of accountants and lawyers? Howard's gone but who is Rudd? A robot who goes to church? Or a passionate man with vision in the body of a diplomat?

Saturday night felt like 10 new year's eves. I feel as if I've started dating another man after being in an abusive relationship for 11 years. But who is this other man? It's as if we've had an intoxicating kiss in the kitchen but still haven't made it to the bedroom. Who knows what he's like between the sheets. Is he really conservative or is he into kinky stuff and toys? Will he be sweet and shower me with kisses or will he be unreachable and aloof but behind closed doors like it rough. Who cares? Ding-dong the witch is dead, the fat lady has sung and it was time after all. But time for what?

Catherine Deveny
The Age, November 28, 2007
Original at http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2007/11/27/1196036889510.html

Vale Bernie Banton

Asbestos campaigner Bernie Banton has died aged 61.

Banton was the public face of the campaign to win justice for victims of asbestos manufacturer James Hardie.

He rose to national prominence during the NSW Special Commission into James Hardie as a passionate advocate for victims and their families.

The Jackson report found that management at James Hardie had transferred asbestos liabilities from their parent company to under-funded subsidiaries, in an attempt to limit the future compensation claims of asbestos victims.

Following the release of the report in 2004, then Premier Bob Carr appointed Banton and ACTU Secretary Greg Combet to negotiate a settlement with the building products manufacturer.

It was a long and gruelling task that took nearly three years to finalise. The end result is a $4 billion fund to operate over forty years to provide compensation to asbestos victims and their families.

“Bernie has been there every day and has lent to this entire process a decency and humanity that was sorely needed,” Combet said once the job was completed.

CPSU National Secretary Stephen Jones, who formed part of the ACTU legal team supporting the negotiators paid tribute to the indefatigable campaigner.

“Bernie Banton was a great Australian, and a great friend. I miss him very much. The only good thing to say is that he is no longer suffering and his legacy will live on for all asbestos victims.”

As Vice President of the Asbestos Diseases Federation of Australia since 2002, Banton was made a member of the Order of Australia in 2005 for services to the community.

Born 1946, Bernie Banton had worked at the James Hardie factor in Camellia from 1968 to 1974 and subsequently diagnosed with an asbestos related pleural disease in 2000.

In August he was diagnosed with peritoneal mesothelioma, an aggressive form of stomach cancer.

He passed away at home early in the morning, surrounded by wife Karen and family.


Bernie Banton's family have accepted the NSW Governments offer of a state funeral. If you would like to leave a message of condolence here, we will pass it on to Karen and the family.

Last gasp

Another ordinary punting performance on Melbourne Cup day threatened to slide into the truly dire yesterday. As scripted, it came down to the last race.

Firstly, apologies for the lack of news from Grafton. Some computer difficulties have hampered regular reporting from the northern rivers front. More to come.

Back to the race that stops a nation.

After a week here campaigning, the running of The Cup gave us an opportunity to have a break, bet and a beer.

There had been some idle talk of handing out a YRAW mock sweep but the potential for some negative blow back put paid to those plans.

Just as the mainstream political campaign pauses to watch the nags go round at Flemington, so must we.

Andy and I agreed to kick in $50 each and take advantage of a combined betting pool. Detailed study of the form commenced and I phoned up good mate Jim Marr to get the good oil.

Both favourites Master O’Reilly and Purple Moon were rated as genuine chances. Jimmy also liked Princess Coup and Maybe Better, with Irish stayer Mahler getting a mention.

Ironically, the horse that generated the most discussion (in dismissing its chances) was the eventual winner Efficient, which had disappointed everyone so far this spring.

Later at the hotel across the road from the apartment, we set up shop in the front bar and jumped into the fifth race, armed with Jimmy’s ratings and our own meagre punting knowledge.

By the end of the sixth, we were thirty dollars down and threw everything into the big one with a spread of bets.

But the scratching of Maybe Better earlier in the day had thrown our plans into disarray.

Besides a couple of small bets to win on the two faves, we looked to the William’s trained Zipping with a solid each way.

Right stable, wrong horse.

Otherwise we boxed a few Trifectas and looked for the roughy in NZ’s Sculptor.

Right country, wrong horse.

Come three-fifteen and we were sunk. Not a sausage.

Take nothing away from Efficient. A brilliant ride, hitting the line strongly to power past Purple Moon. Truly memorable.

The eighth gave us our last chance to pull something out of the fire. But the racing gods were not smiling on us.

Andy departed. Feeling drunk and increasingly maudlin, I ignored the ninth and looked to the last race of the day and Jimmy’s ratings.

In a reckless act, I backed El Pauji to win with $40 of my own cash and settled in to watch the devastation.

By the time Race Ten approached, the odds on El Pauji had shortened considerably. It ended up winning comfortably and I trousered 250 pieces of the folding stuff.

It was a late and lucky escape to what could have been a worse than usual Cup bath.

Classic Journalism

In the media section of today's Australian, Tom Krause laments the demise of 'classic journalism' in a profile of veteran journalist Jimmy Breslin.

Krause reckons there's too much internet based research at the expense of getting out on the street and talking to ordinary folk - and this has a direct impact on the quality of today's writing.

He cites Breslin's 1963 piece for the New York Herald Tribune, covering the funeral of President Kennedy, as an example of a "well-chiselled columns" that "leave you weeping or laughing at the end."

Here is Breslin's piece and it lives up to the hype. And sorry Tom, I found it using Google.

Enjoy.

>>>

Digging JFK Grave Was His Honor
Jimmy Breslin
New York Herald Tribune, November 1963.

Washington -- Clifton Pollard was pretty sure he was going to be working on Sunday, so when he woke up at 9 a.m., in his three-room apartment on Corcoran Street, he put on khaki overalls before going into the kitchen for breakfast. His wife, Hettie, made bacon and eggs for him. Pollard was in the middle of eating them when he received the phone call he had been expecting. It was from Mazo Kawalchik, who is the foreman of the gravediggers at Arlington National Cemetery, which is where Pollard works for a living. "Polly, could you please be here by eleven o'clock this morning?" Kawalchik asked. "I guess you know what it's for." Pollard did. He hung up the phone, finished breakfast, and left his apartment so he could spend Sunday digging a grave for John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

When Pollard got to the row of yellow wooden garages where the cemetery equipment is stored, Kawalchik and John Metzler, the cemetery superintendent, were waiting for him. "Sorry to pull you out like this on a Sunday," Metzler said. "Oh, don't say that," Pollard said. "Why, it's an honor for me to be here." Pollard got behind the wheel of a machine called a reverse hoe. Gravedigging is not done with men and shovels at Arlington. The reverse hoe is a green machine with a yellow bucket that scoops the earth toward the operator, not away from it as a crane does. At the bottom of the hill in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Pollard started the digging.

Leaves covered the grass. When the yellow teeth of the reverse hoe first bit into the ground, the leaves made a threshing sound which could be heard above the motor of the machine. When the bucket came up with its first scoop of dirt, Metzler, the cemetery superintendent, walked over and looked at it. "That's nice soil," Metzler said. "I'd like to save a little of it," Pollard said. "The machine made some tracks in the grass over here and I'd like to sort of fill them in and get some good grass growing there, I'd like to have everything, you know, nice."

James Winners, another gravedigger, nodded. He said he would fill a couple of carts with this extra-good soil and take it back to the garage and grow good turf on it. "He was a good man," Pollard said. "Yes, he was," Metzler said. "Now they're going to come and put him right here in this grave I'm making up," Pollard said. "You know, it's an honor just for me to do this."

Pollard is 42. He is a slim man with a mustache who was born in Pittsburgh and served as a private in the 352nd Engineers battalion in Burma in World War II. He is an equipment operator, grade 10, which means he gets $3.01 an hour. One of the last to serve John Fitzgerald Kennedy, who was the thirty-fifth President of this country, was a working man who earns $3.01 an hour and said it was an honor to dig the grave.

Yesterday morning, at 11:15, Jacqueline Kennedy started toward the grave. She came out from under the north portico of the White House and slowly followed the body of her husband, which was in a flag-covered coffin that was strapped with two black leather belts to a black caisson that had polished brass axles. She walked straight and her head was high. She walked down the bluestone and blacktop driveway and through shadows thrown by the branches of seven leafless oak trees. She walked slowly past the sailors who held up flags of the states of this country. She walked past silent people who strained to see her and then, seeing her, dropped their heads and put their hands over their eyes. She walked out the northwest gate and into the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. She walked with tight steps and her head was high and she followed the body of her murdered husband through the streets of Washington.

Everybody watched her while she walked. She is the mother of two fatherless children and she was walking into the history of this country because she was showing everybody who felt old and helpless and without hope that she had this terrible strength that everybody needed so badly. Even though they had killed her husband and his blood ran onto her lap while he died, she could walk through the streets and to his grave and help us all while she walked.

There was mass, and then the procession to Arlington. When she came up to the grave at the cemetery, the casket already was in place. It was set between brass railings and it was ready to be lowered into the ground. This must be the worst time of all, when a woman sees the coffin with her husband inside and it is in place to be buried under the earth. Now she knows that it is forever. Now there is nothing. There is no casket to kiss or hold with your hands. Nothing material to cling to. But she walked up to the burial area and stood in front of a row of six green-covered chairs and she started to sit down, but then she got up quickly and stood straight because she was not going to sit down until the man directing the funeral told her what seat he wanted her to take.

The ceremonies began, with jet planes roaring overhead and leaves falling from the sky. On this hill behind the coffin, people prayed aloud. They were cameramen and writers and soldiers and Secret Service men and they were saying prayers out loud and choking. In front of the grave, Lyndon Johnson kept his head turned to his right. He is president and he had to remain composed. It was better that he did not look at the casket and grave of John Fitzgerald Kennedy too often. Then it was over and black limousines rushed under the cemetery trees and out onto the boulevard toward the White House. "What time is it?" a man standing on the hill was asked. He looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes past three," he said.

Clifton Pollard wasn't at the funeral. He was over behind the hill, digging graves for $3.01 an hour in another section of the cemetery. He didn't know who the graves were for. He was just digging them and then covering them with boards. "They'll be used," he said. "We just don't know when. I tried to go over to see the grave," he said. "But it was so crowded a soldier told me I couldn't get through. So I just stayed here and worked, sir. But I'll get over there later a little bit. Just sort of look around and see how it is, you know. Like I told you, it's an honor."

That old chestnut

Some days you get caned straight up and down and nothing you can do can change it.

I'm not bitter or upset anymore. Really.

I'd like to say such days are gone - but that would be well off the mark.

I wish I could put it down to attempting some enterprising play that failed to pay off. Or chancing my arm on a speculative sortie that might have paid big dividends.

I'd love to say that I'd reigned it in unassisted somehow.

It's not important anyway.

Truth is, I just peeled off the down the blindside and got duly collected.

There was nothing in it. Copped it sweet and that was that. But the hits just kept on coming. I got rocked and reeled all over the shop.

The coup de grâce was still to come.

It was the staggering realisation of one huge, fantastic, missed opportunity.

I burleighed for blame - no bites.

You end up looking inwards and so it came to pass. Relaxed in the end, a Ned Kelly moment.

Mercifully, it's easy to be philosophical when half cut.

Boo-hoo.