Neuman says he thinks McCain did try, early on, to model himself after Udall, in terms of developing both a sense of humor and a concern for environmental issues.
In the end, though, McCain hasn't come out too Udall-esque on either front.
Udall's humor tended toward self-deprecation. During a rare break for a golf game during the 1976 presidential campaign, someone asked him about his handicap. "I'm a one-eyed Mormon Democrat from conservative Arizona," he joked. "You can't find a higher handicap than that."
Neuman, who co-authored Udall's book Too Funny to Be President and is now a consultant in Washington, concedes that Udall may not have found humor in McCain's own repertoire of jokes.
One of the senator's most famous:
Why is Chelsea Clinton so ugly?
Because Janet Reno is her father.
Think that one was funny? How about one from 1986, recounted in an entry last month on "The Huffington Post" blog. McCain's campaign denies it. Apparently there's no video, but a Tucson reporter who wrote about it at the time says it happened.
From Huffington:
In an appearance before the National League of Cities and Towns in Washington, D.C., McCain supposedly asked the crowd if they had heard "the one about the woman who is attacked on the street by a gorilla, beaten senseless, raped repeatedly, and left to die?"
The punch line: "When she finally regains consciousness and tries to speak, her doctor leans over to hear her sigh contently and to feebly ask, "Where is that marvelous ape?"
"John McCain is the Eddie Haskell of politics," Neuman says, admitting he's a little worried McCain won't find that comment funny at all. "You can attribute that to me, and he'll kill me for it."
McCain did vote with Udall on environmental issues for a while. But Udall left Congress in 1991, and for years, McCain's earned dismal marks from environmental groups, including a zero in the League of Conservation Voters' most recent ratings.
Representatives of the local chapter of the Sierra Club haven't been able to get a meeting with him in at least the past year, if not two. The last time they did, he just complained that the group's positions were unrealistic, recalls Sandy Bahr, the chapter's director.
McCain tends to support big-picture issues that will play well with voters, but when it has come to protecting Arizona over the past 26 years well, not so much.
In the 1980s, McCain made a name for himself, supporting the limitation of air flights over the Grand Canyon, but in recent years, backed off the effort when environmentalists wanted to expand the limits from small tour planes to commercial aviation. And he's taken a lot of heat recently for refusing to weigh in on efforts to mine uranium near the Grand Canyon.
In fact, despite a vague statement issued last week saying he might, at some point, support mining reform, McCain has failed for years to back proposed changes to the horribly outdated Mining Act of 1872 and evidence of that is strewn all over Arizona in the form of large strip mines and environmental degradation.
When it comes to Arizona environmental issues, though, McCain's best known for an infamous U.S. Governmental Accountability Office report that details threats he made to the job of a forest service official who dared to disagree with him on the topic of the endangered Mount Graham red squirrel.
Not very Udall-esque.
Environmentalists were concerned that the University of Arizona's plan to build telescopes would jeopardize the squirrels' habitat. Government scientists agreed. McCain sided with the university.
And yet, the Udall comparison has stuck, mostly because McCain makes it whenever he can. Even Newsweek, in an April cover story, noted the phenomenon, writing of McCain:
"He traces his environmental awareness to the sainted Rep. Mo Udall, an Arizona Democrat who took McCain as a young congressman under his tutelage . . . To environmentalists, that's like saying you learned about civil rights by driving around Alabama with Martin Luther King Jr."
Arizona environmentalists don't have a lot of patience with McCain, although they do celebrate the crumbs he's handed them over the years.
Don Steuter, conservation chair for the Grand Canyon Chapter of the Sierra Club, is quick to recall that once, in the '90s, one of McCain's aides came out and toured several mining sites along Pinto Creek in rural Arizona, all points of contention for environmentalists who worry about such issues as where the mines will get ground water to operate and where they'll dump their waste.
"McCain was, I have to say, at the time, sympathetic with what we were trying to do. But he never came forward and offered any solutions," Steuter recalls.
It was Barry Goldwater, long out of public life and a couple of years from dying, who gave the Sierra Club a quote the group still uses in brochures: "Pinto Creek is worth the strongest protection possible."
McCain also has been mentioning Goldwater a lot these days.
It's true that the elder statesman chose McCain to run for his Senate seat, though some say McCain stepped over poor Bob Stump, the longtime Republican Arizona congressman who, via seniority, had the right of first refusal. (Stump died in 2003.)
Goldwater's endorsement letter is reprinted in a new book by his son, Barry Goldwater Jr., and John Dean. And it's not the only letter in Pure Goldwater about John McCain. The book reports that for a while after the 1986 senate race, the men got along, but that Goldwater's feelings toward McCain started to "cool" after the Keating scandal, and he "soon found he had to stop McCain from using his good name."
Things really got ugly, according to the book and accompanying letters when McCain decided to throw an event honoring Goldwater that was really meant as a fundraiser for McCain. Goldwater wrote to McCain, chastising him and telling him that he didn't wish to be honored. He also instructed McCain to donate half the proceeds to the Arizona Republican Party. The event wound up as a tribute to Ronald Reagan, instead. Goldwater did speak there, but was unhappy afterward, as he wrote to McCain:
"You will recall during my speech at the dinner for the president in Phoenix, I announced that you were going to give half of the funds you raised to the State Republican Party. I am told by the Party, that you still owe them $35,000, and unless you pay all of it, or most of it, they cannot meet their payroll next Wednesday."
McCain continues to bring up both men. He does deserve credit for the time he spent with Udall during his final years. "There was no steadier visitor," Bob Neuman recalls of McCain's visits to his old boss' bedside during Udall's very long struggle with Parkinson's disease. And for that, Neuman says, McCain earned his "respect and admiration and affection."
Until McCain went public with it.
In 1997, Michael Lewis profiled McCain for the New York Times Magazine. Lewis' piece was well-written, and he did get great access to McCain. In fact, the senator even took the journalist to the veterans hospital in Washington, D.C., for one of his visits with Udall. According to Lewis, McCain tried in vain to wake Udall that day. (Udall died the following year.)
About the encounter, Neuman says, "That was devastating to me, that he brought in a reporter. I thought that was crossing the line, and it destroyed me."
I'm sure I would have accepted the offer to go the hospital, as well. I can't blame Lewis, but maybe the sight of the legendary Mo Udall in his final, sad days wasn't McCain's to share.
One morning this summer, my work phone rang.
"Hi, Amy, this is Tom Gosinski," a pleasant voice said.
"No way!"
Every other call I'd gotten about McCain, it seemed, had been from some reporter wanting to know where he or she could find Tom Gosinski, the guy who ultimately had led to the outing of Cindy McCain's drug addiction in 1993. I had told people honestly that I had no idea where Gosinski was; I hadn't spoken to him in many years.
"It's me!"
"Okay, prove it," I said. "Tell me something that only Tom Gosinski would know."
"I was wearing Pepe jeans the day I came to New Times, so you could interview me for the Cindy McCain story."
It was him. True, he could have read that detail in my story about him, but by then, I recognized the voice.
He'd been on my mind.
Tom Gosinski's is a story worth re-telling, since it's been parsed so much in the national press.
Sometime in the spring of 1994, I'd started hearing the rumors that Cindy McCain was addicted to prescription drugs. Bummer for her, but not a story at least not one that I'd be able to get.
Then I learned something that turned Cindy McCain's personal tragedy into a real news story. Two unrelated sources told me about Tom Gosinski.
Gosinski was in his mid-30s, working two crappy part-time jobs to stay afloat. He'd been fired months earlier from his position as director of government and international affairs for the American Voluntary Medical Team, McCain's non-profit charity, which brought medical relief to poor countries all over the world.
Turns out, shortly after he was fired, Gosinski went to the Drug Enforcement Administration. He'd suspected Cindy McCain was addicted to prescription drugs and was getting a doctor who worked with AVMT to illegally prescribe them in her employees' names.
Later, in an interview with New Times, Gosinski said he was not trying to blackmail the McCains. He was worried about his own culpability, so he asked the DEA officials a rhetorical question: "'If a person knows that prescriptions have been written in their name, and they never met with the doctor and they don't know the whereabouts of the drugs, what is their responsibility?' And I was told it was my responsibility to turn it in. So at that moment, I began to cooperate with the DEA."
Gosinski's suspicions were right. Dr. John Max Johnson, AVMT's medical director, had written two prescriptions for painkillers in Gosinski's name, at Cindy McCain's behest. He'd written more, too, in other people's names. Some prescriptions, the DEA found, were for as many as 500 pills at a time. Johnson told investigators that he never traveled with the drugs; Cindy McCain kept them in her personal luggage. (Johnson later surrendered his medical license.)
Gosinski didn't just go to the DEA. He also filed a wrongful-termination claim against AVMT, which led John McCain's attorney, John Dowd (well known for his over-the-top tactics on behalf of McCain and former Arizona Governor Fife Symington) to persuade then-Maricopa County Attorney Rick Romley to open an extortion investigation against Gosinski (it was eventually dropped).
If Dowd had stayed out of it, there's a good chance this story would never have gone public.
I heard that the U.S. Attorney's Office was investigating Cindy McCain, so I asked for the details. Turns out, public-records law protects the feds; there is no legal mandate to turn over materials related to an ongoing federal investigation.
But that law does not apply to Maricopa County. So I asked the County Attorney's Office for all materials related to the Gosinski extortion investigation, and hit the jackpot: Because Cindy's drug problem was the topic of Dowd's extortion case, the county attorney had received copies of all of the federal records related to the case. I made a public-records request.
I got notice that the records were ready. First, though, someone had told the McCains. And so before my piece was even written, I watched their carefully spun version splash across more than one front page and lead at least one morning news show. Cindy McCain talked openly about her drug addiction (although the details of just when John had learned about it and about when she'd gone through rehab remained unclear) and attributed it to the pain of two back surgeries and stress from the Keating Five scandal. The McCains claimed Gosinski was trying to blackmail them.
Later, we did our own story at New Times ("Opiate for the Mrs.," September 8, 1994). Gosinski went on the record, and I also got hold of the journal he'd kept during the time he worked at AVMT. Although he took a beating in the affair, the journal revealed how conflicted he was over her improprieties. For example:
"July 27, 1992: I have always wondered why John McCain has done nothing to fix the problem. He must either not see that a problem exists or does not choose to do anything about it. It would seem that it would be in everyone's best interest to come to terms with the situation. And do whatever is necessary to fix it. There is so much at risk: the welfare of the children; John's political career; the integrity of Hensley & Company; the welfare of Jim and Smitty Hensley; and the health and happiness of Cindy McCain.
"The aforementioned matters are of great concern to those directly involved, but my main concern is the ability of AVMT to survive a major shake-up. If the DEA were to ever conduct an audit of AVMT's inventory, I am afraid of what the results might be . . . It is because of CHM's willingness to jeopardize the credibility of those that work for her that I truly worry.
"During my short tenure at AVMT, I have been surrounded by what on the surface appears to be the ultimate all-American family. In reality, I am working for a very sad, lonely woman whose marriage of convenience to a U.S. Senator has driven her to: distance herself from friends; cover feelings of despair with drugs; and replace lonely moments with self-indulgences."
Ultimately, the U.S. Attorney did, in fact, investigate AVMT and Cindy McCain. In the end, she avoided criminal charges and entered a drug-diversion program. She also paid for the cost of the investigation. She was lucky; if she were not well connected, she could have faced much harsher penalties, including prison time.
When I spoke to him this past June, Tom Gosinski said he's doing well. He left Arizona many years ago and took up a profession that has nothing to do with his previous work. He doesn't want to talk about the McCains. (In fact, when I e-mailed him after our phone conversation, asking if he'd like to talk to me for this story, I never heard back.)
He called me because a private investigator had shown up on his mother's doorstep that morning, looking for him, and they were spooked. He wanted to know if I'd heard of the guy, who didn't identify his political camp. I hadn't.
With a couple of exceptions, McCain never spoke to me again after the Gosinski story. Word eventually trickled back (years later) that a few months after the story was published, he'd cornered a close relative of mine in the Senate Dining Room in Washington, asking why my family couldn't control me.
Given the treatment McCain has long received from the national media, it's easy to see why he gets frustrated by any negative coverage. At one point, an editor of mine had a brilliant idea: document the glowing coverage McCain was getting even back then from the national media. That resulted in "The Pampered Politician" (May 15, 1997).
For months after that story ran, Deb Gullett, one of McCain's top staff, sent me a copy of each additional positive national story, as it came out. I have to admit, that was pretty funny. Better than the habit McCain's Washington press staff had adopted when I'd call promising to be right back, then leaving me on hold until I finally hung up.
Even as the 2000 race heated up, coverage of McCain remained positive. No one, it seemed, had a harsh word for the straight-talking war hero. So when national media called, I felt an obligation to help.
I spent a lot of time working with producers for 60 Minutes to gather background research for a piece Mike Wallace was doing on McCain, only to have it deep-sixed when Wallace decided to do a positive story about the senator. Ditto for Sam Donaldson. I should have learned after Wallace that the press was willing to overlook political warts when it came to McCain, but since I'd had a long conversation with Donaldson's producers, in which I explained just what had happened with 60 Minutes, I didn't expect the same to happen with 20/20.
From what I know, McCain didn't insert himself into the mix at 60 Minutes or 20/20; Wallace and Donaldson simply liked him. But he has tried to do it elsewhere, particularly at his hometown daily, the Arizona Republic.
Back in the day, when McCain was first elected, he palled around with Duke Tully, the infamous Republic publisher who was ousted when it was revealed he'd fabricated his own military record.
Next, McCain and aforementioned publisher Pat Murphy were buddies; that relationship fizzled in the late 1980s.
As far as I know, McCain was never close with Chip Weil, who served as publisher, then CEO, at the Republic from 1991 to 2000.
Weil (officially, it's Louis "Chip" Weil III) is retired now. He serves on the board of the USO. In a phone conversation, he laughs, remembering his dealings with McCain, but it's easy to tell he took them seriously, too.
"He always had his own views of how a newspaper ought to be run, and he didn't like the way we ran it," Weil says of McCain. "It's a free world, so he's welcome to feel that way."
When poked, Weil admits the criticism wasn't always welcome or, in his view, appropriate. He confirmed the story going around locally that when McCain called, Weil's secretary would sometimes put the phone receiver down and let the senator rant.
"We used to sit in the outer office and listen to him," Weil says, laughing.
Becoming more serious, he continues, "The question was, 'Who [was] running the newspaper?'"
Weil says he didn't mind criticism but felt McCain was unreasonable in his requests. The senator called Weil after a trip abroad to complain that the story about his travels was on page 14, instead of the front page. This was a time when McCain didn't even have serious opposition.
"Others were much more discreet about it. For instance, Jon Kyl, if he had an issue, would call and discuss it, and it would be fine," he says of Arizona's junior senator. "But McCain always seemed upset."
During the 2000 presidential campaign, Weil says, McCain traveled around the country, complaining about the Republic.
"He'd tell editorial boards how awful his hometown paper was," Weil recalls. "So I'd hear from my colleagues around the country. That was always fun."
Wouldn't that be a badge of honor to good journalists?
"I don't know," he says. "He's a United States senator, and you ought to have respect for a United States senator."
On the first Tuesday in February, fortified with a cocktail or two, a few of us from New Times attended John McCain's victory party at the Arizona Biltmore.
We had no particular agenda, no immediate deadlines, though there was some talk about watching history being made. After all, Super Tuesday was going to put McCain over the top, making him the presumptive Republican nominee for president.
The huge ballroom was packed. It felt like every Republican in town was there. But not in a good way. I know people like to joke that Cindy McCain looks like a Stepford Wife, but really, she's got nothing on the group that night in the Biltmore's largest ballroom. Everywhere you looked, there were well-coiffed zombies, all dutifully mingling. And sneaking peeks at their watches.
A few of the people we chatted up Congressman Jeff Flake, Tempe Mayor Hugh Hallman, former Maricopa County Attorney Rick Romley did seem genuinely excited, but just about all the others were clearly there because they had to be.
Maybe everyone was tired from a long workday. But it seemed that, really, they were all profoundly bored and spending a lot of time looking around to make sure someone important from the McCain campaign noted their presence (just in case the Arizona senator wins, and a job opens up in D.C.).
From that night on, it has been difficult to find anyone who'll say an unkind word about McCain. Some did, obviously, for this story, but I know there are more.
Often, people wouldn't call back at all. Although he has plenty of harsh comments for McCain in his book, Barry Goldwater Jr. never could be reached for comment.
Some I tried to talk to were apologetic about not being able to spill. They work for ASU or the governor or a conservative think tank or a liberal think tank or they lobby Congress. Or, like John Hinz, the one-time executive director of the Arizona Republican Party, who recounted some tales of the senator's temper for the Washington Post this spring, they've gotten the message that it's not a good idea to say anything negative about McCain.
It's hard to keep track of the shifting alliances. Paul Johnson, former mayor of Phoenix, who spent much of the early 1990s publicly loathing the senator, is now a Democrat for McCain. But lobbyist Knox Kimberly, who once ran McCain's local congressional office, is a big Barack Obama supporter.
Grant Woods, McCain's first chief of staff, was very close friends with McCain, until a public falling out in the early '90s, when the senator shunned him for investigating his pal, Fife Symington.
Now Woods is back in the McCain camp. He was at the Biltmore on election night. I saw him from across the room. He didn't return my call for this story.
Nor did anybody representing McCain get back to me after I contacted his campaign for this article.
Maybe some of the dreariness of the Biltmore event could be blamed on the large area roped off for the national press a group of sad-looking, credentialed folks who could clearly suck the life out of any room. Tucker Carlson stood watching the action, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Postmodern McCain is just not as much fun as his predecessor, the straight-ahead, shit-talking bad guy.
Watching him up on the stage, struggling with the teleprompter, Cindy looking miserable next to him, I almost pitied the GOP's presumptive nominee. No more nasty jokes, no public outbursts. He's reduced to talking about climate change and accusing Obama of being the media's flavor of the day.
"Don't feel sorry for him," a friend said. "The guy might wind up president."
