A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity by Bill O'Reilly
Those who see the world differently than I do are not happy about my work. In fact, some of them object strenuously to my very existence—and vilify me at every opportunity. That’s why I have to have security people. Believe me, if I didn’t have a fire within, I would never put myself at such risk.
Once again, I hope you’re not reading this explanation as some kind of macho ego trip. I’m just trying to explain why I do what I do. How the Factor concept has become a crusade, albeit a polarizing one to some. It is my personal decision to “slug it out” nobody encouraged me to be me. But it has worked.
Finally, my coanchor in Boston was a very pretty woman from a civilized background, nothing at all like me. After witnessing the newsroom display I just described and a bunch of other stuff like it, she would just shake her head, sigh, and tell me that I would never win with the confrontational approach.
I hope she’s enjoying reading this book.
POWER
Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.
—MARGARET THATCHER
In America, power and fame frequently intersect. A famous face opens doors, gets restaurant tables, and is offered all kinds of perks. That’s power, in a sense. For example, nitwits like Paris Hilton and the rapper 50 Cent have that kind of a situation. They are certainly not powerful people, but in this celebrity-mad age, they derive benefit from their notoriety.
But the truly powerful on this earth all have one thing in common: their actions and ideas can directly affect the lives of other people. In this country, that means that you and I can be disturbed, assisted, inconvenienced, or strengthened by the powerful. In this chapter, that is the definition of power that we’ll explore.
Back in Levittown, my family and I were essentially powerless. My parents had power over my sister and me, but that was it. And I had no power whatsoever, until I became a teacher at age twenty-one. Sadly, the O’Reilly clan was like many families all over the world: completely at the mercy of outside forces. As we discussed, that is never a good thing.
Growing up, I had two minor brushes with fame. Some of you will remember the program Ben Casey, a medical drama that ran on ABC from 1961 to 1966. The star of the show was a brooding actor named Vince Edwards, who, each week, scrubbed up, defied authority, and healed the sick. Dr. Casey, as I remember it, was usually teed off while treating patients, perhaps because another TV medical guy—Dr. Kildare, played by Richard Chamberlain—was getting better ratings.
Anyway, Vince Edwards’s older brother actually lived on Patience Lane! He was the neighborhood celebrity. My gang, of course, nicknamed him Ben, which he did not like one bit. We, of course, could not have cared less.
One fine summer day, without warning, the famous Vince Edwards himself pulled up in a black Cadillac to visit his brother. Immediately, chaos broke out. The entire neighborhood swarmed onto Patience Lane. This was huge!
At that moment, the bold, fresh guy was playing baseball at the Caddy House field, about a half mile away from Patience Lane. Suddenly, the game was interrupted when a Paul Revere–like figure appeared on a bicycle.
“Ben Casey is at his brother’s house!” the kid yelled. “He’s really here!”
Not even pausing for a response, the young Revere then pedaled off to tell the rest of the world of events second only to Lexington and Concord.
That was it for the game, as most of the guys, understandably, wanted to check out Ben Casey. Mildly curious myself, I joined the bicycle exodus riding toward the action. Unfortunately, we got there too late. Little Helen Hanley, the younger sister of my friend Paul, ran over and told me that Ben Casey had just departed. Holding up a wrinkled piece of paper, she proudly displayed his autograph.
Helen was in heaven.
At dinner that night my mother told my father that Vince Edwards had visited the neighborhood. My dad finished chewing, looked up from the overcooked meat loaf, and said this: “So?”
My father was pithy long before Dick Cheney.
My other brush with fame occurred nearly a decade later and was a bit more complicated. As I mentioned, I wrote a column for the Circle, the Marist College student newspaper, coedited by my roommate, Joe Rubino. Because we were constantly broke, Rubino and I were constantly looking for ways to, uh, beat the capitalistic system. Yeah, that’s it.
Eventually, we came up with a scheme that would allow us access to almost every entertainment and sporting event imaginable, free of charge. Feeling no remorse whatsoever, we founded a fictional press operation called the Intercollegiate Press.
Stay with me here, because this is brilliant.
Located on the eastern bank of the Hudson River, Marist College, back then, didn’t have a lot of amenities. It was a basic place: three dormitories, a library, a small gym. The snooty Vassar girls who lived on the other side of town might have called the campus “quaint.”
But what Marist did have was its own little printing plant run by a man who looked to be about a hundred and six years old. Nice guy, no clue. Because Rubino was constantly getting stuff legitimately printed for the Circle, the ancient guy would pretty much run off whatever Rubino gave him.
One day, we ordered two very official-looking press cards, each with our names clearly printed above this impressive imprint:
Intercollegiate Press
The Only Weekly News-letter Devoted to Current College Events
Published During the Academic Year
Is that solid or what? Of course, there was no Intercollegiate Press. At least, not on this planet.
Our famously effective letterhead.
Credentials at the ready, Rubino then got the printer to churn out one thousand sheets of paper with the IP letterhead. Armed with the press cards and the very impressive-looking paper, we got busy.
Letters flew out of Poughkeepsie to many different concerns, and when the dust settled, we had secured free movie passes, Broadway play tickets, and complimentary admission to any ABA basketball game in the world. And listen to this: We also scored season’s tickets for THE NEW YORK YANKEES! My God.
Once in a while, some public relations person would ask us what the Intercollegiate Press actually did. For example, where was it published? Where did the articles appear? Our reply was superslick: IP was a college wire service that went out to thousands of campus newspapers whose editors then made their own choices. Sometimes the editors incorporated the information we supplied into other articles written by their reporters; sometimes they used our writing as stand-alone stories. As they say in prison, it was all good.
Now, if Sister Lurana had known about this con, she would have collapsed on the spot. But, rationalizing like crazy, Rubino and I felt no shame. After all, who were we hurting? No one. And who were we helping? Us. Case closed.
Flush with initial success, we became more daring. In February 1971, I wrote to The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson, then produced in New York City, and requested tickets so we could do a behind-the-scenes article on Ed McMahon, his sidekick. That, of course, would be for the benefit of millions of American college students hungry to know more about Ed, with whom they all identified.
Sure.
Almost miraculously, two weeks later, a letter arrived telling us where to pick up the tickets for the March 17 broadcast.
That’s right, St. Patrick’s Day, the Irish display time. This was great. Back then the Carson program was enormous; the entire country loved it and him. And now we had free tickets. What a coup!
As Irish luck would have it, Rubino and the bold, fresh guy were already slated to be in the city that day, because that’s where the girls would be: celebrating their favorite guy, Saint Patrick. So things were falling into place perfectly.
On game day, we drove to New York in Rubino’s brown, tinny Plymouth Duster, watched a bit of the big parade on Fifth Avenue, and then wandered over to Rockefeller Center to pick up the tickets.
Tenth row, on the aisle. Choice.
Howe
For those who don’t know him, Joey Bishop was a gentle comedian best known for hanging around with Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. For some reason that, to this day, no one can quite figure out, Bishop was a certified member of the Rat Pack, which consisted of Sammy Davis Jr. and Peter Lawford, as well as Frank and Dean. The Pack roamed around partying and cracking wise, all the while milking an enormous amount of publicity. But, believe me, Joey Bishop was a steep drop-off from Johnny Carson, like going from lobster to tuna.
Slouching insolently in our fine seats, we watched as Joey took the stage and quickly ran out of material. He then grabbed a microphone and walked into the audience. Rubino and I quickly straightened up as Joey sauntered up the aisle, heading directly toward us.
I remember thinking, Why not? So I simply arose from my seat, all six-foot-four of me, towering over Joey, who was almost a foot shorter. Rubino, about five-nine, quickly stood as well.
“What can I do for you guys?” the comedian asked warily as he approached.
“Uh, we’re celebrating St. Patrick’s Day and want to wish you a happy one,” I said, like a moron.
Bishop smiled. “How are you celebrating?”
Thinking very slowly, I said: “We’re gonna get ripped.”
Joey looked bemused and said to Rubino: “How about you?”
Whereupon Rubino put forth the immortal line: “I’m Italian.”
The conversation went downhill from there and ended seconds later. On page 176 of my first book, The O’Reilly Factor, I briefly mention that we attempted to extort a dinner from Joey before sitting down. Grim but true.
Dazed by the experience, I then sat through the show, and I swear, I can’t remember another thing about it.
After leaving the studio, a jazzed Rubino immediately called Marist and spoke with his coeditor on the Circle. After listening to the story, the guy didn’t believe that Rubino and I would be on The Tonight Show later that evening. Let me repeat that. HE DID NOT BELIEVE.
Instantly, I knew this was a big break. So we leaped into the Duster and drove quickly back to Poughkeepsie. Along the way, we hatched the plot.
The Tonight Show was taped at five in the afternoon, so, driving fast, we got back to Marist College around eight forty-five p.m. Our plan was to make as many cash bets as possible asserting that we would be seen and heard on NBC that very evening. Racing through the dorms, we covered about two hundred dollars in wagers from fellow students, some in various stages of intoxication.
Ignoring derisive chants from foolish skeptics, Rubino and I finished recording the bets and then forced some freshman tech expert to move a TV onto the college theater stage (no personal TVs were allowed in the rooms back then). By eleven thirty, the place was filled to capacity.
At exactly eleven thirty-five a giant roar went up from the crowd.
The next day the campus was on fire.
Some of the professors were appalled, truculently accusing Rubino and me of giving the college a bad name (we had mentioned to Joey that we were attending Marist). I replied in the Circle that if Professor Zucarello thought the college’s name could get any worse, he was nuts.
And so it went.
Good story, right? Besides entertainment, my point for bringing it up is to demonstrate that before I got into the TV news business, I had zero experience with power brokers, and only two rather pathetic brushes with the fame game. It was only after I got into the news business that I began to understand how the American system really works. Power drives this country, and there are both good and bad people behind the wheel.
To me, it is simply amazing that I have traveled from Ben Casey and Joey Bishop to personally knowing many of the most powerful people in the world. Not bragging, just reporting.
So let’s take a look at how things really work.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States
Even though I firmly believe the United States is a noble nation, I also understand full well that some powerful Americans are not noble (see Jeffrey Immelt). Currently, it is my job to deal with these people and, if need be, persuade them to do the right thing. Sometimes, I’m successful in that quest. Sometimes, I’m not.
When I can’t reason with powerful people who, in my view, are hurting the folks, I expose them on national TV and radio. This, of course, does not make some power brokers big fans of mine. “Who is this punk O’Reilly spouting off on cable?” they must be thinking. “How can this be happening?”
I must confess that annoying powerful bad guys is a great part of my job.
In assessing the powerful, there are many avenues to explore. The grandest boulevard, of course, is the domain of the most powerful person in the world: the President of the United States.
Your humble correspondent, the bold, fresh guy, has interacted with four presidents, and again, I always wonder what my late father would have thought about that. Remember, he had a cynicism about the powerful, and while he loved his country, he was never in awe of presidents or anyone else. So I am left wondering just how my father would have processed my access to these people.
Anyway, let’s begin the power presentation with the president I know best.
Three times I have interviewed George W. Bush, and here is my assessment: I believe he is an honest man. I believe his presidency was challenged by extraordinarily difficult circumstances that only a few other chief executives have ever faced. The terror attack on September 11 instantly changed the world, introducing a complex set of unique circumstances to Americans. Understanding that, I do cut President Bush some slack, unlike many in the media.
That being said, President Bush has made some major mistakes, most of which were exacerbated by what I call “the rich-guy syndrome.” Let me explain. For people like me, raised in working-class homes, disaster is always in play, constantly present on the horizon. As I mentioned, both my mother and father were possessed by a nagging fear that stuff would inevitably go wrong. This is common among everyday folks who have to work hard to get by.
But Americans born into wealth and power usually do not have that fear. That’s because things always seem to work out for them. Money buys security from harm and often can mitigate difficult situations. Power, as we’ve discussed, leads to opportunities. You must accept that truism in order to understand President Bush and his approach to vexing problems.
The crowning achievement of the Bush administration, usually ignored by the bitter left-wing media, is the hurt it put on al Qaeda. Within a year after 9/11, President Bush and his allies had delivered a series of devastating blows to the Islamic extremist community. The Taliban were routed in Afghanistan, dozens of al Qaeda leaders and operatives around the world were captured or killed, and scores of countries cooperated with America in freezing suspected terrorist bank accounts.
President Bush was flush with success. In most polls, his approval ratings were above eighty percent.
Then came the invasion of Iraq and the unraveling of the President’s initial terror war success. As you know, the “Bush lied” crowd cannot stop screaming that the President fabricated the reasons for removing the tyrant Saddam Hussein. The prevailing wisdom on the far left is that Bush is a savage warmonger intent, for venal reasons, on imposing American dominance on the world. The anti-Bush partisans paint a harsh picture, and unfortunately, many people believe it. But that analysis is largely bull.
In fact, when I interviewed former White House spokesperson Scott McClellan on the Factor, he couldn’t back up his well-publicized book assertion that the Bush administration used “propaganda” to take the nation to war. I crushed McClellan by saying President Clinton and British Prime Minister Tony Blair had backed up Mr. Bush. They saw the same intel on Iraq that he did. Were they pushing “propaganda” as well?
McClellan looked c
In fact, the mantra that Bush “lied” about Iraq is itself a lie and completely absurd on its face.
No, there was compelling evidence that Saddam had been hoarding deadly weapons of mass destruction and could well hand them off to a variety of terrorists (Hamas, Muslim Brotherhood, etc.) whenever he chose to. Captured documents after Saddam’s fall prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the dictator told his own generals he had secret caches of WMDs and was ready to use them. Many of Saddam’s generals now confirm this.
On worldwide television, former CIA director George Tenet looked me in the eye and said he presented President Bush with intel that also confirmed the existence of Iraqi WMDs and other dangerous plots. Of course, the WMD intelligence turned out to be wrong, but there’s a big difference between a mistake and a lie.
Nonetheless, I have to agree with critics that the post-Saddam planning by the Bush administration was abysmal. Soon after Saddam was pushed from power, I told my audience that American forces were not nearly aggressive enough in controlling the looting that was taking place in Iraq. I was amazed and depressed by the chaos. Why wasn’t this kind of lawlessness anticipated?
But, apparently, President Bush was not equally appalled. Furthermore, as subsequent events spiraled downward in Iraq, the President was very slow to react. Why? Well, my view is that he believed it would all work out. Again, that’s the mind-set of rich guys. Everything will turn out okay because it has always turned out okay.
And the President was not alone in his lack of urgency. On a daily basis, Vice President Cheney, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, and others were telling Bush that the problems in Iraq were under control. Why did he believe them? Well, because those men had been correct about the outcome of the Afghan campaign while some other presidential advisers had counseled against a quick anti-Taliban action.