Unbeknownst to his many readers, colleagues and purported friends, Lombaire Fan - the creator and proprietor of this blog - has spent the bulk of the past four months in federal prison.
Mr. Fan's imprisonment stems from his still cloudy role in the Valerie Plame controversy. Now he has been released - and the truth can be revealed at last.
Hello readers,
Yes, I've just been released from prison - and not a minute too soon! I can take the loss of freedom, the isolation, the dreariness but a night bunking with Tom DeLay?! I'm sorry - as Daryl Hall & John Oates once sang, "I can't go for that/No!/No!/No can do!" Truthfully, the timing of Mr. DeLay's indictment(s) couldn't have been better - I now have a six-month head start on hosting dibs for the '06 season of The Apprentice.
Some have suggested that being cooped away for four months should have given me lots of time to blog. But you try being the only guy in the weight room with a laptop. I was also a little out of it when it came to current events; I only got to watch CNN's hurricane coverage because so many of the guys in my cell are such big fans of Anderson Cooper. Anyway, I'm glad to be out, and anxious to clear the air about my role in the CIA leak investigation.
So let me share some of what I told the grand jury:
I first learned the name of Valerie Plame in July 2003, when I attended a cocktail party in honor of political humorist Art Buchwald, a Washington fixture who - as of this writing - has still not died. It was shortly thereafter that I learned the attractive, statuesque blonde I had just spent four minutes chatting up was a) married and b) an undercover CIA operative. It was, as they say, quite a defining moment. My quest for bipartisan action on the DC social scene had put me on the verge of a serious breach of both etiquette and national security, one that could've cost lives - most especially my own. I mean, I've been shot down before but never by someone who may have carried actual ammo. I had finally learned my lesson.
But others in Washington were still in need of comeuppance. Like Karl Rove and Lewis "Scooter" Libby.
As top advisers to the president and vice-president, Rove and Libby play a lot of hardball politics during the day. But at night, they're all about hardcore partying. The pair are known as one of Washington's great tag-teams; imagine Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn, but older, heavier, balder and somehow, even more smug. They may work for different bosses but after hours, they come together for a common cause: scoring. And it really is a team effort: Rove regales his potential conquests with tales of bare-knuckled Texas politics, while Libby buys drinks and notes that Halliburton does a mean job of installing swimming pools.
Now they had a new target in their sights.
"Whoa", said Rove, as he gazed across the room at the shapely secret agent. "Who's that? Daddy of the Grand Old Party's Corporate-Backed Religio-Fascist Propaganda Infrastructure likes."
"Valerie Plame," I answered.
"Hook us up, bro," interjected Libby. "Think she likes poetry? I just whipped off a really pretty verse about aspens turning on the back of this Niger forgery."
I tried to warn them. "Uh, Mr. Rove, Mr Libby, I really think you better back off. I know you two are always on the hunt. But I don't think this woman is fair game."
"Not fair game?! Of course she's fair game!", Rove shouted, as Cokie Roberts' karoake rendition of "Best Of My Love" filled the hall. "I'm the most powerful man in Washington! Getting her to sleep with me should be as easy as.......squashing the Iraqi insurgency!"
"But.....she's a wife and mother", I protested.
Libby smirked. "Oh yeah? Well, so was Sandra Day O'Conner!", he replied, as both broke into hysterics.
"Come on", Rove pleaded. "What's her deal? Donut-bumper?" I assumed the latter phrase was some kind of government code, perhaps a euphemism for women that work in the lower echelons of the federal bureacracy.
"No," I shrugged. "She's an undercover CIA operative. And you see that ambassador guy - the one who looks like a fat Michael Douglas? That's her husband."
A look of disappointment passed across both of their pasty, chowder-stuffed faces. These two were obviously used to getting what they wanted, and now they had to take no for an answer.
"Aww, fuck," Rove grumpily exclaimed. "I guess now I'm going home with Harriet." I still have no idea if "going home with Harriet" is another euphemism or a reference to an actual woman who works within the White House. [Editors' note: As previously stated, Lombaire Fan has had inconsistent access to Internet, print and television news)
Libby ruffled his papers. "I guess I'll have to save this poem for someone else."
Just weeks later, I would receive my first subpoena.
Next: Why I Decided To Come Clean
