A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Although I wrote this book in a spirit of dispassionate inquiry, I cannot expect my critics to respond in kind. My right-wing detractors will undoubtedly tell you that I’m an “obnoxious prick,” a “smug asshole,” and a “clear and present threat to our national security.” I will not stoop to dignify such calumny with a response, except to say that Condoleezza Rice should watch her mouth.

More imaginative critics might charge that, “like Newt Gingrich, [I] had an affair with a Supreme Court justice.” This kind of attack, which is totally irrelevant to the political content of this book, exposes how desperate my enemies have become. As the great Joseph Welch said to Joe McCarthy, “Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?”

Unlike Senator McCarthy and his intellectual heirs, Ann Coulter and Howard Stern, I do have a sense of decency. And that is why I’ve decided to reveal a “dirty little secret” about this book that my critics are too lazy and stupid to figure out on their own. I acknowledge—no, I proudly acknowledge—that I did not write this book alone.

No author ever writes a book entirely by himself. That would be impossible. Just ask Dennis Rodman or John Updike. Like making a movie or building a long suspension bridge, writing a book is very much a team effort. And that is why I think it’s important to state clearly, right up front, the methodology used to research this book, and to give credit to the ragtag bunch of Harvard misfits I’ve come to affectionately call TeamFranken.

It all started when Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government asked me to serve as a fellow at its Shorenstein Center on the Press, Politics, and Public Policy. After my varied and celebrated career in television, movies, publishing, and the lucrative world of corporate speaking, being a fellow at Harvard seemed, frankly, like a step down.

I couldn’t think of anything less appealing than molding the minds of tomorrow’s leaders, unless it was spending fireside evenings sipping sherry with great minds at the Faculty Club. Yawn.

To my surprise and delight, though, all Harvard wanted me to do was show up every once in a while and write something about something. That gave me an idea.

“Would it be okay if I wrote a scathingly partisan attack on the right-wing media and the Bush administration?”

“No problem,” Harvard said absentmindedly.

“Count me in,” I replied. “From now on call me ‘Professor Franken.’ ”

“No,” Harvard said, “you’re not a professor. But you can run a study group on the topic of your choosing.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ve got the perfect topic: Write My Son’s Harvard College Application Essay.”

“No,” they said. “Harvard students already know how to write successful Harvard applications, Al. We want you to teach them something new.”

Harvard was right where I wanted it. “How about if the topic is: How to Research My Book?”

“Sure,” Harvard said. “Most of our professors teach that course. Why, in the Biochemistry department, most of the graduate level courses are—”

Harvard was boring me. “I gotta run, Harvard. Thanks.”

From among the seven hundred students who applied for my study group, I chose fourteen integn=ourteenllectual heavyweights. Some undergraduates, some from the prestigious Kennedy School of Government, and one from the Harvard School of Dentistry, just in case. This was TeamFranken. Like the X-Men, each had his own special power. And each had a story.

There was Bridger McGaw, a Gore campaign veteran still sore from getting burned in Florida. Madhu Chugh, with a mind as insatiable as her name is unpronounceable. Emmy Berning, an ultra-feminist with a stunning résumé—and a figure to match. Ben Kane and Ben Wikler, “the Bens,” TeamFranken’s gay gladiators, whose fierce love for each other fueled their ceaseless advocacy of justice for gays, lesbians, the transgendered, bisexuals, and man-on-dog enthusiasts, such as Pennsylvania senator Rick Santorum. And the rest.

There were fourteen in all. Tough, smart, and deeply committed to coming to my Cambridge apartment once a week to eat a delicious hot meal cooked by my wife, Franni.

I felt like I had fourteen children. My fourteen Harvard research assistants. And like every good parent, I loved each in a different way. Some I loved like the irrepressibly mischievous child who doesn’t do his homework. Others I loved like the good, deserving child who does all of his homework, mows the lawn, and ghostwrites the chapters. And still others I loved “more” than the rest, the way a parent secretly chooses favorites and undermines the self-confidence of the others.

No, I wasn’t a perfect leader. But what counts for me, and I hope for you, the reader, is that this book brings to a new level the politics of personal destruction that have come to define our era. Because with fourteen researchers, I could do something that my targets seem incapable of doing—get my facts straight. ......