Word: doled
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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Then he looked up, recognized me as a member of his press corps and broke into a grin. "Arrrggghhh! Brought your homework," he joshed, addressing me for the first time. I was aware of the Dole stereotype: brilliant mind, bitter man. But here he seemed charming; he had a sparkle in his hazel eyes, a winning way with his deadpan wit. I had respected him, in some ways admired him, but with the sweetness and humor that emerged from that moment, I liked...
During the early primaries, when the race was not going well for Dole, the photographers on the campaign plane would play a little game, scrawling a silly message on an orange and rolling it up the aisle toward his seat. One message read: CALIFORNIA OR BUST! Dole would watch the orange but never roll it back, leaving it to an aide to pick it up and read him the message. But the morning after his critical win in the South Carolina primary, Dole leaned over and grabbed the orange. "We're on a roll!" he yelled, and rolled it back...
...rare glimpse of the jocular Dole, one so often recalled by those who have known him over the years but one who has been mostly absent in this year's losing campaign. Had the race gone differently, those of us who covered him might have seen more of that Bob Dole. But for the most part, his performances have been painful to watch--the constant references to himself in the third person, the ubiquitous "whatever" that punctuates incomplete thoughts, the rambling speeches and the non-non sequiturs. The man renowned for his quick wit and quiet thoughtfulness mostly seemed...
...paid a visit to a school on the poor, mostly black, southwest side of Chicago, where he expected to hear teachers and social workers talk about domestic abuse. "Why has domestic violence increased?" asked a reporter after the event. Searching for a link to a theme in his campaign, Dole replied, "I think a lot of it has been the failure of the welfare system...
...message he conveyed was that poor people are batterers. A social worker in the room rebuked him. As Dole was struggling to extricate himself, his aides hustled him away. But aware of how it would look if he ended this rare ghetto visit without pressing the flesh, Dole hopped out of the car and strode across the street into a local rib joint. The customers, most of them unemployed black men, answered his congenial banter with hard-eyed stares. Not five minutes later, his face fixed in a pained smile, Dole retreated to his motorcade. As he crossed what must...