What was once a dank lounge built over a swimming pool with duct-taped upholstered chairs is now a luxury briefing room with leather chairs featuring internet connection and state-of-the-art technology.
How far has the White House Press Room come? Take a look back at Rory O'Connor's piece on the Jimmy Carter-era Press Room, starring Helen Thomas, Sam Donaldson and Jody Powell.
A sergeant encased in thick guardhouse glass smiles back at me as I approach his domain at the edge of the vast expanse of lawn on Pennsylvania Avenue. He presses a button like a teller at a drive-in bank window, and a mechanical box opens out into my gut. His electrified, disembodied voice eerily instructs me to place my credentials in it. After a brief perusal (I had called ahead weeks earlier to ensure my inclusion in the "green book" that guarantees admission to visiting journalists), he presses another button. That in turn pops the catch on an iron gate allowing access to the White House grounds.
From there it's a short, slightly paranoid stroll up the driveway to the West Wing. Turn left at the portico, proceed up the path toward the main entrance, and then step down two stairs and through the French doors that open onto the converted swimming pool that is the White House press room.
There's hardly anyone present when I walk into the dingy, fading anteroom that is the site of the daily briefing by the press secretary; most of the regulars have accompanied the president on his trip out of the country. A few network technicians are around the main room watching soap operas. It's hard to imagine that LBJ used to go skinny-dipping right here with network execs and publishers.
In the back of the room, atop a trap door leading down to the boarded-over bottom of the old pool, a phalanx of camera tripods is perched on a raised platform. They point mutely at another platform near the front, where a dark, wooden lectern stands before a television-blue curtain. It is here that Jody Powell comes almost every morning to lecture to the boys in the pool.
A short corridor leads from the room to a smaller one directly behind it. A bulletin board full of daily handouts and sign-up sheets for upcoming presidential journeys lines the hallway, which opens onto a series of deserted cubicles, each equipped with telephone and typewriter. Two glassed-in booths serve as headquarters for the wire services. Associated Press and United Press International. The three networks each have their own, slightly smaller compartments. The walls are filled with direct-line phones to the Washington bureaus of foreign newspapers. Just for kicks, I pick one up, and a vigilant voice with an English accent on the other end immediately demands, "Yes, what is it?"
I hang up wordlessly and enter an even smaller room just off the back. It hosts vending machines, a coffeemaker, three wire tickers, and a low round table being employed by still more bored TV technicians for their daily game of cards. Over in a corner, a grizzled wire service correspondent is sprawled in a chair asleep with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. It looks like 3 am in the Greyhound station in Indianapolis.
Back at the bulletin board, I notice a flight of stairs leading down to yet another collection of booths, cubicles, and wall phones. On the nearest wall hangs a photograph of President Hoover and the 1930 White House press corps. I peer closely at the picture, trying to tell exactly who is the president and who is the press. Everyone in it is white, male, middle-aged, and attired in a dark three-piece suit.
The next morning, the morgue that was the press room yesterday is suddenly abuzz. I arrive early for the 11:30 daily briefing, and try to squeeze in an interview with Deputy Press Secretary Walt Wurfel. Just as we are about to begin, however, word comes that the briefing is about to begin. "You won't want to miss this particular show," chuckles Wurfel, promising to make time for me after it's over.
As soon as I get back into the press room, however, a brusque announcement comes over a loudspeaker, saying, "The briefing will be delayed until noon."
"Oh, shit!" reply several reporters, although no one looks surprised. Most of the assembled turn their attention back to the game show on the television.
Five minutes later, ABC News correspondent Sam Donaldson trots expectantly into the room. "Where's the briefing?" he demands imperiously. "The expectation is that it's at 11:30."
"Where were you?" snaps Helen Thomas, the UPI correspondent and one of the few women in the print world assigned to the presidential beat. "It's been postponed until noon."
"I was making pee-pee," retorts Donaldson. "In the men's room."
"Thank God you at least got the right room," cracks someone else, to universal guffaws.
Finally, about forty minutes later, Jody Powell appears behind the elevated podium in the front of the room. He makes a few quick announcements, then opens the floor for questions.
There is no stipulated procedure for asking questions here. Powell simply stands up there nervously chain-smoking and responds to whoever screams at him the loudest and longest.
Most of the questions today are on the situation in Iran. Powell refuses to answer any of them, saying, "I'm not going to be involved in a daily temperature taking in that part of the world. I think our basic position is clear, and I want to reaffirm it. But no productive purpose is to be served by going beyond that, and I don't intend to participate."
Soon the "discussion" turns rancorous. One would think that this sort of thing went out with Richard Nixon and Ron Ziegler, but the reporters here today seem out for Powell's blood.
Sparring and feinting, jabbing and weaving, he manages to avoid being backed into a corner. Helen Thomas is exasperated. "Look, Jody," she rasps. "We went out of the country for five days, when the Shah had the 'unswerving support' of the US. Now this seems to have shifted: Is that true?"
Another writer tries as well. "Jody, you obviously understand our policy toward Iran. We don't. There's a great deal of confusion in the room. Can't you explain?"
Powell remains unmoved. "I can't serve our interests and your desires on the same day," he remarks cordially. "I'm sorry you don't understand nuances."
A general uproar follows that remark, "You are lecturing us, Jody!" shouts someone from the corner of the room. "Has presidential policy become top-secret?" demands an infuriated Helen Thomas, "Is the president really running the show?"
For the first time Powell shows a little emotion and responds to Thomas. "That's a nice little goad, Helen," he says, seething. "But I think you know that it's absurd. I agree that there's a great deal of confusion in this room. If it will help, I will say that I have no further comment on Iran, and will not answer any questions on it. I won't comment on decisions that are being made on a day-to-day basis, no matter how hard you try or how many questions you ask."
At that, several members of the press walk out in disgust. Those who stay are equally impolite. "I don't know why we're having a briefing today," remarks one in a loud voice that Powell chooses to ignore. "I don't either," reassures a colleague. "Let's go back to Guadeloupe," suggests a third. "There's nothing happening here."
Finally Powell gets off the hook, as someone in the front of the room shifts gears and asks about Billy Carter's comments in a recent Penthouse interview. Billy was quoted as saying that his brother Jimmy's confidant Charles Kirbo is "about the dumbest bastard I ever met in my life," and that Powell himself "would be better off running a farm in Vienna [Georgia]." Powell jokes in response, saying that Billy is probably right in the latter case, "especially on days like today."
"You'd be spreading the same thing on that farm that you have here with us today," mutters someone next to me, almost under his breath.
"Did you see the president today?'' snipes the persistent Helen Thomas. "Did he have as many non-answers as you?"
"I don't expect you people to agree with me," says Powell, nonplussed. "That's not your job. But I see no alternative to the unpopular position of being disinclined to answer. I know that's not a good position for a press secretary to be in, but it's one that I have to adopt."
A short while later the briefing grinds to a halt amid more grumbling from those reporters still hanging around. "I just don't understand why the briefing had to be postponed for a half-hour," exclaims a wire service reporter. "Do you think Powell had to prepare for this bullshit?"
Nevertheless, typewriters begin clacking and telephones chattering in the back room, as the obedient White House press corps scurries to spread Powell's bullshit around the world.
Read the whole post here.