The Breakfast Table

The Kamikaze and the Accountant

Dear Marjorie,

There’s a lot happening in the news today. Let me ignore all of it in favor of yet another discussion of game shows. Last night I got an e-mail from the Jeopardy contestant I mocked for refusing to bet in the final round. His name is David Franklin. He’s a two-time Jeopardy winner, and, apparently, a Slate reader. (That’s what he claims anyway. Slate’s fabled fact-checking department is working on verification.) Franklin wrote to explain that he decided not to bet “based on the knowledge that I could not win the game unless the leaders got the question wrong, and in that circumstance my best chance was to preserve what money I had.” In other words, what I cruelly derided as wimpiness was in fact justifiable, rational behavior.

Two bits of advice for David Franklin: First, if you’re going to go on television, you’ve got to be prepared for people you’ve never met to make instantaneous and severe judgments about your character. And second, if you’re going to go on Jeopardy, play like an animal. Choose the bold flourish over the sensible hedge. Blow yourself up before you let yourself squeak by. Keep in mind that this is not a contest between the tortoise and the hare. It is a death match between the kamikaze and the accountant. Be the kamikaze. And above all, before you write $0 in the little electronic betting box, consider: What would Teddy Roosevelt do? (WWTRD.) Then do it, bet it–not just the whole enchilada but the entire combo platter. Be a man, David Franklin.

Sorry, Marjorie. I worked myself into a bit of a frenzy there. Before I go on, let me say that David Franklin did make one irrefutable point in his e-mail. It turns out that the “Gary Francis Powers” I referred to was actually known by his contemporaries as “Francis Gary Powers.” It looks like I made a mistake. Will I accept responsibility for it? Of course not. I blame the entire embarrassing snafu on Slate’s copy editors, who obviously have been drinking at work again. Sober up, guys.

That’s a lot of words on Jeopardy, I realize. I’d love to redeem myself by writing something informative about the presidential race. But I’ve got to shower, shave, and get downtown in time to have an expensive lunch in a fancy restaurant. Be assured that during the lull between the Caesar salad and the crab cakes, I’ll come up with something better for my next dispatch.

And one more thing. At your prompting, I reread the Esquire interview. You were right: Clinton’s answers were zestier than I’d realized. My favorite: “There are times when you’re not permitted to have feelings.” It kind of sums up the tone of the whole Clinton experience. It ought be carved in granite above the entrance to his presidential library.

Best,

Tucker