<img alt="massa.jpg" src="/fishbowlDC/files/original/massa.jpg" width="250" class="alignright" hspace="3" vspace="3"/ Esquire has a new must-read profile out on ex-Rep. Eric Massa (of tickle party fame) by Ryan D’Agostino. D’Agostino, who got to know Massa, a New York Democrat, over a four-year time span, accompanied Massa to his interviews with CNN’s Larry King and FNC’s Glenn Beck, both public relations fiascos. He also had a three-day sleepover with the lawmaker at his home in Corning, NY — no, not that kind of sleepover.
It is the rarest of moments to witness. Great success typically has legions to record it, but a man in utter and sudden disgrace is beyond alone. A public death is hard to watch and is seldom seen up close. My interest in spending this time with Massa was not to get to the bottom of the ugly charges against him – official investigations and civil litigation will do that better than I could. Rather, I wanted to observe, relentlessly, what happens to a man’s mind when he loses his job, his reputation, and his honor in the most humiliating way. A United States congressman had resigned in a hurry, and nobody quite understood why… and now he was preparing his guesthouse for me.
Read the profile here.
Politico‘s Patrick Gavin has the breakdown of basics if you’re not in the mood to read the lengthy piece. (For one thing, the lawmaker allegedly tried to kill himself twice in March.)
Read an emotional, detailed excerpt from the Esquire piece after the jump…
“Eric’s in there,” she says, expressionless, opening her palm toward the long, darkened dining room, through the French doors in the front hall where the family photos hang – one from every year since the two youngest kids were babies–and into the living room. There Massa sits at the end of the sofa closest to the fire – it’s a moody, cinematic fire, crackling and casting shadows–shoulders rolled forward, hands cupping a small glass of red wine, feet angled slightly in, eyebrows raised in either expectation or resignation, like a man in a waiting room. The window shades and pretty lace curtains have been drawn, so it looks like a room on a stage set. A photograph in an oval frame hangs over Massa’s head: he and Beverly on their wedding day, 1988.
He looks up, head bobbing a little, and says in a voice that sounds sandy and soft in the big, dark room, “So now I’m a serial groper.”