Michael Posner

Mike Posner was more than a legend, or even an institution, in America's capital city. He was more like a branch of government unto himself. Everyone in the journalistic and congressional communities in Washington knew Mike and virtually every one of them loved him. To call him eccentric would be a bit of English understatement. The first time I met him he was wearing an orange, creamsicle leisure suit with black and white tennis shoes. A week later, he looked more presentable in a tweed hunting jacket that his lovely wife Andrea had no doubt picked out for him. That was until he turned sideways to reveal that he had wrapped black electrician's tape around his right elbow to keep the jacket's leather patch on. But Poz was proof positive that appearances can be deceiving. He was a crackerjack reporter, with a natural born knack for breaking stories. He broke a ton of them over the years on Capitol Hill. But my favorite was his off-the-Hill exclusive in the early morning hours when a slightly tipsy but totally powerful congressman, who pretty much unilaterally controlled the country's tax policy, jumped fully clothed into a deep reflecting pool in the shadows of Thomas Jefferson's Memorial to fetch his volatile paramour who was known as The Argentine Firecracker. It was classic Posner. Why was he there at that time of night? How did he know it was going to happen? But that was Mike. Always there. Always ready, willing and able to work. It has been decades since we worked together, but I can still see his wild hair flapping in the breeze, still hear his infectious laughter drifting across the hallowed halls of Congress and still remember his encyclopedic memory of all things legislative. I don't want to leave you with the impression that they don't make them like Poz anymore. The truth is, they never did. He was one of kind. An original. I miss him to pieces already. We all do. ■