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Leslie Cockburn may be looking for trouble, but she writes like she's earning dessert. Whether dropping revelations about General Schwarzkopf's deluxe accommodations during the Gulf War; breezily discussing her temper tantrum with Colonel Qaddafi's henchmen; describing the monkey playing with her hair while she talked with a hostile Contra; or, oh yes, showing you pictures of the three children she's produced between assignments with fellow crack journalist and husband Andrew Cockburn, she's got you with a fork in midair. Leslie Cockburn may be this world's best dinner companion. Cockburn, who has worked as producer, researcher, journalist and director for news programs such as 60 Minutes, NBC News, CBS Reports and Frontline, is not joking about her love of trouble. Bosnia, Somalia, Kuwait, Bogota, Cambodia, you name it; her assignment seems to be MDPOE--Most Dangerous Place on Earth. With Cockburn, there's nowhere you'd rather be. If you're searching for in-depth analysis of historical or political contexts, or of Cockburn's inner psyche, Looking won't oblige. Cockburn's forte is a rapid-fire, tellingly detailed description of the events and the players as she meets them; she doesn't bother too much with nuance or getting bogged down in excessive moralizing. Cockburn's ability to find the outrage is pointed and assured: She knows what's wrong and right, but she's not put off by powerful people and their moral lapses. Corpses, mine victims, starving children, exploited refugees: the grist for any good international journalists' mill, and she's not one to get depressive about it. By the end of this cheery speedboat-through-hell memoir, you can only be amused, as well as bemused, by her real-life connections. Cockburn invites Richard Holbrooke and Mick Jagger to her dinner table. She loans Diane Sawyer her spare Armani head-to-toe hejab. Russian nationalist Vladimir Zhirinovsky, in the middle of an interview, tries to sell her a fur coat. Cockburn clearly has earned whatever stripes are awarded in this unself-effacing field by dint of her courage, insouciance and a relentless ignoring of any standard feminine qualms regarding self-worth, family first or physical stamina (she is 6 feet tall). Cockburn's not afraid of anything (she'll remind you often), and she defines the essence of being a good sport. She started her career at the tender age of 18, traveling alone to a small African village to observe its practices. Naturally, she survived an attack of parasitical bilharzia (pity the poor parasites), was invited to marry the richest man in the village and left, she says, with the ability to "feel at ease with Colombian hit men, Khmer Rouge guerrillas, members of the Saddam family, or Afghan fundamentalists. Once I felt at home fashioning poison arrows or sampling termites, I was comfortable anywhere." Including the male-dominated news networks of the 1970s. Cockburn's well-bred, well-educated and well-connected: The daughter of a wealthy San Francisco shipping executive, she married into the Cockburn family, whose Socialist leanings haven't dimmed the lights at their Irish estate. Once in a while, you do wonder why she needs to underscore her own successes--indeed, market her own life in this memoir. But don't take too long. Otherwise Cockburn will leave you on the tarmac while she's off--with anti-malarial mosquito netting, gas masks, and oodles of self-confidence--to ride into the next unsuspecting alien zone. If you can't get her for dinner, at least try to get the seat next to her on the plane. --Britta Gordon |
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