When I came into my office, he was in my chair, feet up, shirt off, an AK-47 propped against the desk.
"President Putin," I said, playing it cool. "Nice op-ed last week."
He looked up from my computer. "Ah, yes. I was just checking this, how you say, 'most e-mailed list' that your New York Times keeps. I see I'm still No. 1."
"Only until someone writes a piece about Ivy League admissions, Mr. President."
His laugh sounded like ice cracking in a Siberian spring. "Call me Vlad," he said. "And tell me: Is it always this easy to get a rise out of you Americans? I watch your TV, I follow your elections. I thought you are used to propaganda."
"Well, if it's our own. But it's different being lectured on peace and human rights by a ruler who doesn't give a fig about either."
"Yes, but all this whining from your politicians. This Bob Menendez saying my piece made him want to vomit — like a podrostok who cannot handle vodka. And John Boehner, I know he sometimes cries like a babushka but to whine that he was insulted by my column … does he get so offended when he watches the White House's propaganda network, this MSNBC?"
"Actually, the White House doesn't run …"