David Brinkley died today, as reported here, here, and many other places.
Two of my favorite things about David Brinkley are this great book, in which the tales include that of an unnamed young reporter up from North Carolina looking for a place to live in D.C., who passed on an offer from a potential landlady of lower rent if he slept in her room instead of the guest room, and also a dinner speech story I heard Brinkley relate (for the 1,000th time, I'm sure) to a convention of dentists gathered at the Shoreham on Connecticut Avenue in Washington, D.C. (I was there as a guest of my father-in-law).
The story was about how Brinkley said he was always confused for his broadcast partner Chet Huntley, and sometimes he was too polite to correct people who misidentified him. In particular, he recalled one woman who caught up with him in a airport, calling out, "Aren't you Chet Huntley?" Brinkley played along and chatted with her for a bit. Eventually the woman told him, "I have only one question for you, Mr. Huntley. How in the world do you put up with that idiot Brinkley?"