The A-bomb Kid Runs For Congress
John Aristotle Phillips flops into a chair, opens a can of Budweiser, then casually picks at a loose thread on his faded, knee-popped overalls. “This place has always been sort of sacred ground,” he says, gesturing at the sparse but comfortable living room of his gray shingled house, overlooking Long Island Sound.
Phillips, a lean five feet nine, seems to be in good shape. His neatly trimmed black hair frames a remarkably good-looking face, dominated by sharp blue eyes. “We’ve never had a reporter here before,” he continues, practically shouting over Elvis Costello’s “Accidents Will Happen.” “We don’t even give out the phone number.” Phillips smiles. “But now I think it’s time for this kind of interview.”
Twenty-four-year-old John Phillips is no stranger to interviews. He started giving them in 1976, after he designed his atom bomb. Of course, he never actually built the bomb. His aim was to show that if an average student could design a nuclear weapon, so could an enterprising terrorist. When the press found out about his project, there were banner headlines: THE UNTHINKABLE IS REALITY, STUDENT DESIGNS A-BOMB. Everyone wanted to know where he kept it. Then People ran a profile about him. Phillips was a hot item.
Things got even hotter a few months later, when a bumbling Pakistani official tried to buy his bomb design, and Senator William Proxmire mentioned the incident in a speech on the Senate floor. Walter Cronkite aired the story. So did Barbara Walters. A Hollywood producer optioned his story for a TV movie, and William Morrow offered him a book contract. He came to be known as the A-Bomb Kid.
Like a true physics student, John developed an equation to explain his sudden popularity: He called it whoopee: “It starts when an Obscure Individual does something Creative, Courageous, Frivolous or Frightening (C2F2). The media decide that he will make Good Copy (GC). Using millions of newspapers, magazines, radios and television sets, the media form a peephole through which the public can scrutinize him. The Public’s Impression through the Media Peephole (PIMP) suddenly makes him more important than what he has done. The Obscure Individual is now a Personality.
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OBSCURE INDIVIDUAL – C2F2 + GC + PIMP – PERSONALITY = WHOOPEE
Call me a Personality,” John wrote. “I didn’t want it that way, it just happened. If it happened to me, it can happen to anyone.”
Phillips stretches in his chair and covers a yawn. The last rays of afternoon sunlight slice through the curtains, accentuating a slight stubble on his pale skin. He’s had no time to work on a tan, or do anything else except gear up for another chapter of whoopee: John Phillips is running for Congress.
Phillips, a Democrat, has chosen to run in Connecticut’s Fourth District, which includes most of Fairfield County. Within its boundaries are such wealthy bedroom communities as Darien, Westport and Greenwich, as well as Bridgeport, Connecticut’s second-largest city. It’s the only district in the state with a Republican congressman.
So far, Phillips has two challengers for the nomination: Arthur Goldblatt and Wayne Konitshek. Whoever is picked by the Democrats will face five-term incumbent Stewart McKinney. According to popular wisdom, challenging the well-liked, moderate-liberal Republican millionaire is political suicide.
“We can beat him,” Phillips announces evenly. He has the kind of deep, reassuring voice that late-night DJs would envy. “I’m completely serious about this, and it can be done.”
In late August, Phillips will be twenty-five, the minimum age for members of Congress. But he doesn’t think his youth will hurt his chances. He points out that Tom Downey, a New York Democrat with a strong congressional record, was twenty-five when he was elected in 1974.
What may be a liability is Phillips’ outspoken views. As Connecticut State Democratic Chairman Jim Fitzgerald has told me, “This isn’t a good year to be a liberal.”
But Phillips doesn’t agree. His catchwords are optimism, commitment, ideals and hope. His campaign motto: New Energy for the Eighties.
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