Talk is dirt cheap, and there has been a lot lately about Hillary Clinton, more than I could ever imagine, on her wilting chances for the Presidency, her shrinking positives, growing negatives, polls, posses, and her, gasp, elect-ability across party lines.
as the Wheel of Fortune slowly turns and Merv Griffin smiles from above, with the fate of our country, the war on terror, the future of the stock market, the price of gasoline, and the redecoration of the White House all up in the air, it's time to employ a flight of fancy on Ms. Clinton's suitability.
Over the years I've developed a sure fire way to measure a person's suitability for high elected office — it's called the law of the long haul bus ride, and it's pretty simple.
Back in the late 1960s, I found myself riding the dog a lot on lengthy and previously unplanned trips to and from parts of america I'd never really thought about visiting.
and what an eye opener those trips were. Wedged in seats next to down on your luck guys swigging away at paper wrapped pints of MD 20/20, listening to the heart wrenching stories of woe from the lovelorn, watching the tawdry gyrations of the newly eloped, folks that mutter all the time and those in a perpetual zoned out funk, folks with terminal halitosis, and those with no teeth at all.
But every now and then you'd sit next to a relatively dapper guy like Ben Stein, who could carry on a conversation about almost anything and be personable, well dressed, take an interest in you and you'd wonder why he was flying on a Greyhound bus and not a TWa 707. But you'd get into his conversation and the miles would float by.
Lately my wife and I have kidded each other about those we'd least like to ride with and my picks have been Paris Hilton and Hillary Clinton.
For some reason, Paris leaves me cold and a good 900-mile trip in a bus seat listening to her natter on about whatever crossed her nebulous albeit tiny mind could be pretty stultifying. after about three hours I'd be begging the guy across the aisle for a hearty swig from his tall luke-warm jug of Pagan Pink Ripple, after wiping off the top, of course, and asking if he had, perchance, a clean glass.
Then there's Hillary.
Imagine, if you will, riding from Phillie to Oklahoma City, with multiple stops in between, listening to the luggage handles slap against the bags above, lurching through the curves, watching the dirt rise from the deck with every bump, while sitting next to Ms. Clinton on a packed bus with no hope of a seat change. Then toss in a spotty aC unit in an august transit just for kicks, a broken door on the small, cramped WC, a few unplanned stops, with a flat tire thrown in the mix, and boy, you're on a highway to hell, with aC/DC singing in the background, and way too much PC in the adjoining seat.
How easy would it be to strike up a conversation, to gloss over the rough spots with a bit of sangfroid, to chat about the weather, to get out the family pictures, mention the highlights of your life, take a nap, shoot the breeze and generally get along?
How hard could it be, I mean, after all, you're riding with the smartest woman alive, the world's shrewdest attorney, a non-pareil politician, a person known for myriad acts of charity, a person who can talk it up in the local patois - a woman for all seasons. and brother, you'd see every one of them while the hound maneuvers through all kinds of weather, over all sorts of new macadam and old oiled dirt roads.
However, I'm here to bet you that riding with Hillary on the long haul would be a real indication of her qualifications for the Presidency.
Just think of the stern looks, the prolonged silences, the mad fumblings for a hefty Baccarat ash tray to hurl at a troublesome passenger, the multitude of invisible chips on the shoulder, the rough talk, the glares following the hapless slip of your tongue, Sir Edmund Hillary the namesake, the early church work, tax write offs on underwear, drums along the Whitewater, donations, Vince Foster, pink Izod shirts, Peter Paul the guy, not the candy. Oh, it's be a ride alright, the ride of a lifetime.
You'd dismount for a rest break looking for two pints of Four Roses, or would it be four, knowing that you'd be facing the same seating arrangement on your return, with the all resignation of a French soldier selected by lot to be shot for cowardice after another failed regimental offensive at Verdun.
So, that's my view of measuring a candidate's appeal — sitting next to him or her for a long ride.
Imagine al Gore, he'd be good for a Binghamton to Greene jaunt. John Kerry, a downtown Chicago two block trip. Howard Dean? I'd capitulate and change buses. Bill Clinton? I'd sell my seat to a willing Democratic dupe. Sandy Berger? I'd put my wallet in my front pocket. John Edwards? I'm getting real thirsty. Hillary? What part of 'no' don't you understand.
Maybe it's overkill to imagine such a thing.
But whomever we elect will have access to the nuclear football, guided missile cruisers, stealth bombers, B-52s, the 101st airborne Division and much, much more.
Imagine all that and then think of Greyhound and a long trip.
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