So here’s my modest proposal to add to all the current suggestions for campaign reform. Eliminate political ads. Well, not entirely. But from the end of the two parties’ conventions in August through Election Day, there should be no more commercials in the conventional sense–no attack ads; no taped travels in the candidate’s soft-focused, gauze-covered past; no snaps of the candidate getting his war medals 30 years ago; no lovingly crafted scenes of a known hell-raiser rocking on some wooden porch with a flock of someone else’s kids climbing all over him (or her).

In 2000 the boys from Tennessee, Al Gore and Fred Thompson, will be trying to Southern-fry each other to get to the White House. The TV commercial possibilities are terrifying-Uncle Fred sweet-talkie’ his mother, Al hugging Tipper and a tree. We must stop this. After the conventions three years from now, we should allow only TV ads starring the candidates–by themselves or together, or with their VP choices. The candidates could tape their segments, but in similar studio setups (no using the flag factory as a backdrop).

This has several advantages (although none of them good for reporters because it would require us to work harder). First, forced to actually talk on their own, candidates might eventually cut through the boilerplate and address individual issues seriously. If one candidate saw an advantage in raising a controversial matter that would make his competition squirm (“Well, when is my opponent, Mr. Friend of the Elderly, going to take on Social Security?”), the other side would have to answer.

And rather than ending attack ads, such a policy would allow candidates to fine-tune them. No faceless voice would claim that one contender cheated to avoid the draft or that another cheated on his wife 20 years earlier. If such allegations really matter, then candidates should have the guts to make them themselves, on camera. They might see that mouthing those words reveals how petty some of their “character” issues really are and inspire them to stick to real problems.

In addition, all these messages should be televised nationally. The past election saw Clinton and Dole sneaking off to do spot-market ads in which the candidates revised their statements from other whistle stops. Requiring each TV appearance to reach the same national audience would limit the contenders’ ability to be two-faced.

This idea won some favor among politicos and former legislators who heard me present it this spring at a Kennedy School seminar at Harvard University. But a serious question was raised: Will uncharismatic candidates die on the air? The answer is no.

First, charisma is not the sole attribute of leadership. That quality involves believing in a goal, a policy or a message, and being able to deliver it convincingly, so that others will follow. If the candidate is so lackluster that she or he cannot inspire followers, then they deserve to lose. In fact, they probably shouldn’t be running in the first place. Public speaking–”inspiration”–is part of a candidate’s job description. Preachers who can’t preach find themselves tending flock in wheat fields. They don’t grouse that since they’re purer of heart, they should be allowed to mumble at St. John the Divine.

So it is (or should be) with pols. What they say should grab your attention (if not your vote). This is no place for slackers.

Second, since Dole indeed fared poorly face-to-face against Clinton on TV, two factors should be noted. Reporters and Republicans who followed his campaign trail saw very well that Dole was best when he was himself, without packaging. Furthermore, that Dole came off poorly in the debates reflected on his handlers, who practically scared him off the stage, and on his own inability to respond quickly as ideas and words popped out.

That’s the purpose of ending political ads: If politicians have to stand up on their own, frequently, in front of the same audience, they may have to reveal what they really feel.

Former Washington Post star Paul Taylor last year began a crusade for free airtime for candidates, so that they would speak directly to viewers every night, or every other night. Taylor’s point was that the frequency of such appearances (and the probability that at any point, a candidate would be forced to respond either to the previous night’s two-minute drilling by the opponent, or to that day’s news) would compel the candidate to be somewhat honest. (Well, maybe not honest, but at least direct.)

Unfortunately, the free-time concept is about as popular with broadcasters as the proverbial nun at the cat-house. One potential remedy would be to have the federal government reimburse the networks to some extent.

That brings up federal funds for candidates. Only candidates who accepted the rule (no conventional ads from the conventions to Election Day, just candidate spots) would be eligible for federal funds. They would get free airtime in short bursts during prime time or perhaps very heavily discounted prime-time spots (say, 80 percent off regular unit prices). Candidates who did not go along would pay a premium.

And what about ads that highlight one of the candidates’ flaws or previous, uh, missteps? Well, opposition research is pretty thorough. Most of what is known about a candidate has been dug up (if not publicized) well before the acutal nomination. If you don’t have the goods on your opponent by the close of the convention m August, you’re too slow to be in this business.

Again, there is nothing to prevent one candidate from using his time m front of the camera to discuss the other guy’s big secret. But this would be a good test of how the candidates evaluate the importance of some issues, and how they feel past mistakes weigh in forming policies. In other words, if a candidate feels silly talking about his opponent’s pot experiment in 1965, then it’s probably a silly issue to raise near the end of a presidential race. “The accountability of candidates on camera would have a major impact on our electoral politics,” Taylor said m an interview. “But there are some serious constitutional problems with trying to get candidates to abandon slick ads in favor of their own appearances.”

One problem, of course, is how to deal with the two broad groups of political advertisers who front for the candidates. The independent expenditures groups, such as the national political parties, can spend what they went doing conventional ads, as long as they do not coordinate their activities with the candidate. That flimsy prohibition has been little more than a joke in the last two campaigns, both for Republicans and Democrats. In addition, the First Amendment allows any group to buy airtime supporting a candidate if it chooses.

The other problem is the issue-advocacy ads from various organizations (in the last campaign, the two egregious examples were Big Labor and Big Business, which found more loopholes than Chantilly lacemakers). As Taylor has pointed out, the kinks in the various campaign-reform ideas have not been completely ironed out.

President Clinton recently appointed CBS Entertainment president Les Moonves and Washington commentator Norman Ornstein to a new commission reviewing the public-interest obligations of broadcasters and the free-time-for-candidates matter. Sens. John McCain (R.-Ariz.) and Russ Feingold (D-Wis.) have also introduced a campaign-reform bill involving the carrot-stick approach with federal funds. And there’s even a “Stand by Your Ad” bill rattling around the House (it has no chance of becoming law) that would make candidates accountable on the air for ads run on their behalf.

Americans are sick of the political-advertising assault on their airwaves. Ultimately, what American electoral politics needs is an advertising-free period on TV, close to the election, when the candidates must live or die by their own actions. They would still have newspapers and radio for their artistic-advertising outlets. But no voters or viewers should have to endure a solid month of Bob Dole the Veteran and Bill Clinton the Daddy Bear as they did last fall. Give the people the real thing–and save the commercials for detergent.

Sen. John Ashcroft was hit with the biggest scandal of his political career in the middle of his second term as governor of Missouri. One evening in May 1990, his 12-year-old son needed to look at a book on Elizabethan England for a school assignment. Librarian Monteria Hightower, contacted at home by a security officer eager to help his boss, agreed to drive over and unlock the front door of the state library, which is closed on Sundays. Andrew Ashcroft spent about two and a half hours conducting his research.

The next day, Miss Hightower complained to the press about the inconvenience. Newspapers reported the story, a few editorialists huffed about abuse of power, and Ashcroft quickly apologized. Most folks in Missouri just laughed. Ashcroft’s squeaky-clean standards were well known. “If ever a state had a less exciting governor than John Ashcroft,” a columnist for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch griped shortly after the library incident, “I never heard about it.”

Ashcroft’s ethical record has placed him in a strong position to condemn President Clinton for the latest scandal and, hence, to get his own first real boost in the nascent 2000 presidential race. Not many politicians aspire to be the next Jimmy Carter, but Ashcroft does at least in this sense: he too wants to be the unimpeachable straight-shooter who restores people’s trust in the Presidency in the wake of a scandal-ridden predecessor.

Ashcroft has big assets in a GOP primary: he served two terms as governor in a Democratic-leaning state, he has a national profile as a senator, and, perhaps most importantly, the Religious Right regard him as one of their own.

Indeed, in the months ahead, Ashcroft has a legitimate chance to emerge as the most electable conservative in the presidential race. But he faces formidable obstacles as well. With a Boy Scout’s haircut and a choir boy’s politeness, Ashcroft does not make a forceful impression. Some politicians dominate a room; he fades into the wallpaper. His campaign will have to be a victory of doggedness over style, as he works to recreate the Reagan coalition from his base among social conservatives.

Ashcroft first started turning heads in Washington after charges became public that Monica Lewinsky had turned the President’s. Most Republicans maintained a code of silence when the former intern first hit the papers, but Ashcroft went into attack mode. “Mr. President,” he said at CPAC, the Conservative Political Action Conference, held in January, “if these allegations are true, you have disgraced yourself and the Office of the Presidency, and you should resign now.”

The speech drew a strong response from its audience, and an even stronger one from C-SPAN viewer James Dobson, founder of Focus on the Family and the second most popular figure among conservative evangelicals (just behind Billy Graham). “This is the message!!” Dobson wrote in a note faxed to Ashcroft. In February, in a highly publicized speech decrying the GOP’s reluctance to press the social-conservative agenda, Dobson threatened to bolt the party. He even briefly criticized Ashcroft for not speaking out more vigorously against gay rights.

But Dobson generally views Ashcroft with favor. “He’s a fine man, and he’s been a powerful voice in the Senate,” says Dobson, who may endorse political candidates for the first time this fall. Dobson’s speech was just another indication of the restiveness of the Religious Right, which Ashcroft could turn to his advantage. In the presidential race, Dobson makes it clear that he prefers Ashcroft and Gary Bauer, whose Family Research Council is a spinoff of Dobson’s Colorado-based Focus on the Family. Dobson won’t make any formal announcements until Bauer decides whether or not to run.

Like Bauer, Ashcroft isn’t just another politician courting evangelicals; he is part of the team. He’s the son of a minister, and an accomplished gospel singer with a striking baritone voice. “Ashcroft isn’t simply singing their tune,” says one GOP strategist. “He’s been playing in the band for a long time.” He meets with a small devotional group every morning in his office before the day’s business begins, and he likes to give visitors copies of his ten-song tape, The Gospel (Music) According to John, which he composed and produced himself. “He is one of the most prayerful men I know,” says longtime activist Paul Weyrich, an Ashcroft supporter.

At a Christian Coalition meeting in February, a sizable plurality of organization leaders named Ashcroft as their choice for 2000. Pat Robertson, who wants religious conservatives to rally around a single candidate early in the process, is reportedly looking for a way to endorse Ashcroft soon. Ashcroft’s advantage over other candidates of the Religious Right — Robertson in 1988, potentially Bauer in 2000 — is that he’s a professional politician who has been winning votes all his adult life.

“You always had the feeling he was looking for something up the line, ever since he was young,” says one ally. Ashcroft ran for Congress in 1972 and lost. Despite this, Gov. Kit Bond, now Missouri’s senior senator, was impressed and appointed him to a vacant state-auditor position in 1973. Ashcroft lost re-election in 1974, but ran successfully for state attorney general two years later. After two terms in that post, he was elected governor in 1984. In his 1988 re-election, he carried 64 per cent of the vote, the best showing of any Missouri governor since the Civil War.

As soon as he won election to the Senate in the 1994 GOP sweep, Ashcroft began discussing among close friends the possibility of running for the White House. He says his disillusionment with the 1997 budget deal, which he opposed, encouraged him to become serious. Although he won’t announce his intentions until the end of 1998 or early 1999, Ashcroft acknowledges that he’s laying the groundwork. “It’s like running the mile,” he says. “You have to run the first few laps, and run them hard, before you know if you’re really even in the race.”

IN this case he’ll have to run those laps very hard indeed. A February poll of registered voters in New Hampshire revealed Ashcroft’s low name recognition (only 14 per cent of respondents had an opinion of him) and his long odds: 0 per cent named him their first choice for the GOP nomination. “Even John Kasich got 2 per cent,” says one Republican strategist. Two per cent did name Ashcroft as their second choice. If he adds an exhausting travel schedule to continued visibility because of the Clinton scandal, his numbers are bound to rise. But skeptics point to his personality and say he won’t catch fire.

Despite his ambition, Ashcroft is quiet, unassuming, and not a natural self-promoter. He regularly displays flashes of humor in private and occasionally even in formal settings, but his public persona can seem as flat as the Missouri landscape. Last summer, Steve Forbes — not known as a scintillating orator — upstaged him at a Christian Coalition gathering that was widely billed as Ashcroft’s coming-out party. When Ashcroft delivers his stump speech, listeners can get the sense that he would rather be back at his farm in Springfield tinkering with his old tractor or gigging fish on the Osage River.

Ashcroft’s strategy is methodically to consolidate his position on the right. In the Senate, he has fought against national testing standards, activist judges, and the nomination of pro-abortion Surgeon General David Satcher — causes dear to the hearts of social conservatives. In 1995, he forced the first-ever floor vote on term limits over Majority Leader Bob Dole’s loud objections, and in 1996 he wrote the part of the welfare-reform law allowing states to deliver services through churches and private agencies. “He’s a committed conservative,” says a top Senate staffer. “I’ve never seen him trim, not even behind closed doors.”

The question is whether Ashcroft can add economic conservatives to his base. Last September, he took an important first step by pushing a bill that would allow workers to deduct their Social Security payments from taxable income. In January, he proposed a broader tax-cut plan that includes this measure and that also would reduce the number of rates from five to four, and lower all rates except the top one, which remains unchanged at 39.6 per cent in a transparent attempt to shield Ashcroft from class-warfare demagoguery.

So far, the plan has won little attention. Close advisors say that Ashcroft will focus more energy on building bridges to the economic Right as April 15 approaches. “The GOP leadership’s timidity on taxes is a tragedy,” he said at a recent Republican roundup in Biloxi, Miss. — Majority Leader Trent Lott’s backyard.

Ashcroft’s record as governor may not help. In its 1992 fiscal-policy report card on governors, the Cato Institute gave Ashcroft a C — the same grade it gave liberal New York Gov. Mario Cuomo. “Ashcroft has built a reputation as a fiscal conservative, but it may not be deserved,” wrote Stephen Moore, the study’s author. State expenditures rose annually at a 4 per cent real rate during his terms in office. Ashcroft also approved two gas-tax increases and in 1991 campaigned on behalf of Proposition B, an education-reform and tax-increase package that voters overwhelmingly rejected.

But Ashcroft had to deal with a legislature where Democrats often held a 2 to 1 advantage. And taxes overall in “Mizzoura,” as it sounds filtered through Ashcroft’s Border State twang, remained low. Missouri had the second-lowest state and local tax burden per capita in the country in 1992, Ashcroft’s final year as governor. Moreover, the state remains one of the cheaper places to buy gas in America. On his drives back home from Washington, in fact, Ashcroft has been known to run his fuel tank down to near empty so that he can save a few dollars by filling up on the other side of the Mississippi River.

Gov. Ashcroft also angered many social conservatives for his support of trendy educational theories. The so-called Parents as Teachers program, for instance, had “parent educators” visiting the homes of pre-schoolers. “It’s fair to say that John did not see the mutations of outcome-based education soon enough,” says Rep. James Talent (R., Mo.), who served in the state legislature during the Ashcroft administration. “But nobody believes that he wants a self-esteem curriculum.” His work in the Senate has mollified former critics. One of these, Eagle Forum leader Phyllis Schlafly, is now a fan. “The fights from six years ago are way off the radar screen now,” she says.

In 1985, Missouri’s two Major League baseball teams, the Kansas City Royals and the St. Louis Cardinals, played in the World Series. Instead of rooting for one team over the other, Gov. Ashcroft cheered for both. He even made a special hat with bills on either side, which he flipped around between innings. “I was always for the team that was batting,” he says. For some politicians, that might signal indecisiveness or double-dealing. “There’s another way of looking at it,” says Rep. Roy Blunt (R., Mo.). “John was always on offense.” He’ll need to stay that way if he’s going to follow in the footsteps of that other evangelical former governor from twenty years ago.

Last month the Kansas City Star carried a hot story without quite realizing it. It reported that Gary Bauer was “sounding decidedly presidential” in a speech to supporters of a local Christian school. That was merely the latest Bauer sighting. The Economist in May had called Bauer “the most amazing embodiment of the permanent campaign,” noting that he gave eight speeches during a busy day in Iowa, including a well-attended 6 A.M. prayer breakfast. And earlier Bob Novak and the Washing-ton Times — both better plugged in to the Right than most of the mass media — had noticed that Bauer was making noises about campaign 2000.

Gary Bauer’s intentions have otherwise received little notice in Washington, where attention has focused on the ambitions of Capitol Hill figures like Newt Gingrich, John Kasich, and Fred Thompson. But Bauer, head of the Family Research Council, has been politely but unmistakably signaling his interest for well over a year. By next December he is as likely as any Washington lawmaker to be a full-fledged presidential candidate.

Indeed, the bug bit him quite a while ago. One month before election day last year, Bauer declared, “This is the second failed [Republican presidential] campaign in a row. I’m sick and tired of the political party that stands for death being bold and outspoken, while my party appears to be afraid. If we can’t find someone . . . to stand up for the sanctity of life, in four more years I’ll do it myself.” His frustration with the Republican field dates back to 1995, when he faulted Phil Gramm for paying insufficient attention to social issues, criticized conservatives who were flirting with a Colin Powell candidacy, and himself flirted with Pat Buchanan. Ultimately Bauer didn’t support a candidate. But he is unlikely to remain neutral during the next primary season.

Bauer explains that he would enthusiastically back a candidate who effectively addressed the “moral deficit” in the country. For now he is watching closely — and by doing so, influencing — the preliminary pronouncements of the early GOP field. He is seen by GOP professionals as a good barometer of the concerns of grassroots social conservatives. He earned their allegiance the hard way — by taking on the Republican establishment on behalf of the issues they care about.

Unlike most insurgent candidates, moreover, he can call on serious resources. The political action committee he founded a year ago (the Campaign for Working Families) has already raised $2 million. That makes it one of the largest PACs — an astonishing achievement for a committee devoted to family issues. A CWF official explains one highly significant reason: donors are disappointed with the GOP’s reluctance to address social issues. And when Republicans do advance the pro-life agenda — as when they voted overwhelmingly to ban partial-birth abortions — Bauer’s donors give him the credit: he pressured the party to respond to their concerns.

The CWF will support conservative pro-family candidates in 1998, as it did this year in New Mexico’s special congressional election and in Virginia’s attorney-general race. So far, the CWF has helped candidates running for open seats. But one advisor makes clear that it “wouldn’t hesitate to engage” in a contested primary where the GOP incumbent held the wrong positions on family issues.

Bauer has defined these to include more than protecting the unborn, parental rights, or school prayer. He favors a “family-friendly” flat tax that treats child-rearing as an investment in human capital deserving the same treatment as other forms of investment. He worries that privatizing Social Security will hurt traditional families. He argues that American foreign policy should be animated by moral concerns, not just strategic or economic ones. And when he opposed free trade with China, he accused the GOP of sacrificing Main Street values to Wall Street pressures.

Unlike other outsider candidates, Bauer can also claim a record in government. He worked for Reagan, first as a top Education Department official and later as Director of the White House Office of Policy Development. Today he talks about the importance of re-creating the Reagan coalition of economic and social conservatives. But on economic issues he frequently sounds more like the Pat Buchanan of the Nineties than his boss in the Eighties. One veteran of the 1996 Buchanan campaign recognizes the similarities. “If Gary decides to run, he’ll have to sit down and talk with Pat.”

ONE of his advisors believes that Bauer could run an effective primary campaign by building on the Buchanan pro-life base: “A Washington non-fact is that Pat Buchanan came in second in Iowa and won the New Hampshire primary.” And he thinks Bauer starts out with two advantages over Buchanan: organization and fundraising. But unlike Pat Buchanan when he ran against Bob Dole, Bauer would not enjoy a monopoly on social issues. In 2000, there will be candidates like Dan Quayle and John Ashcroft. Support for Steve Forbes is also growing among social conservatives.

This is now a vital battleground. Social conservatives account for roughly 30 to 40 per cent of the primary vote. And thanks to the efforts of organizations like Bauer’s Family Research Council, there is today more agreement in the GOP on opposition to abortion than on tax reform. But there is a snag. While a Bauer campaign would pull establishment GOP candidates further toward social conservatism, says one campaigner, it “would also cannibalize the pro-family vote.” Thus, Alan Keyes cost Pat Buchanan Iowa in 1996.

So Bauer faces a nice calculation: whether to run and guarantee a strong social message at the expense of dividing the Right, or to unite it behind the strongest pro-family candidate. His career until now suggests that in 2000 he will stand wherever he thinks he can have the greatest impact on America’s moral crisis. That need not be Iowa or New Hampshire. But it might be.

The field is wide open. Gut-check time. The place: Nashua, New Hampshire, where presidents are made. You’d have to be an idiot to run. We’ve got the man Leyner 2000!

This is a story about politics, ruthless personal ambition, insatiable sexual appetite, corned-beef hash, candlepin bowling, and how a small coterie of venal politicians made a decision in a smoke-filled hotel room whose ramifications could potentially threaten the very survival of the republic. And it all takes place within a forty-eight-hour time span in a city on the banks of the mighty Merrimack River–a city called Nashua, New Hampshire.

Before you can even hope to understand what happened in that hotel room, some historical background is necessary. All my life, I’ve secretly wanted a mosaic-tiled palace swaddled in concertina wire and autocratic control of a treasury and air force, but until now I was psychologically unable to articulate that desire, even to myself.

Although confident that I possessed a certain oratorical flair–one might even say a unique genius for demagogy–I was nonetheless concerned that a personality defect might make it difficult, if not impossible, for me to succeed in politics: I’m extremely, extremely shy. Okay, maybe that’s euphemistic candy coating for my real problem: a dual proclivity for misanthropy (most men initially strike me as slobbering, fart-happy imbeciles) and clinical satyriasis (when I meet a woman for the first time, any woman–crossing guard, supermarket cashier, giant-slalom gold medalist, Nobel laureate–I become obsessed with what she looks and sounds like when she has an orgasm). I was assured, though, by several of my most trusted and savvy advisers that this was actually an exemplary psychological profile for an American political leader.

And so it was determined that I make a secret, whirlwind foray into Nashua to ascertain if I had the proverbial fire in the belly for a presidential run. New Hampshire is, of course, the site of what has traditionally been the country’s first presidential primary, and Nashua–which, in the language of the Am-Xingante Indians of central Brazil, means “the act of blowing something into a body cavity”–was recently rated number one in Money magazine’s annual Best Places to Live survey.

The plan was to spend two days strolling Main Street and trawling the outlying malls, glad-handing the citizenry, culminating in a late-night powwow of my inner circle at the Nashua Marriott.

Day One, Decision 2000

I walk through downtown Nashua, an elegy, in slate-gray skies and red-brick facades, to a bygone era when textile mills were the engine of a thriving economy. Today the renovated mill buildings of the old Nashua Manufacturing Company house almost four hundred residential units. The economy is now driven by high-tech and software companies dispersed throughout Greater Nashua. This is putatively a renascent downtown, but I’m not so sure. It’s early afternoon on a weekday, and there’s, like, nobody around. Luckily, I do encounter a few stray pedestrians, upon whom I audition my evolving candidate’s spiel: “Hello, my name is Mark Leyner. I’m a neo-Robespierrist tae kwon do practitioner running for president of the United States. I advocate the violent redistribution of wealth in this country and the establishment of French and Yiddish as the national languages. I intend to concentrate the locus of power in Hoboken, New Jersey,” etcetera, etcetera. Shivering and blowing warm air into my cupped hands, I check out my brand-new mustache in the reflection in the window of Aubuchon Hardware. Expressly grown for political purposes, of course. I figured it gave me that sort of belle epoque, Belgian-trapeze-artist look that just might appeal to voters up here.

Then, taking a well-deserved respite from the rigors of the campaign, I sit down for a superb lunch of chili and Cajun catfish at the Coyote Cafe on Main Street. (A seasoned traveler, I’ve learned that it pays to stick with the cuisine of the region.) Two waiters are discussing who’s scarier–Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street or Jason from Friday the 13th. I decide to diverge from my prepared remarks (what my advisers refer to as “talking points”) and engage in a bit of casual banter. I weigh in with an extemporaneous opinion: “You know what I think is, like, the way scariest scene in any movie? That scene at the end of Chained Heat II in which Brigitte Nielsen is about to have sex with the crazy, sadistic guard, and she takes off her neoprene bustier, and out pop Donna Mills and Connie Sellecca, and you realize that they’ve been in her bustier for the entire movie…. I mean, whoa! It’s really chilling.”

Preliminary evaluation of the campaign to date: I don’t think people are relating to me terribly well. And quite honestly, the feeling is mutual.

Returning late that afternoon to my suite at the Marriott, I order up black coffee and a pack of Chuckles–a typical campaign dinner–and study the evening itinerary There’s a surprisingly varied assortment of activities taking place in the Greater Nashua area, many of which might prove politically lucrative to attend. I reduce my options to a La Leche League meeting at the Hollis Library, the Nashua Board of Aldermen meeting, and the Merrimack Valley Antique Bottle Club, and, surmising that it might provide a convenient opportunity for some backroom chicanery, I opt for the aldermen.

I don’t know how many of you have ever been in an Aldermanic Chamber, but it’s not an experience I recommend to the faint of heart. I’m sure you’ve seen photographs or perhaps even film footage of experimental subjects in Aldermanic Chambers, so you’re no doubt familiar with the violently flapping cheeks, the bulging eyes, and the sudden loss of consciousness experienced within minutes of entry. I last through Resolution 98-04–Relative to the Transfer of $25,000 from Account Number 591-86005 (General Contingency) to Account Number 512-59100 (Financial Services, Miscellaneous Services)–and 0-98-07, Eliminating the Landfill’s One Free Dump Program. Then my cheeks begin to flap violently, my eyes bulge, and. I begin to drift in and out of consciousness. I bolt from the chamber and rush outside into the bracingly frigid air. I’m shaken. And for the first time since I arrived in Nashua, I seriously consider shutting down the exploratory campaign and going home. Yet, intrepidly, I carry on.

Day Two, Decision 2000

My informants in Nashua have assured me that the Central Diner at 1.68 Main Street is, in fact, the true vortex of political power in town–the obligatory photo-op venue for any presidential candidate who’s serious about competing in this state’s critical primary contest. So, early the next morning, that’s exactly where I head for breakfast.

The diner is a spartan affair: two semicircular counters, swiveling stools, lots of stainless steel. It smells wonderful, reeking of hot grease, cigarette smoke, and coffee. I’ve had great breakfasts all over the world-from the twenty-five-thousand-franc all-you-can-eat Sunday brunch at Les Gupes in Cap d’Antibes to Bikpela Numbawan in Fiji, where the sausage links taste tantalizingly human–but my breakfast at Nashua’s Central Diner ranks right up there with the best of them. Eggs over easy, pan fries, rye toast, a mammoth side of corned-beef hash, a bottomless cup of coffee, and a pack of Marlboros. Shit! That’s yummy eatin’, chief!

Buoyed by the incomparable chow, I attempt to jump-start my campaign by chatting up some locals at the counter. My advisers had reiterated the importance of staying on message, so I return to my standard themes about how most men, at least initially, strike me as slobbering, fart-happy imbeciles and about the orgasmic grandeur of the American working woman, et cetera. There are several awkward silences, during which everyone seated at the counter mutely stares off in a different direction. I take a last swig of coffee, smoke down the butt end of my Marlboro, and settle up, leaving an ostentatiously exorbitant tip on the counter just to show the natives that I’m a class act.

Next, I drive to the Somerset mall, out near the intersection of Amherst Street and Somerset Parkway. They’ve got a Kmart, a Golf Day, a Dress Barn, Fashion Bug, Walgreens, Blockbuster, TCBY Treats, and a supermarket called Market Basket. Again, my intention is to have casual interactions with average shoppers and perhaps feign interest in some of the merchandise.

At Kmart, my mustache enables me to strike up a conversation with a saleswoman about the merits of the Conair Beard & Mustache Trimmer versus the Wahl Cordless Groomsman. And in an effort to enhance my credentials as an outdoorsman, I pretend to compare several brands of molasses deer lick and toss into my cart a Mr. Squirrel Squirrel Whistle (“Designed and used successfully by squirrel hunters. Excites squirrels!”).

At Golf Day, I take a few wild practice swings with a Great Big Bertha Titanium Metal Wood, scattering the staff, and introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Mark Leyner. I’m a neo-Robespierrist tae kwon do practitioner running for president of the United States.” I keep it substantive and consistent.

Likewise at Blockbuster Video, where I make simple, albeit totally gratuitous, recommendations to a middle-aged couple looking for romantic movies to rent for the weekend. “The Daisy Fuentes Totally Fit Workout video and Beastmaster III. The Eye of Braxus, with Lesley-Anne Down,” I suggest, winking salaciously.

Finally, at Market Basket, two tactical master strokes, one showcasing, my engagement with foreign-policy issues, the other, my fluency in domestic discourse. First, I actually become misty-eyed, gazing at a Hebrew National Beef Salami nestled next to a Lebanon Bologna at the deli counter, Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I remark to a woman pistol-whipping her towheaded toddler with his own Super Soaker, if, someday, Jew and Arab could coexist as peaceably as that? And then, in the lavishly stocked greeting-card aisle, after taking note of the breadth of its categories (Belated Birthday, Young Niece, Romantic Sympathy, New Baby, etcetera), I point out that there are several egregious voids in the inventory. What about Broken Limb After Failure to Pay Loan Shark Vigorish, or Sorry to Hear About the Fatwah, or Saint Patrick’s Day/Liposuction (“Now You’re Such a Svelte Young Lass, Since They Vacuumed Out Your Ass”)? Suddenly, there’s a cacophony of excited voices as fellow shoppers stream into the greeting-card aisle, yelling suggestions for new categories (Happy Birthday to Unemployed Stepdad from Goth Stepdaughter, Farm Machinery Accident Involving Alcohol, et cetera). What political capital I gain here, though, is unclear.

Next stop: Leda Lanes, a candlepin-bowling alley on Amherst. There are several differences between candlepin bowling and the more widespread strain. In candlepins, the pins are thinner, the ball is smaller and lighter, and each frame consists of three balls. Most fascinating, though, is the concept of deadwood: All felled pins remain in play. While deadwood will help in making spares and strikes, it can also be very deceiving. Allow me to quote one haunting passage from the literature available at the counter: “Scores in candlepins will probably be much lower than you are used to getting in other bowling games. Don’t be discouraged. Remember how small the balls are and how far apart are the pins.”

I descend to the lanes, where I approach a posse of seniors in the midst of some amiable but competitive bowling. This turns out to be the most comfortable and successful interaction with Nashuans of any I have during the entire exploratory campaign. I revisit the themes I’ve been hammering at throughout my visit and also broach several new topics, including “improper” sexual relationships in the White House.

“Apropos of oral sex in the presidential residence, I subscribe to the `trickle-down theory.’ This suggests that the more oral sex that occurs at the upper echelons of society, the more will ultimately accrue to the lower levels,” I say. “And this is a good thing for the American people.”

Although this theory is met with a certain restrained enthusiasm, I again experience that nagging feeling that, in the end, I’m merely being humored, that somehow I’m failing to connect.