Author: Jack Gordon

I have been in close personal contact with both President George W. Bush and Massachusetts Senator John Kerry. I am embarrassed to admit I don’t recall my previous dealings with either gentleman, but somehow each has become convinced that he can count on my fervent support in this year’s presidential race. Awkward. What to do?

It was awfully nice of Mr. Kerry to write me a personal letter describing his repugnance for the Bush administration. I was especially flattered that he took the trouble to address the envelope by hand. He employed a distinctive, non-smearing blue ink. I tested it with my thumb, and nary a smudge. Very considerate of him.

Mr. Bush’s letter, which arrived the same day, was actually written by Mr. Marc Racicot, chairman of Bush-Cheney ’04 Inc. For a moment, it’s true, I felt snubbed. Certainly Mr. Bush is a busy man, preoccupied with those hourly phone calls from Vice President Cheney demanding more war spoils for the Halliburton Corporation. But just the same, I thought, if the fellow can’t be bothered to scribble me even a quick P.S., perhaps Mr. Kerry is the more deserving candidate after all.

Two things gave me pause. First, Mr. Racicot took pains to let me know that Mr. Bush does, indeed, regard me as a particular chum. When he read over his letter after typing it, he went so far as to cross out his original salutation, “Dear Friend,” and replace it with “Dear Jack.” (Mr. Racicot appears to own the same type of blue pen as Mr. Kerry, and if it weren’t so far-fetched, I would even swear that the handwriting of the two political foes is identical.)

Furthermore, Mr. Racicot assures me that he “would be thrilled to tell the President you are with us.” Evidently I am much in Mr. Bush’s thoughts, even though he was forced to delegate the actual letter writing.

But the second and greater thing was this: Looking further into the contents of the oversized envelope, I discovered that Mr. Bush did, after all, take the time to dash off a handwritten personal note—and quite a gracious one. “Grassroots leaders like you,” he says, “are the key to building a winning team.” What’s more, those kind words are scrawled on the bottom of an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch color photo of the president and his wife, Laura, addressed specifically to me and signed by both of them. They are standing together on a lawn, in front of some trees. Mr. Bush is dressed as a sort of cowboy. Both his own mischievous smile and Laura’s long-suffering one make you wonder where his right hand is.

This is not a picture that some anonymous secretary would mail to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. No, when he selected this shot, the president definitely had me in mind. Good grief, you’d think I would remember meeting the man.

Upon closer reading of Mr. Kerry’s letter, I noticed that he makes no mention of my leadership qualities. In more than one instance, in fact, he appeals quite boldly for money. As you can imagine, my allegiance swung to Mr. Bush. But once again I found cause to hesitate.

The card that Mr. Kerry enclosed to facilitate my personal reply gives me four boxes to check by way of indicating my degree of enthusiasm for his candidacy. The amounts range from $25 to $100 (plus “other”).

Mr. Bush, believing me to be a Republican, set his expectations higher. His card offers seven boxes, the amounts climbing to a staggering height of $1,000.

Now, it’s true that Mr. Bush’s card comes with a postage-paid envelope, described as an “added gift” (in addition to the photo, he means), while Mr. Kerry evidently expects me to buy my own stamp. But this only worsens the dilemma.

It would be one thing, having paid for the stamp, to check Mr. Kerry’s “other” box and send him a dollar, along with my policy suggestions regarding health care, jobs, education, and the four or five other issues he chose as topics with which to begin our correspondence.

It would be quite another thing to send my dollar and my recommendations to a man who not only has given me a swell photograph and a pre-paid envelope but who is sitting in the Oval Office anticipating a check for a thousand bucks. Might this not poison my budding friendship with Mr. Bush? Indeed, might not Mr. Racicot deepen the rift by allowing an edge of sarcasm to creep into his tone when he says, “Mr. President, I am thrilled to tell you that Jack is with us?”

These are the headaches you run into when you develop personal friendships with politicians, I suppose.

I shouldn’t have let either of them get so close. Now someone’s feelings are bound to be hurt. Maybe I’ll pretend both letters got lost in the mail—and go spend my dollar on one of those neat blue pens. If anyone calls to ask in a wounded voice why I failed to respond,
I only hope it isn’t Laura.

O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? My girlish companions at the modeling agency would make much sport of such a name. Yet my heart is thine. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to Romeo, the more I have, for both are infinite. Were not the mask of night upon my face, a maiden blush would bepaint my cheek for that which thou heard me speak tonight, whilst we in the hot tub did frolic. Romeo, thou art the god of my idolatry!

But soft! Mercutio approacheth. A fellow of infinite jest. How he maketh me laugh! This bud of love I feel for him, by summer’s ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flow’r when next we meet. The producers avow that for our special one-on-one getaway date I shall wing him by private jet to romantic Puerto Rico. Mercutio, if that thy bent of love be honorable, and thou alarmest me not with more feverish speech of that Queen Mab person, mayhap we shall forswear our separate rooms and choose to couple tenderly in the fantasy suite.

Benvolio. Now there is a really nice guy. I would he were my bird, yet I fear I should kill him with much cherishing. As we continue on this sweetheart’s journey, gentle Benvolio, the path leadeth surely to a holy altar and a wedding made pink and wondrous by the bottomless treasure of ABC. Oh, to exchange thy love’s faithful vow for mine! Though in truth I gave thee mine before thou didst request it. I pray thee, Benvolio, think me not false, nor impute this yielding to light love, should it come to pass in the morrow’s rose ceremony that I bequeath my precious flowers to others and send thee in the limo packing.

The County Paris hath gained much favor with mom and dad—yea, he did score a great hit with all of the family on our televised pilgrimage to my beloved Ohio home. The nurse esteemeth him highly, as well, and holds Romeo but a dishclout to him. Paris, thou art a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, and thou hast comforted me marvelous much. “Venus smiles not in a house of tears,” thou spake so sweetly, when I told thee of the white-pawed pussycat that brightened my girlhood days and of the fearsome Chevrolet ’neath whose cruel wheels she untimely perished. How my heart did melt at thy tender protestations of sorrow! And the poem thou made on the cocktail napkin, that so happily did rhyme “kitten” with “smitten.” Oh, be but sworn my love, good Paris, and I’ll no longer be a cat widow.

Ay me! Fiery cousin Tybalt. Never a dull moment when he is about. And so passing fair of form and face! Forsooth, he could do underwear layouts for great Abercrombie. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till the night that Tybalt stepped forth from yet another gleaming limo and made haste into my trembling maiden arms. Like the nineteen others. Fie upon “cousin”! Cousin is a mere honorific. It pertaineth, if I mistake not, to some far-flung relation by brief and turbulent marriage to a maternal great aunt. My slumber need be not vexed by visions of monstrosities from recessive genes sprung forth. Yet even should the tie of blood prove nearer, rash Tybalt—O trespass sweetly urged!

Did I say trespass? Laurence. Dear, dear Friar Laurence. A man of the cloth, yet more ardent in thy wooing even than the County Paris. “What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?” quoth thou, wiping thy nose and noble chin from the chaste morning kiss I granted on our second group date. Yea, fair friar, ’twas at the petting zoo thou won my steadfast heart, there where the producers sent the six of us—thou, me, and those other suitors, now departed, that I loved so, and love truly still, each one, though cruel and rose-stingy fate too soon hath torn them from me. Oh, gods, what were their names? Thou, beloved Laurence, art with me still, now and for eternity. Yet my heart misgives. Perhaps thou may repent thy choice to flee thy craggy monastery. Or discover that thou art gay.

Only four piteous roses for the next ceremony! Tragic few! I pray thee, gentlemen, think not my passion too quickly won, nor my ’havior light. Parting would be such sweet sorrow. Two true loves must I ditch upon the morrow.