The Breakfast Table

First Person, Rural


Great to hear from you! Sorry I overslept. Loved your message. If I could write like you … well, I won’t finish that thought.

Yes, I did start my day in New Hampshire, and perused four newspapers this morning at Lydia’s Cafe. (Amusing how, like Bill Clinton, the Slate set now begrudgingly returns from summer aeries to tend to the Business At Hand. Of course, we don’t have to save Russia–or our own skins, for that matter. We just have to put our children back in school.)

Loved your AA-echo line, “My name is Bill” … though somehow I don’t think our President will be joining former Red Sox third baseman Wade Boggs (not related to Cokie Roberts, BTW) at any addiction gatherings. He and Boris would have plenty to talk about on this score, but somehow I don’t think it will come to that. My nice-but-very-right-wing brother phoned the house I was staying at last night–I had already retired by 9pm–to announce that Monicagate has MIRV’ed as it were; that more interns have been summoned into the Starr chamber, etc etc. We’ll have to check into the trusty Drudge site, though I haven’t done so yet. I was thinking of my brother-in-law, and right-wingers’ eager moralizing, on the drive down. He just did a huge piece of business with Bob Packwood, but would have us toss Mr. Bill overboard. Best not to preach, a maxim I suspect you and I can agree on.

I did promise to work in one of my favorite papers, the Manchester Union Leader, so here goes. Over the weekend, they ran a big story about Dick Swett, the former Congressman, getting himself appointed ambassador to Denmark. (There’s a great little sidebar to be done on Clinton’s ambassadorial appointments to Scandinavia, but I’ll refrain.) Swett, we recall, is the man who leaned into a microphone during the 1992 Democratic National Convention, and promised to stick with Clinton “until the last dog dies.”

Well, Dick is off to the Tivoli Gardens, and maybe it’s time to check Buddy’s pulse.

Yr pal, Alex