Of Candidates, Charisma and Dating The Democratic Vote

All right.

If we're going to talk about charisma in terms of viability, issues and substantive matters aside (which, eventually and unfortunately, they always seem to be in this, the country's biggest popularity contest), this is the opinion of one woman.

Edwards is the cute, jeans-and-a-blazer guy who shows up at the door right on the dot of 8, makes polite conversation with your folks, opens the car door for you-(it's a late model Chevy), takes you to Steak and Shake and then an action comedy, won't let you pay for a thing, brings you home promptly at 12, tries to steal a kiss, and you may or may not let him. You also may or may not give him That Final Vote Of Approval.

Kerry is the guy who shows up a little late, on his bike, and is vague about whether you were supposed to actually go out. Before deciding whether the walk to town is worth it, you sit down in the kitchen for a lemonade. He starts talking about the things that interest him, and you notice a detached yet passionate affection in him for the things in which he believes. He talks, you listen, and although he may not be saying things that are witty or clever, you are hanging on his every word, because he is sincere. You try to get him to smile by making a few lame jokes, and he smiles politely, kindly even, but you can tell he really doesn't get it. Still, he is every bit a nice guy, if only you could break down a little of that New England reserve. You linger in the kitchen, talking more, and you can't remember the last time you heard some of these words used conversationally. Is this guy for real or what? And yet you sense not only that he is very real, but that underlying his rather formal, wonky exterior is a fellow capable of great passion. There is a certain sadness in his eyes too -- if only you could know him a little better. You look at the clock and discover that not only is it too late to go anywhere, but it is time for him to leave. Rats! You walk him out to the garden path; he picks up his bicycle and says something about being able to see the stars to the third magnitude when weather conditions are a certain way. You realize he isn't flirting with you -- he is genuinely interested in the stars. You walk along to the end of the path, and, as he goes to get on his bike, you wait on tiptoe, eyes half-closed, for -- what? You are startled from your reverie by the sound of bike wheels crunching on gravel. "Bye," he says, kindly but a little puzzled, hoping that your standing there with your eyes half-closed doesn't mean you aren't feeling well. "We'll be seeing you", he says, waves and rides off into the night, his lanky Jimmy Stewart frame wobbling a bit until he rights the bike. You watch him disappear down the lane, sigh and walk back to the house. As you sit staring out the kitchen window at fireflies over the garden, you realize that you may not understand, but you want to know more. This guy, unusual though he is, maybe even a little weird -- THIS guy is going to get The Final Vote Of Approval. If you have to walk to the poll to cast it.

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This has nothing to do with the issues; it's a charisma thing. It is also a work of fiction; I have never dated anybody from New England OR with a late model Chevy. But, in the words of the late Mike Royko, I was just sayin'.... It's the little stuff that makes the election decisions, unfortunately. Howard Dean's media-synergized meltdown is probably the most textbook example of this to come along since Thomas Eagleton.