Maybe it is the October-like weather we are having in Chicago, but I find myself in an autumnal mood these days. I sleep deeply, soundly, and more than usual, dreaming in muted colors of people far from the day-to-day bit of my life. After waking from a rather odd encounter with our frat-boy White House interloper, I went out and bought three tickets to tomorrow's opening of "Farenheit 9/11." During the day, I gulp down information about what is really going on out there, and I suppose by night I try to make sense out of it. But as I read and listen and watch, I am possessed of a quieting feeling that I associate with fall: an urge toward hibernation and a preoccupation with harvesting the fruits of the season past. I suspect I'm not the only one fighting off the urge to just turn away from the Great Train Wreck in progress. Sure, the movie will be depressing as hell, but I'll have a witness, in that old evangelical sense of the word. A whole room full of them. As I understand it, the 7:30 show here in my little town is nearly sold out.
I have a ticket to see Bill Clinton next week and to have him sign my copy of My Life. I saw him on "60 Minutes" last Sunday and listened to a taped interview with him on NPR this morning. For the record, let me say I think he is a formidably intelligent man and I share his impatience with the Lewinsky fixation. I want to scream at all the woo-woo journalists and their patrons to "Get the #&*% over it! The man got a blow job from a zaftig little social climber who now makes tote bags for a living!" It is a tedious story. Middle-aged men all over America have similar stories to tell, and while it may reflect poorly on President Clinton's control over his appetites, it hardly reduces his accomplishments. The book, for me, will be an antidote to six years of Starr porn. It will also give me something substantial to read while I stand in line. And while you couldn't PAY me to have some face time (in real time, dreams don't count) with the President Punk-Ass, I'll stand in line to see Bill. Or Hill. Or Chelsea, for that matter. Apparently, lots of other folks feel the same. Bill Clinton's memoir is already a best seller, which is more evidence that I am not alone in my nostalgia for those eight kind years of peace and prosperity.