Confessions of a Political Junkie: The Cold Turkey of November

I am a sick man, I can admit that. These days, I can’t even begin to be concerned about the economic recovery, because I badly need a program for campaign recovery--one with at least 12 steps.

Perhaps you recognize the symptoms. The desire for a new campaign to start immediately. A hope that James Carville, Mary Matalin and Dana Carvey get a TV show together as a sort of political mod squad. Certain words causing an instantaneous doubling of the heart rate: New Hampshire, anything-gate, Flowers, change--which can lead to problems in the supermarket checkout line, or at the florist.

I know the names of more than a dozen pollsters, where they’re from and who they last worked for. I have discussed in dead earnestness the differences between Peter Jennings’ and Tom Brokaw’s ties, and what that portends for anchor-wear. I remember what color the swing voters line was in the CNN people meter. I even recall elements of the candidates’ program proposals.

Like many people trying to handle a serious problem, I blame others. Starting with the Media.

It didn’t matter where you tuned, everyone was interviewing someone and gauging something. George Will, Bill Moyers, Murphy Brown, we’d expect. But “Donahue,” Arsenio, “Good Morning America”? No one anticipated they’d attempt substance.

And the old hands of campaign coverage tried luring us back, like so many Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman, through technology. Capping that campaign-within-the-campaign had to be CNN’s people meter. Here was a method that sought to measure humans in the same way we measure electricity. It had me on the edge of my couch.

But most of all, I blame Ross.

He was like honey, I was like a bee. Quitting, de-quitting, snarling at the media, tossing away advisers as if tea in Boston Harbor. What he lacked in explanations, he more than made up for in drama. And while the far right was duking it out with the new left, that man was at home creating a concept for which he’ll go down in history: the far center.

No, it wasn’t just me paying more attention. It was them getting more attention. And I loved it.

I ate it up, absorbed it in large and no doubt carcinogenic doses. But my hunger only grew, and I wanted more. More experts, more town meetings, yes, even more debates. I started evaluating everyone’s behavior on whether it seemed “presidential.” One by one, my FOMs (Friends of Me) left. I didn’t care--I was at a party that was never going to end.

So I went flying off the cliff--like Thelma and Louise. Except there is no debate (I can hardly write that word without a great longing welling up in my heart) about where I am going.

Sure, I can speculate on Cabinet appointments, sop up talk about the transition team, ponder the likelihood of economic recovery, health-care reform and the thousands of other post-campaign sidelights that have to do with the real problems of running the country.

But no one’s going to be polling this stuff. There certainly won’t be any convention about it. Even if some appointees do make it to “Larry King Live,” let’s face it, Donahue’s moving on. I got shut down. I am, as we Watergate babies say, being left to twist in the wind.

Maybe the Betty Ford Center will open a new wing for junkies like me. She certainly must understand. But, frankly, I think I hold the trump card.

Although I am despairing, however much I am hoping there will be campaign repeats on smaller stations that can’t afford new programming, mostly I am thanking my lucky stars.

Because I live in the world’s most vibrant democracy. And if I can just hang on for 24 little months, I know I can anticipate the first mutterances of campaign ’96. In fact, if I start talking about those likely candidates now, don’t mind me--I’m just coping.