BOSTON.
GEORGE W. had at least one good thing to say about Al Gore.
He praised him for loving his wife, Tipper.
It didn’t last.
Bush immediately stuck a knife in Al’s back for his funny-money fund-raising at America’s most famous Buddhist temple.
So what did Gore do? He changed the subject, blathering on about being “his own man.”
That’s right. He blamed his own sleazy fund-raising on the sultan of sleaze, Bill Clinton.
And that about sums it up, folks.
There was no clear-cut winner in last night’s presidential debate, no single defining moment.
Bush gave a try with the line, “I’m beginning to think he invented not only the Internet, but he invented the calculator.”
Overdone, George.
Last night’s most interesting fight was waged behind the scenes, where all the critical decisions were made.
Gore attempted to pepper the audience with the dozen or so “average people” he’d picked up in his travels to teach him how to grow from an Alpha male into a modern, chick-friendly wuss.
Apparently feeling threatened by Gore’s ordinary entourage, Bush wanted the lights on the audience to remain dark during the debate.
Reality would not bite on this night.
Dubya would not look shorter.
And Gore would not sweat.
The hall was chilled to a perspiration-inhibiting 51 degrees. And George made sure his podium was 48 inches high – four inches lower than Gore wanted – to make him look taller. The lighting was soft enough to make these craggy faces look as baby fresh as Rick Lazio’s.
This is important, since there currently are only about 26 undecided voters.
This is where I come in.
Unfortunately, it was impossible to thoroughly investigate the debate hall last night without first passing through a tent that was set up by those considerate folks from Anheuser-Busch, proud sponsors of the show.
While campaign workers tried their mightiest to name their man the winner, reporters were lulled into a stupor by Budweiser and televised baseball.
We had to do something to keep from freezing to death.
We have entered the land of make-believe, boys and girls. The plane upon which real presidential campaigns are waged.
You walk into the University of Massachusetts, where something like 12,000 hungry, thirsty, major-league media a- – – – – – – have joined 900 big shots and five or six actual persons to get a peek at the guys who want to be president.
Go back to your TV sets, America. There’s nothing to see here.
The fiction involved more than just the candidates. Tipper Gore arrived clad in a loose-fitting gray number that did its utmost to conceal the fact that she’s either indulged in a tad too many Twinkies or has failed to overcome the teensy touch of depression she’s boasted of conquering.
Laura Bush appeared in bright red, evoking first-lady vet Nancy Reagan, the kind of wife who ruled comfortably behind the scenes. Where, frankly, a first lady belongs.
The pretend debate – these guys even agreed not to ask each other questions! – did not so much resemble a battle of wits and ideas as it did a squabble among earnest Ivy League grads. Grads who live in publicly funded mansions, who each lay claim to the title of Man of the Little Guy.
Funny that for this conversation with regular folks, the candidates picked a city where a standard hotel room costs nearly $500 a night.
Eager to fill a few seats with folks who hadn’t contributed enormous sums to help finance this show, Gore thoughtfully toted along his latest “real” discovery, Winifred Skinner of Iowa. Mrs. Skinner and her toy poodle are said to help make ends meet by collecting aluminum cans along the roadside.
No immediate word on whether the poodle requires costly arthritis medication.