Harry,

So much in the papers this morning! My fave: The Washington Post has a piece on the thuggery between the Bradley and Gore camps in New Hampshire, where campaigners have actually gotten into shoving matches. One Gore gal claims to have been nearly trampled to death by Bradleyites; a Bradleyite said she was nearly pushed into the path of a minivan by the Goreheads. What can they possibly be saying? “Listen you little prick, handgun registration is fine but licensing is a step too far. Eat this! Next time maybe your man won’t vote against Greenspan and Souter’s nominations.” The idea of club-wielding moderates is hysterical.

Then there’s Ted and Jane separating. Can the Fonda-Torricelli union be far behind? Ted and Arianna?

Oh, and there in the New York Times is R.W. “Johnny” Apple’s fifth and final installment of his food series from Italy. The chapters on polenta were one thing, but today he kicks it off with 3,000 worlds on San Marzano tomatoes! At first I laughed; now I await each dispatch. Did you miss last year’s 2,000 words on rye bread?

It’s all too much for a gal like me.

Thanks for your advice about this congressional dinner. I figured you’d had some bad experience–maybe some Gephardt goons did a number on you–and didn’t want to talk about it. Eh, I know what you mean about playing to the cameras, but I do have to live in this town and a bomb could set my comedy and journalistic careers back a ways, so I plan to pander shamelessly. But that may not be easy: This dinner’s the day after the New Hampshire primary, which means I’ve got to crank out some fresh material that morning, and I may not be well positioned. For some strange reason, as Slate viewers will soon see, I’ve turned out a solid Alan Keyes imitation. This, I fear, may not be a great asset. Fortunately, my Gore and Clinton are solid, and I think I’ll have a passable Bush. You ever imitate real people, or is it all characters? (Suck-up: Mr. Burns may be one of the greatest figures ever in our culture.) Is one harder than the other?

–Matt