Big Red

One morning last week, exiting the YMCA, I found my Taurus wedged between a Ford Expedition and a Lincoln Navigator. It was like being in a tunnel, since my roof barely nudged the bottom of their side windows. The fact that I even noticed this and then grimaced in disgust is symptomatic of my current obsession with these heavyweights of the highway -- commonly known as sport utility vehicles, or, in carspeak, suvs. (I refuse to dignify the acronym by capitalizing it.)

This distraction materialized about ten days ago during a pleasant drive in that very same Taurus to a meeting in Greensboro, N.C., when the conversation among my advertising director, my case goods buyer, and me drifted to the current price of gasoline, prompted no doubt by its all-too-frequent, in-your-face roadside display, which, like a boxer's relentless jab, stings a little more with each successive round.

I made the bold statement that the American public is merely paying the price for a luxury it couldn't afford, fifty years of cheap oil, upon which its culture and economy has been precariously constructed like a house of cards and buttressed by governmental myopia. "It amuses me how politicians and pundits patriotically fly the flag of energy independence, yet promote policies which encourage consumption and deter conservation," I said. Of course, my companions asked for specifics.

"First of all," I said, "zoning regulations, by prohibiting mixed residential and business land usage, have created communities and a lifestyle dependent on the automobile. Americans have been shoehorned -- admittedly, by choice -- into footprints which require them to drive from their home to just about every destination: their place of work, the grocery store, their children's school, and their favorite department or discount store.

"Secondly, when gas prices were artificially low -- below the rate of inflation -- which they have been for thirty years, since the oil spike of the seventies, the federal government should have gradually raised gasoline taxes, which not only would have had the effect of suppressing demand, but also would have generated revenues which could have been invested in mass transit systems and alternative energy sources. Higher gas prices would have made both of these options more economically viable and attractive to public and private investors.

"And, finally, bowing to pressure from manufacturers and labor unions, Congress failed to require higher gas mileage for automobiles sold in the United States, which consequently continue to guzzle gasoline at excessive rates. This flawed policy was further exacerbated by allowing the Corporate Average Fuel Economy (CAFE) for vehicles classified as light trucks to be set at a level 20 per cent lower than the CAFE for cars (20.7 mpg compared to 25.7 mpg) -- and by allowing suvs of all shapes and sizes to be so classified -- a revelation which would probably surprise many of their owners, whose luxuriously-appointed tanks -- at least in their minds -- bear faint resemblance to a hog farmer's pick-up. The federal government's insistence on preserving strict (and higher -- but not high enough) gas-mileage standards for cars (as opposed to light trucks) while not raising gasoline taxes paved the way for the surfeit of gas-hungry suvs on America's highways. (Bradsher, p. 42)

"The sport utility vehicle," I humbly concluded, "is, in my opinion, the most egregious, indulgent, and extravagant manifestation of America's addiction to cheap oil, and one of the most obscene frauds ever perpetrated on a gullible public."

This conversation had three sequels. I began noticing suvs everywhere I turned. I checked out a book from the library (Barnes and Noble didn't have a copy, naturally) which I had spotted in an airport bookstore about a year ago: "High and Mighty: SUVs -- The World's Most Dangerous Vehicles and How They Got That Way," by Keith Bradsher. And I remembered Big Red.

I have never shared the love of so many of my friends and acquaintances for suvs. I have never considered them attractive or comfortable, and, for an object which is supposedly an expression of one's individuality, I find that they exude a soporific similarity -- big, boxy, and boring. I take pride in my ability to identify generations of Camrys, Altimas, Fusions, Tauruses, Accords, Impalas, Malibus, Three Hundreds, CTS's, LS430's, 530's, and C320's, but it is indeed a daunting task to try to distinguish among the variety of suvs that stalk me these days: execrable Explorers, esurient Escalades, chauvinistic Cherokees, domineering Durangos, sinister Suburbans, terrifying Tahoes, ferocious Four Runners, mordant Mountaineers, predatory Pathfinders, noxious Navigators, and -- for lack of any better alliterative adjective -- yucky Yukons -- to name a few.

Like a defenseless quarterback whose pocket has collapsed, I am surrounded by these blitzing behemoths. Every morning the diminutive 4'10" lady who lives across the street climbs aboard her wide-bodied white Trailblazer to drive to work. Two of my neighbors -- neither of whom have any children at home to fill up the rear seats or cargo area -- each own a pair of suvs: one a Mercedes M-Class and an Explorer; the other a Navigator and a Liberty. A week ago I was flabbergasted by the sheer size and menacing appearance of a black Cadillac Escalade ESV taking up two parking spaces on Main Street, only to be similarly mesmerized at seeing its monstrous twin (white this time) lurking in front of the Atlantis Hotel on Paradise Island, where, by the way, the herd of suvs guzzling $6-a-gallon gas and prowling its narrow, pedestrian-lined streets seems ridiculously wasteful and dangerous. And last Wednesday, as we were leaving a meeting at Lynchburg College, I was commiserating with a friend on how the high price of gasoline was affecting our businesses, only to be disillusioned and dumstruck when he hoisted his 250-lb frame into a 2008 Navigator, beside which my 1983 RX-7 looked like a peanut.

Four-dollar-a-gallon gas may finally be putting the brakes on America's incorrigible infatuation with the suv. Chevrolet Trail Blazer sales slumped 73% in April, while Ford's suv sales dropped 36% -- although consumers have been known to re-embrace bigness once their initial shock at the pump dissipates and prices stabilize. Regardless of new suv sales, there will continue to be millions on the highway as their penetration of the new vehicle market approached 20% -- three million a year -- over the past decade.

The introduction of the four-door Jeep Cherokee in 1984 launched the suv boom, which, coincidentally, was the same year automakers were required to raise the average fuel economy of its cars to 27.5 mpg (up from 13 mpg in 1975 and 18 mpg in 1978). To meet these standards, front and back ends were shrunk to reduce weight, and profiles were lowered to improve aerodynamics. Middle-class families craving their traditional, roomy, full-size sedans flocked to the Cherokee and to the Ford and Chevrolet clones -- the Explorer and Blazer -- which followed on its heels in 1990. These vehicles -- along with Chrysler's popular minivans -- could be certified as light trucks as long as they "had a flat floor extending from behind the front seat to the back of the vehicle, with seats that could be removed with simple tools," and, as such, were permitted an average fuel economy of 20.5 (later 20.7) mpg. (Bradsher, pp.38-39)

During the 1990s, the popularity of suvs exploded, abetted by faulty governmental policies. In 1990, automakers, car dealers, and the UAW joined forces to engineer the defeat of a bill sponsored by Nebraska Senator Bill Bryan that would have raised the Corporate Average Fuel Economy for cars to 38.5 mpg and for light trucks to 28.7 mpg; Bryan was concerned about the nation's reliance on imported oil, about global warning, and about the poor fuel economy of cars being driven huge distances by his Nebraska constituents. Two years later the UAW pressured then-candidate Bill Clinton to back away from his campaign pledge "to raise the average goal for automakers to 45 miles per gallon." (Bradsher, pp.62-68)

In 1984 Congress limited the tax deduction on vehicles used by the self-employed and the owners of small businesses to $17,500 and increased their write-off period from three to five years. Light trucks with a gross weight over 6000 lbs., however, were exempt; buyers could still write off their entire purchase price, and as much as half the first year. (In 2004, the write-off for cars was capped at $10,610 and for light trucks at $25,000.) In 1990, Congress exempted those same light trucks from a ten per cent luxury tax imposed on vehicles costing more than $30,000. Tax incentives to increase the size and weight of suvs were now firmly in place. (Bradsher, pp. 73-74)

Congress granted suvs another legislative perquisite in the Clean Air Act of 1990. Beginning in 1994, new cars were restricted to 0.4 grams of nitrogen oxide emissions per mile, while light trucks were allowed 0.7 grams and some full-size suvs and pick-ups 1.1 grams. This special treatment encouraged automakers to build larger, fully-loaded suvs with bigger engines (which could legally spew more pollutants into the atmosphere); the suv share of the extremely profitable luxury market grew exponentially from 5% in 1990 to 56% in 1996. (Bradsher, pp. 75-77)

In his book "High and Mighty," author Bradsher verifies what I have long suspected: that suvs -- which, by definition, have four-wheel drive and are capable of operation off-road, where, incidentally, only ten per cent of their owners ever take them -- are less comfortable than cars and less practical for everyday use. They must have tall wide wheel wells to accomodate severe bouncing during off-road driving and underbodies (and passenger compartment floors) high enough to avoid off-road obstacles -- both of which reduce usable space inside the vehicle. (Bradsher, p.52) Automakers have addressed this problem by making suvs bigger and heavier, an elaboration which is greatly facilitated by their manufacturing process.

While almost all cars today have a unit body -- that is, the underbody, sides, and roof form a single unit -- suvs and light trucks employ a body-on-frame architecture -- except for the Jeep Cherokee, which has a "uniframe." Two square, hollow, sixteen-foot steel rails placed three feet apart and laced with seven crossbeams constitute the frame or foundation, to which are attached the suspension, wheels, fuel tank, fuel lines, and brakes. The truck's sides, hood, and roof are assembled and welded separately to form the body, in which are installed head- and tail-lights, steering wheel, seats, dashboard, windows, and carpeting. Ultimately, body meets frame, and the two are attached with twelve thick steel screws and bolts. (Bradsher, pp. 85-86)

The result is a vehicle that is heavy, rigid, capable of towing a lot of weight -- and tons of trouble. The steel rails in the underbody are stiffer and less yielding than a car body's side and front panels. While outweighing cars and minivans by as much as four thousand pounds, the suv has scarcely more sheet metal to cushion this weight upon impact. Its larger engine barely crumples in a crash and absorbs little energy. These factors make it more dangerous than other vehicles in front end collisions, although its height does provide more interior protection when it is hit from the side. "Suv occupants have as high a death rate as car occupants or even higher" -- by 11 per cent, according to a 2004 NHTSA report. "The reason lies in the nemesis of high-riding vehicles: rollovers." (Bradsher, pp. 145-148)

The higher a vehicle's center of gravity in relation to its wheel track -- the distance left to right between its wheels -- the more likely it is to flip over in a crash. And all suvs have this design flaw. In the 1990s, suvs rolled over three times more often than cars, five times per 100 crashes compared to 1.7 times per 100 crashes. More recently, this ratio has fallen to two-to-one, an improvement attributable to the increased size of many models and to the installation of a stability control device. This device helps prevent rollovers on flat surfaces, but is not effective when a car is tripped, which is the cause of ninety per cent of rollovers. (Bradsher, pp. 150-151)

"Tripping occurs when a vehicle strikes a curb, guard rail, lower riding car, or other obstacle, and then flips over." It can also take place when one side of the vehicle slips from a low friction surface like pavement onto a high friction surface like a gravel road shoulder. An suv's mediocre handling (and, in older models, inferior brakes) can make it difficult to keep on the road in certain adverse conditions or emergency situations; once "tripped," its high center of gravity increases the odds of a rollover. (Bradsher, pp.151-152)

Needless to say, this type of accident is extremely hazardous. Rollovers total less than one per cent of the crashes in the United States, but are the cause of a quarter of the traffic deaths -- more than from side and rear impacts combined. In the 1990s, the Ford Explorer had a rollover death rate of 39 per million registered vehicles compared to 14 per million registered midsize cars (and 15 per million registered Jeep Cherokees, whose uniframe design makes it the safest of all suvs). In addition, two state studies indicated that rollovers, which put extraordinary strain on necks and spines, may account for three-quarters of those states' traffic-related cases of paralysis. (Bradsher, pp. 161,151)

The weight and design of suvs make them lethal weapons in collisions with lighter, lower vehicles. In such a crash, the heavier vehicle tends to transfer the violence of the impact -- and the injuries and the fatalities -- to the lighter vehicle, and even more forcefully if it has an elevated, rigid front end that does not crumple easily when struck. (Bradsher, pp.169-170)

Cars are required to have bumpers 16 to 20 inches off the ground; suvs and other light trucks are exempt from this rule, and automakers have mounted their bumpers considerably higher. (Bradsher, p.184) If one measures the height of a vehicle's bottom exterior panel below the doors, suvs have the highest average height, 15.4 inches, while subcompact cars the lowest, 6.9 inches. "Suvs sit almost eight inches higher than mid-sized cars -- a geometric incompatibility that permits the suv to override any side structure in a car and directly strike its occupants." (Bradsher, p. 188.)

Indeed, suvs' crash incompatibility with other vehicles, based on their aggressive design, is borne out by statistics. In 2003 and 2004, light trucks (suvs, vans, and pick-ups) were involved in 30% more fatal crashes per 100,000 miles than cars. In 2004, they were involved in fatal two-vehicle crashes with passenger cars at nearly three times the rate of passenger cars. (Wikipedia, Criticism of SUVs) Tests have shown that when an suv hits a car in the side, the driver of the struck car is almost five times more likely to be killed than if he had been struck by another passenger car. (Bradsher, p. 188)

The shape, height, and stiffness of suvs make them more dangerous in pedestrian collisions. Cars typically hit pedestrians low and flip them onto their hoods, which are soft enough to minimize serious injury. The tall, stiff front ends of suvs tend to strike children and short adults in the chest or head, and, in some cases, run over them. Suvs will more often back over people in driveways, especially children, who are not tall enough to be seen out their rear windows. From 1995 to 2000, large suvs killed 10.6% of the pedestrians they hit in the United States, while minivans and cars killed 5% (and mid-sized and small suvs 6.6%). (Bradsher, pp. 231-234)

Drivers who believe themselves invulnerable are the most careless, and the common misconception that an suv's ride height and four-wheel drive make it safer than other vehicles only compounds its structural deficiencies. The former's expanded sight lines and feeling of control are merely corollaries of the vehicle's dangerously high center of gravity. The latter is "a fairly modest technology of little use to the average motorist" -- and treacherous to those who overestimate its capabilities. (Bradsher, p.128)

Four-wheel drive enables a vehicle to "track," that is, to keep moving forward on a slippery surface; it is useful for plowing through deep snow or mud, descending a steep, unpaved path without applying the brakes, and accelerating on icy, snowy roads -- conditions which occur so rarely around here that suv owners have been known to stage rallies at the first sign of frozen precipitation. An unintended consequence of this amenity is that the driver may not realize a road is slippery until he tries to apply the brakes, in which case his four-wheel drive is doing him more harm than good. (Bradsher, pp.130-131)

"Four-wheel drive provides no benefit whatsoever when the driver hits the brakes, because the engine immediately stops supplying power to the wheels. Indeed, suvs tend to have longer stopping distances than cars." They are heavier and higher off the road, which means their weight leans forward more and their front tires have to do most of the work. (Bradsher, p.129) Many are equipped with "macho" tires, whose wide, deep grooves have less traction on a paved road. (Bradsher, p.133)

Four-wheel drive does not help an suv turn when it is traversing a slippery surface. "Once the tires start slipping sideways, it makes little difference whether the engine is driving four wheels or two." (Bradsher, p.129)

Suvs are not as agile or maneuverable as cars. With their high centers of gravity and off-road tires, they lumber around curves awkwardly. What is merely an inconvenience on winding roads "can turn deadly when a motorist must swerve to avoid another vehicle, a pedestrian, or some other hazard." (Bradsher, pp.141-142) "The bottom line is that in every measurement of dynamic ability on pavement, cars outperform trucks," wrote Csaba Csere, editor-in-chief of Car and Driver magazine, in 1998." (Bradsher, p. 143)

Suvs obstruct visibility on city streets and highways. Their height often prevents a trailing car driver from seeing through to traffic ahead. Their higher-mounted headlights cast a bright glare on incoming cars and in rear-view mirrors. They are too big and heavy for some aging roads and bridges. They make traffic congestion worse; in traveling through an intersection, a large suv takes up as much space as 1.41 cars, a mid-size as much as 1.14 cars, and a small suv as much as 1.07 cars. They are magnets for thieves and carjackers. (Bradsher, pp. 224-230)

It is no secret why automakers want to sell suvs; they are their most profitable product. Analysts estimated that in 1998 Ford was making a fat $12,000 on every Expedition it sold at $36,000 and $15,000 on every $45,000 Navigator. (Bradsher, pp. 84-85) That year its Wayne, Michigan, Truck Plant alone cranked out almost 300,000 of these luxury four-wheelers, grossing $11 billion and earning $3.7 billion in pre-tax profits. (Of course, since then, FMC has fallen on harder times.) (Bradsher, pp.88-89)

But why is it that so many people lust for these unattractive, inefficient, impractical, and dangerous vehicles?

G. C. Rapaille, a psychological consultant to the auto industry, says Americans -- inundated daily with violent images on television, video games, and the Internet -- are increasingly fearful of crime. "People buy suvs," he tells automakers, "because they want to look as menacing as possible to allay their fears of crime and violence." This instinct for survival is further illustrated by their willingness "to put other drivers at risk in order to diminish the odds that they will be injured in a crash . . . But suvs cannot just look macho and aggressive on the outside, Rapaille believes. Inside they must be as gentle, feminine, and luxurious as possible" -- to reflect their passengers' complementary instinct for reproduction. (Bradsher, pp. 95-100)

Research indicates that suv buyers are more concerned with how others see them than with what is practical. Honda executive Thomas Elliott says, "They are buying the image first, and then the functionality." Ed Golden, a design director for Ford, says, "It's an image vehicle, an suv. It says something about your lifestyle." (Bradsher, p.103)

That image is all about control, preparedness, and eternal adolescence. Suv owners want to make the statement that "I'm in control of the people around me," says GM engineer Fred Schaafsma. "Providing that feeling of control is why automakers mount the seats in sport utilities higher than the seats in minivans," a feature that appeals more to women than men. (Bradsher, p.104)

Four-wheel drive reinforces the image of preparedness. According to Ford strategist Jim Bulin, it says "the weather is not going to get in my way; the curbs are not going to get in my way; other vehicles that ride lower to the road are not going to get in my way." (Bradsher, p.106)

Owning an suv provides baby boomers the reassurance that they haven't really changed that much from the days of their youth. "It says: I'm adventurous . . . I'm still virile." (Bradsher, p. 106)

Perhaps no one expresses this passion better than April, the popular homecoming princess sitting at the wheel of her family's red Suburban in the parking lot of her Los Angeles high school. "I love big trucks because they just look cool and have big tires," she says, speaking for the next generation of suv owners. "I'll go behind bushes and along the railroad tracks . . . I drive to school every day. I feel safe. I feel like I'm the queen of the road because I'm up high and can see everything for miles . . . Up here I'm probably six foot ten . . . I love it. It just makes me feel powerful. If someone disses me, I can tailgate the crap out of them." (Bradsher, pp.342-343)

I'm not sure if that's what my eighteen-year-old son, David, was thinking when he convinced my wife Maggie (and me) to fork out $10,000 for a 1990 (?) Jeep Cherokee Wrangler fourteen years ago. I had tried for months to sell him on the virtues -- fuel efficiency, handling, performance -- of a stodgy low-slung Legacy, Taurus, or Camry, a wheel-spinning exercise in futility, as he had his sights as stubbornly fixated on an suv as I had had on a muscle car thirty years earlier. The quest for the perfect ride took his stepmother and him west, naturally, to Roanoke; the return trip would add the first sixty of many more miles to an odometer already registering a bloated eighty thousand, the bearer of which my cynical wife would immediately christen with the licentious tag "Big Red."

It wasn't all that big, and some panels were as gray-speckled as a middle-aged parent, but it was what number-one son wanted, and he embraced it like (or instead of) a steady girl friend, ignoring some rather obvious blemishes: an unresponsive steering mechanism as loose as a yo-yo; a rough ride that bucked like an angry bronco (no pun intended); a passenger side door that jammed like a pickle jar; and the lingering odor of stale cigarette smoke.

If I had known then what I know now -- the esoteric vocabulary of trippings, rollovers, high centers of gravity, and crash compatibilities -- I would never have permitted my son to overburden this abomination on wheels with all his college paraphernalia (and a few articles of clothing) and motor nine hundred miles to Northwestern University -- not once, but several times during the course of his remaining two or three years there. I am amazed that it managed to survive the snow, sleet, hail, and ice of those brutal Chicago winters with no more dents and bruises than it already flaunted; and I never even thought to inquire of my son if the much-abused four-wheel drive had, after all, demonstrated its utility.

In our economically-minded family, automobiles are passed from sibling to sibling -- and, in some cases, from generation to generation. Therefore, upon David's relocating to New York City, where, according to the decider, me, he did not need a car, at least initially, "Big Red" was bequeathed to his sister Sara for a brief spell, and from her to his stepsister Kali, who was so enamored of it that she later cajoled her mother and me into purchasing a black iteration for her own exclusive use. Meanwhile, "Big Red's" penchant for urban life reasserted itself; David insisted he needed a means of transportation for various extra-city junkets and summarily reclaimed his prize.

The Jeep's reputation as a prime target of grand theft auto was sadly confirmed one night when some youthful but savvy lawbreakers managed to dislodge the foolproof steering wheel lock -- ominously trademarked "The Club" -- hotwired the ignition, and took themselves on a spirited joyride through the streets of the Upper East Side. When the engine quietly expired from fuel exhaustion, they abandoned their booty to a fate unknown -- until New York's finest identified and located the rightful owner.

The cost of recovering the vehicle from impoundment and storage probably exceeded its market value, but sentimentality and nostalgia trumped all rational thinking. It was still in one piece, but for David the sweetness of first love had suddenly turned sour, and, like an experienced bachelor, he set his sights on a more mature running mate. Coincidentally, his younger stepsister, Adrienne, had by now graduated to driving age; he pawned "Big Red" off for the fourth time and replaced it with a nondescript white Taurus, itself a veteran of 100,000 miles, which I purchased for him off a Schewel lease.

Adrienne was always astute beyond her years (she wasn't called "A" for nothing), not one to be lulled into complacency by a fresh coat of paint -- and never reticent. From her first settling in behind the wheel, she volubly disparaged the Jeep's high-riding instability, its tendency to lean into every turn, its loopy steering, and its collapsible brakes. But she bravely soldiered on, driving it to school, softball, tennis, and track -- she was always a three-letter threat -- and occasionally out of town.

Thus it should have come as no surprise when I received a jarring telephone call from my remarkably-composed wife one dreary late-summer afternoon, informing me that Adrienne was in serious condition in a Petersburg hospital, that she was on her way to Petersburg herself, and that I should follow as soon as possible. Adrienne had been returning from a family vacation in Nags Head, and, indeed, the accident waiting to happen had happened.

A light rain had dampened the road, and apparently the Jeep fishtailed. Its left wheels slipped off the low-friction surface of the pavement and encountered the higher-friction surface of the shoulder. When Adrienne tried to regain the pavement, she overcorrected, aided no doubt by the villainous steering; the vehicle tripped, rolled over across the highway, bounced into a ravine, and came to a stop only after its roof struck a tree, scraping off fifteen feet of bark.

The gods of chance, peeking through the dense cloud cover, were merciful that day. Although one religiously and repeatedly praises the merits of seat-belt safety, one never knows if the youngsters are paying attention. Adrienne was tossed about like a rag doll, but, thanks to her obedient nature and the waist and shoulder harness, never left the front seat. Aside from shock, some nasty bruises, and a bang-upped knee, from which she and her college athletic career never fully recovered, she emerged unscathed.

In spite of her drug-induced delirium, Adrienne was lucid enough to lament the loss of her sunglasses and begged me to try to locate them. I finally tracked down "Big Red" in a junkyard tucked away in the remote flatlands of Dinwiddie County. Gazing at the wreckage in uneasy contemplation, I felt perversely saddened at its demise (probably because I didn't have collision insurance), relieved that the frightful consummation of my failure to heed Adrienne's warnings had not been more disastrous, and amazed that she had escaped with such minor injuries. The driver's-side door had been cleanly amputated; the windshield and rear window had burst into smithereens; and the roof on the passenger's side had been crushed like cardboard. The interior was a miniature landfill of broken glass, twisted metal, and ripped cushioning, among which no sunglasses were discernible.

Having no use for the permanently-disabled vehicle at this point, and clueless as to its salvage value, I was at the mercy of the junkyard owner, a lean, grizzled, chain-smoking rustic. When he offered to buy what was left of "Big Red" for $500, I speedily acquiesced, even though that amount hardly approached the inflated $2000 he had charged me to tow the remains from the accident site. At least I could take comfort in the knowledge that one more roguish roadkiller had reached the end of its ignominious career without inflicting permanent damage to life or limb.

Jeep Cherokees and other suvs are much improved in design and safety since "Big Red" and its cousins were birthed in the late 1980's. And, rejecting this lengthy diatribe, millions of proud, lofty suv owners will no doubt defend their favored mode of transportation ad infinitum. But, in my opinion, to echo Keith Bradsher's concluding words, "For most families, suvs are poor substitutes for cars . . . As they have multiplied in the United States and beyond, they have fed an arms race that has made the world's roads less and less hospitable for car drivers, worsening a trend that hurts safety and the environment alike." (Bradsher, p. 426) But, maybe, before long, with gas prices steadily ticking upward, suv junkies will come to their senses, trade in their delusions of grandeur for practicality and economy, and bring this stiff-bodied war to a screeching halt.

Buying Power

Like a fading beauty of the silver screen, well past her prime but still proudly auditioning for the part of leading lady, the High Point Furniture Market has fallen prey to the inexorable march of change.

With the mid-century migration of furniture manufacturing to western North Carolina and Virginia, it was inevitable that the old-boy network of family-owned -- and cross-pollinated -- companies so engaged would seek to establish the equivalent of a neighborhood lemonade stand to hawk their extensive but derivative product lines. Thus, they transformed the sleepy backwater of High Point, North Carolina, into the twelve-million-square-foot mecca of the home furnishings industry, to which thousands of acolytes were compelled to make a semi-annual pilgrimmage and there pay homage to the high priests of the furniture industry.

Only a stone's throw from their factories, High Point was a convenient drop-ship for the myriad market samples with which they flooded their showrooms -- and a comfortable two-and-a-half hour drive from my home in Lynchburg, Virginia. But for those beyond the Pale -- say, a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile radius -- imagine the trials and tribulations of navigating the arcane flight schedules into and out of the Greensboro or Charlotte, N.C., airports, negotiating for rental cars while being held hostage to a limited supply in the face of a hyper-inflated demand, and having to pay similarly exorbitant rates for mediocre accomodations, usually months in advance and often for nights guaranteed even after one had gleefully headed home.

For fifty years High Point successfully vanquished all pretenders to its throne -- Atlanta, Dallas, San Francisco, and Tupelo -- which generally were too limited in design and too regional in scope to offer serious competition. Ambitious investors continued to build more square footage, operating under the misguided assumption that this fortress of concentrated buying power was impregnable.

Two developments undermined High Point's staunch defenses. First, most of those formerly vibrant manufacturing facilities shuttered their doors, and were either sold, abandoned, or relegated to the status of mere repositories or assembly points for home furnishings produced in China, Vietnam, or Malaysia. Globalization shattered the logical locus of High Point.

Once this fact of economic life became apparent, it didn't take long for a voracious predator -- one with deep pockets -- to surface and pounce. In the space of three short years, a Las Vegas mirage of six million square feet of furniture showroom solidified into concrete, steel, and glass. Disneyland in the desert -- with its accessibility, its five-star hotel and dining facilities, and its irresistible ancillary attractions -- became High Point's worst nightmare, luring furniture high-rollers from all over the world, most notably those west of the Mississippi River and beyond the continental borders.

I'm not sure High Point's market moguls realize that many of these folks just aren't coming back. In an egregious display of panic, desperation, or schizophrenia, they rolled their market's Spring and Fall dates back several weeks to coincide more closely with Las Vegas's dates, a ridiculous and impractical experiment which served principally to tarnish High Point's only treasure, its glorious April and October weather, and was wisely abandoned after a one-year interlude.

I have yet to attend the Las Vegas market; High Point's proximity coupled with my own habitual behavior has firmly grounded it in my consciousness as the almighty Furniture Market (and thou shalt have no other markets before it), although the blessings of a little competition are not to be denied. For the past fifteen or so years of our sojourn at the Park Lane Four Seasons Hotel on High Point Road in Greensboro, Schewel Furniture Company's room rate had risen steadily and geometrically, until by 2005 we paying upwards of $250 per night, this for a room which during the fifty non-market weeks of the year easily went for half that -- and, if one were available, would be rented for that price during market week to a drop-in truck driver. I know because I heard it happen one night while I was checking in. In 2006, apparently in response to declining attendance and the bully pulpit of the mysterious, influential, but ultimately powerless Market Authority, the hotel manager generously reduced our rate to $149, and, succumbing to the effusive charm of my two female buyers, even threw in spacious two-room suites for each of us.

The mini-refrigerater therein supplied is greatly appreciated. I use it to preserve my delectable (or detestable, depending on one's point of view) dinner ingredients -- carrots, cottage cheese, whole wheat bread, and blackberry jam, the latter two, of course, when plastered with extra-crunchy peanut butter (which even this stranger to the kitchen knows does not have to be kept in a chilled state), compose my main course. While the nightly adventures of other out-of-towners may confirm the public's perception that these markets continue from dusk to dawn at a variety of interesting venues, my cerebral, solitary, and compulsive personality dictates that evenings out be few and far between. The truth is, I have work to do. Because a ninety-minute perusal of the notes I have made in each of the showrooms I have visited that day is critical to the process I am about to describe.

We merchandise our fifty stores according to a line-up, the selection of items we display in our showrooms and stock in our distribution center at any given point in time; sixty sofas, loveseats, and chairs with occasional tables; thirty recliners; thirty glider rockers, swivel rockers, and accent chairs; fifteen desks; fifteen curios; twenty television stands and entertainment centers; thirty master and youth bedrooms; eight formal dining rooms; and twenty-five casual dining sets. Our goal, after six days of furniture shopping, usually from 9 AM to 7 PM, during which we visit sixty showrooms, is to leave the market with all these line-up slots filled. Of course, not every item is changed; many are too new or selling too well to replace. About one-third of our line-up turns over every six months, at the April and October markets.

My market regimen wasn't always so disciplined. In my younger days, I remember dining out with friends, manufacturer representatives (hereafter designated as "reps"), and colleagues; taking in numerous parties and special events; and frequenting bars, night clubs (featuring scantily-clad entertainment), a pool hall, and even a female mud-wrestling contest. Oh, I would diligently take notes during the day (sometimes overcoming a splitting headache), but leave the decision-making to the months or six weeks after the market, when legions of reps would traipse through my office, shuffle their pictures, refresh my memory, renew their pitches, and plead for placements -- and sooner or later a line-up would emerge.

I graduated from that time-consuming ordeal to studying my notes the last night (sometimes the last morning) of the market and frantically trying to organize them and my thoughts and produce a line-up. Finally, about ten years ago, when I was no longer interested in trolling night spots, I realized that a regular review of the notes I had made each day and a progressive construction of the line-up was almost as easy to digest as the peanut-butter sandwich I was holding in hand. And it gave me the opportunity to revisit showrooms for a second (or third) look at items under consideration.

I have found that, emotionally and intellectually, each market follows a familiar pattern. One approaches the first day or two with a heightened level of enthusiasm and excitement. As a dealer was once quoted in a trade journal, "If you don't look forward to the furniture market, you shouldn't be in the furniture business." After all, not only is one gratefully abandoning, at least temporarily, the barrage of phone calls (I don't carry a cell phone), problems, meetings, and day-to-day minutiae of the retail wars, he is invigorated by the thought of discovering fresh new merchandise with which to refurbish his stores and stimulate his sales.

After the second day, however, one's energy is sapped by ten-hour days spent pounding the pavement; by the incessant banter and the profuse flattery of hungry pitchmen; by an overabundant and bewildering array of sofas, bedrooms, dining sets, and television stands (a veritable sea of La-Z-Boys, as my wife felicitously declared on her first and last trip to the furniture market) which have run together like water colors in a thunderstorm; and by a queasy feeling in one's stomach which comes with the realization that time -- which two days ago seemed too plentiful -- is slipping away.

Then, on the next-to-last day, when all major vendors have been seen, when a few have even been reshopped, when the decision-making process is in full bloom, when the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fit snugly and comfortably in place, one's step lightens; his pace quickens; his spirits rise almost to the point of euphoria. And on the last day, when final commitments are made, he thinks to oneself, with a smug, and ultimately false, confidence -- because the consumer is a cruel taskmaster -- another market attacked, and conquered.

Though much compressed, that pattern is replicated to some degree in each individual showroom: the anticipatory thrill of new product; the salesman's promise of outstanding value and retail success with almost every offering; the fog that descends over one's brain after he has completed his initial tour and must, at least out of courtesy, put pen to paper.

Generally speaking, I admit that my shopping method is hardly scientific. The price at this point -- other than the fact that we obviously have to know what it is, which sometimes involves an excruciating interchange with the salesperson, who clings to it like a child to his favorite toy -- is immaterial; now we're merely eyeballing the item, internally making a calculated wild guess as to its saleability, evaluating the salesman's unabashed admiration, and assessing its correlation, in price and design, with other merchandise in the same category.

The eternal conundrum of buying for a retail furniture store is that, at least with regard to a new item -- one shown to the retailer for the first time -- no one really knows what is going to strike the consumer's fancy. My perception is that domestic home furnishings suppliers (the preferred terminology these days, as their manufacturing is contracted to overseas entities) conduct little, if any, research. Most of their designs -- whether upholstery or case goods -- are thinly-disguised imitations of someone else's (and where those designs originate is a mystery to me), which may have some history of sales success, but not necessarily. More often than one would like to think, the universal popularity of a design is solely attributable to the talents of a silver-tongued salesperson who passed it off on several suppliers at the same time. And just because an item happens to sell well in another store or market area doesn't guarantee similar results in my store -- regardless of what so many reps are eager for one to believe. Consequently, buying becomes a balancing act between enthusiasm and skepticism.

In spite of what those musings may suggest, I respect and appreciate those road warriors who bear the oft-abused title of manufacturer's representative. Any one who can close the deal with a brooding, introspective, tight-lipped buyer like me deserves a celestial reward, although I am making a conscientious effort in my middle age (there's a euphemism) to greet pleasantly these putative partners, look them squarely in the bridge of the nose, smile like I am genuinely elated to see them, display some evidence of a sense of humor, and at least pretend to listen to their perfect pitches. But linger for small talk? No; never.

In truth, however, buying decisions are hardly ever objective, and rarely based on price alone. We are loyal to selected vendors and individuals. We would much prefer to buy from someone we know and trust. Some reps are indeed able to establish a rapport with me (or my associate buyers) that others can not. Some make a sale purely through persistence. In the final analysis, who can identify and isolate that intangible element that makes a customer say "yes"?

It might even be that one of the spate of tired platitudes tossed out like well-aimed darts by a loquacious salesperson finds the bull's-eye, in spite of its narcotic familiarity and ludicrous banality. As much as the listener tries to turn a "tin" (that is, deaf) ear in defense, is it not conceivable that one of these stingers should lodge itself in the subconscious and prick one's memory at the decisive moment?

As luck would have it, the first showroom we visit upon our arrival Saturday morning is manned by none other than John R., whom readers of this blog will remember as the brash prankster who sent me for Christmas a roll of toilet paper each panel of which was imprinted with a likeness of George Bush spouting some infamous malapropism. John's perverse approach to ingratiating himself with his customers is to insult (at least this one) rather than pander to them -- perhaps the residual effect of a concussion he suffered many years ago while centering punts for the N.C. State football team. True to form, he greets me with, "Hey, ugly. You just spoiled my weekend. You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow." My upholstery buyer warns me that John will invariably declare at least once during our conversation, "For what it's worth," which he regurgitates as if on cue, followed by a time-worn pledge -- "If this doesn't sell, we'll pick it up" -- that is totally gratuitous, since Schewels has never sent any merchandise back to a supplier for that reason.

Later, we shop a new case goods resource where I encounter an old friend, Bob O., a round-faced jovial fellow with a perpetual cock-eyed grin and contagious chuckle, with whom I journeyed to Taiwan, Hong Kong, and mainland China (for one day) twenty years ago. Bob cracks himself up with the long-since-forgotten tale of my amazement at the height of a youthful Chinese basketball player glimpsed from afar and subsequent rude awakening when, upon closer inspection, it was determined that he was only towering over some very short comrades.

From there, we transition to H . . . e, where we are escorted through the showroom by a bona fide Oriental gentleman (of average height) with the Anglicized name of Charles H., who, bravely speaking a brand of English more perfectly understood by him than by us, is "vewy pwoud" of his new youth bedroom with its different-colored interchangeable drawer panels, "twee," to be exact, a word, I am embarassed to record, I ask him to repeat "twee" times. Actually, we adore Charles, who took our buyer under his wing during her Far East trip a few years ago.

In L . . . y we enjoy the company of John H., master of the soft sell and an ad nauseum repetition of his customer's proper name, who surprises me with the forceful, out-of-character, and provocative pronouncement, "This suite's got Lynchburg written all over it," eliciting a whisper from my bedroom buyer: "But what about Winchester, Harrisonburg, and our other forty-seven stores?"

It's a short drive across town to our next destination, T. . . r, where we are welcomed by two contemporaries whose careers seem to have paralled our own over the past thirty years, as they have jumped -- with us usually in their wake -- from one furniture line to another, like bullfrogs on lily pads, always landing on their feet and never sinking below the water line -- David M., casual as always in a bulky blue sweater, forever relying on his perpetual boyishness to subdue the most hardened buyer; and the gentle, graying giant, Frank S., intense and polished, dressed both up and down, his twenty-something striped polo shirt beaming like his toothy grin through his tweed sport jacket.

Frank's composure is shaken by the sudden disclosure that we have reverted to our former bedroom pricing formula -- dresser, mirror, bed, and chest -- thereby foiling his memorized dresser, mirror, bed, and night stand combinations. Once past this inconvenience, price sheet in hand, he treats us to a virtuoso performance in pithy word-smithing: "This is a great-selling suite. This one's all-world, hard to beat. I love this suite. This one's red-hot. We can't keep it." And the piece de resistance: "Hot as a banshee" -- which leaves us mystified, until he explains just what a banshee is: a small rooster. Well, not exactly. According to my dictionary, that's a "bantam," while a "banshee" is a "female spirit whose wailing warns of a death in the family" -- a sobering revelation which considerably dampens Frank's fiery analogy.

The next morning, shopping an upholstery line, K . . . r, we are irritated but amused by Richie H.'s not-so-subtle ploy of running interference between us and a sofa which has already been "placed in our market," that is, sold to a competitor. He skirts by it as if it were a poisonous snake, lest its colorful and attractive camouflage catch our attention, which only piques our interest more, until he summarily dismisses it as already spoken for.

In L . . . e, Mike M. greets us with his Cheshire Cat grin and a mouthful of sugar. "I call that happiness," he says, whether in reference to a dresser, a leather sofa, or the buxom receptionist, I do not recall. "Our drawer construction stands tall," he exults, in admiration of an expensive bedroom suite copied (no surprise there) from a Bernhardt one selling for twice the price. A furniture legend in his own time, James R. -- whose frightening resume lists him as million-dollar producer for the defunct Pilliod Co., merchandiser extraordinaire for the dearly-departed Heilig-Meyers chain, and sales manager for the recently-entombed Natale Co. -- wanders by to model his scintillating tangerine sweater and beige docksiders.

Later that day I avoid serious injury in N . . . s when the small accent chair I am comfort-testing falls off the elevated platform on which it is perched (like a bantam!) -- not the best way to impress a buyer. Actually, I thought one of the rear legs had broken off -- and wouldn't have been surprised.

At H . . . l, million-dollar Million D., unctuous and mannerly, tries to corral us in the vicinity of one of his sofas with the innocent query, "Have you felt this fabric before?" "I believe we have, Million," I respond with uncontrolled glee and too much condescension. "It's a padded microfiber and it's been around about four years. Have I felt it? Only about ten times last week when I walked through one of my stores."

At E . . . e, we have to drag seventy-five-year-old Clyde O. into the showroom from out in the hall where's he falling all over himself talking to his new bride on his cell phone; he promptly disappears for ten minutes looking for a price.

In B . . . l, Rob A., brisk, crisp, concise, and taciturn, expertly guides us through the intimidating showroom, stopping only to highlight a few bedroom suites he thinks might be of interest to us, at one of which he proves his mettle, taking a back seat to no one when it comes to mind-numbing verbal dexterity. "This dog will hunt," he promises. (And, on the other hand, it may turn out to be one of those dogs we wish we had never seen.) "It has all the bells and whistles" -- like a mirror, drawers that work, and a brown finish, I mutter to myself.

In C . . . r, when I ask the windy Don B. which of two sofas he would rather sell me, I am immediately struck by buyer's remorse, because I know what's coming before it's out of his mouth: "Marc, these are two different animals" -- neither of which, rest assured, is a dog -- "It's like comparing apples and oranges" -- answers which imply, of course, that I should purchase both, and leave me dangling like a spun-out yo-yo.

In L . . . e, we are entertained by Scott K., Mitt Romney-esque in his chiseled handsomeness and mousse-perfect grooming. The consummate professional, he dances through his showroom, unencumbered by pricebook or notepad, his prices and stock numbers lodged in the steel trap of his memory, to be disgorged at the slightest pause over an item by his duly-impressed and quickly-exhausted customer. Scott never met a superlative he didn't like, as he sustains a running commentary: "Look at the size of that chair" -- pointing out just about every recliner we pass by. "This one has butt appeal." "There's a premium for leather like that" -- like a higher price. When he realizes I'm taking notes not just on merchandise but on his comments as well, he ramps up the hyperbole. "Every frame we come out with is our own design." (Show me one.) "This sofa has more wood than any other out there." (Well, the wood does wrap around the base, but that's not unique.) And, finally, "What does it take to push you over the edge?" (Probably looking at one more recliner will do it.)

The M . . . n showroom is a beehive of activity. This season the buzz is all about Flex-a-Boy, a contortionist performing in the lobby. Stretching like a rubber band, he effortlessly rotates both legs behind his head, slides his entire body through the stringless head of a tennis racket, and squeezes himself into a 20x16x16 clear plastic box, and then latches the top -- hardly taking a breath as he touts the benefits of purchasing from M . . . n: "We bend over backwards for customer service. We have the most flexible shipping program in the industry. We provide the lowest cost in the smallest package."

Our M . . . n rep, Jack B., rolls along behind us like Humpty-Dumpty as we skate through the showroom, a little off balance because of a bad hip, dictating notes into a recorder in his nasally Bawl-li-more accent, selling with a jocular sarcasm. He exclaims, "I couldn't sleep at all last night waiting to show you this suite," which we dismiss with hardly a glance. When we glide past another one, he pops out with, "Any reason you passed this one up?" "It's nothing personal," I reply as we exit the showroom and start down the stairs to the next floor, only to look back and see Jack in desperate pursuit.

In A . . . y, we are welcomed by the merry Marvin S., still spry at seventy plus, his rotund frame, shiny pate, sparkling eyes, and ear-to-ear grin exuding buckets of charm. He's always glad to see you and usually has a nasty little joke to tell, this one about Eliot Spitzer, whose rabbi said he was deeply disappointed in him. "Why?" asked Eliot. "Don't you know, " said the rabbi, "nobody pays retail." Marvin boasts that A . . . y has the best motion furniture in the industry (but not in the country, as it's manufactured overseas) and commands me, using the affectionate sobriquet "Honey," to sit my little butt down on a piece -- not as much of a test, of course, as his own sprawling butt would be.

We pass by the tiny S . . . g showroom, tucked in a hallway, where the rep, Frank S., a courtly, white-haired gentleman, who has finally sold us a bedroom suite after five long years of persistent phone calls and road trips from New Jersey, waves us in to show another one. Our lengthy visit reminds me of Frank's tar-baby-like ability to keep a person engaged in a telephone or face-to-face conversation despite his most determined efforts to escape. When I half-seriously remark that, in the midst of deleterious business conditions, I'm still paying cash, Frank quickly retorts, "You buy this suite, and you'll be able to pay cash."

And so it goes, one mindless pitch after another, served up for our edification, indocrination, and intoxication, fastballs, curveballs, sliders, changeups: that's screaming; this one's a superstar; we sell the fire out of it; this has been well-received; can I suggest a home run; this is the bomb.

Finally, after five weary days of wall-to-wall furniture, sifting the wheat from the chaff, barely legible note-taking, and hard choices, the sixth dawns with a welcome serenity and an almost completed line-up. But our bedrooms seem stale, not quite right. While reshopping that last day, we actually decide on three suites, two of which we scope out for the first time: a white urban lifestyle and a bombay-influenced merlot contemporary. To employ the only cliche we haven't heard in a week replete with them: it's time to think outside the box.

Three days later, at home, when the final pristine sheets are produced, our re-engineered line-up of merchandise looks so perfect in conception and execution. The slow sellers have been quietly expurgated. We anxiously anticipate the arrival of our new selections, which, in price point, design, function, and color, are sure to enhance and complement our showrooms, appeal to our customers' tastes and pocketbooks, and confirm that the time, money, and energy expended at the High Point Furniture Market were productive and profitable.

Alas, there are two abiding fallacies inherent in this semi-annual ritual. The first is that, in the final analysis, the most exquisitely-merchandised store will fail without the operation to back it up: a diversified advertising program that generates credibility, urgency, and traffic; a professional sales staff that creates loyal customers by meeting their needs and satisfying their desires; and a service system that delivers customer purchases in a timely and efficient manner. In fact, of all these factors, the particular items of merchandise displayed in one's store may be the least critical for retail success.

Secondly, buying is an imperfect art, and, no matter one's experience or expertise, never error-free. A stunningly attractive chair or bed quickly loses its luster when it sits too long; a muddy brown sofa looks mighty nice on the back of a delivery truck. One would think that a buyer of thirty-five years would be able to tell the difference. But the cold, hard truth is that thirty per cent of new market selections are never re-ordered -- and one begins to reflect that he might be better off staying home, and abdicating the test-marketing to other eager beavers. But no, six months later, he packs up his suits and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and stubbornly heads south, to assert his buying power all over again.

Continuing Education

Having recently embraced a concentrated curriculum, I have concluded that professional self-improvement begets more disillusionment than enlightenment. In fact, I knew it before I strode purposely across the threshold of knowledge, yet I persevered.

Was it my obsessive-compulsive personality, my deep-rooted ethnic guilt, my inveterate admiration of scholarly mouthpieces, or a too sanguine assessment of the portability of some memorable prescription for personal or business invigoration that roused me from my luxurious accommodations at the Anatole Hilton in Dallas, Texas, propelled me through a chilly predawn six-mile run, and deposited me in class at 8:00 AM on three consecutive mornings for nine sleep-deprived hours of continuing education -- when, in truth, I suspected it would all be for naught?

After all, as one lecturer metaphorically remarked, good ideas are like slippery fish, and, once the hook is removed, they require aggressive measures to be retained and digested, which he graciously supplied: a to-do list, good intentions ambitiously recorded in the rarefied air of the laboratory, and a to-review list, notable objectives resolutely consummated in the real world of retail frenzy.

Even that formula for piscatorial containment was difficult to spear. Whether from stubbornness, perversity, egotism, or simply habit, ignoring the savant's advice, I took copious notes instead; I always do; otherwise, my attention falters and my diligent attendance is wasted. Consequently, I now have a to-do list that is so daunting I shudder at initiating even Task One and a to-review list that is as unblemished as the crystalline snowflakes that unexpectedly dotted the Dallas suburbs that morning. If only a written examination had been in the offing, I would have made the Honor Role, since my notes are exceedingly thorough. Alas, the only tests here are self-administered ones for performance, and in that regard, as my readers have no doubt already deduced, I hardly rate a passing grade.

Of course, there is another way to way to view this whole exercise. Once one has mastered the principles, promulgations, and best-practices of leadership, management, and motivation, and the ability to regurgitate them on cue, one would seem eminently qualified to don the mantle of consultant -- a line of work in which the responsibility for the actual execution of all these directives rests on the heavily-weighted shoulders of someone other than the preacher. Some of these putative experts are indeed veterans of the types of businesses for which they are professing wisdom; whether their disengagement and reinvention can be attributed to past success, failure, or mediocrity is a pregnant question. For surely there must be a modicum of truth in the adage that a consultant is a person who knows fifty ways to make love but can't get a date.

Not intending to be disrespectful, I am amused by the crowded -- and lucrative -- cottage industry of consultancy, in which each "suit" seems to be cut from the same bolt of cloth. Patient but anxious, he stands at the head of the class, smiling, adjusting his equipment, greeting a few of the eager, bleary-eyed, fifty-something students who stroll in, wondering if this is the man (or woman) who can deliver the magic bullet they have traveled some many miles in search of. He lays his jacket aside so it will not interfere with his energetic body movements; he wears a necktie subdued in color and design to minimize distractions. His voice is deep, resonant, and forceful, hardly needing the amplification provided by the tiny microphone attached to his shirt.

He talks smoothly, confidently, and often rapidly, trying to compress three hours of potent material into sixty or ninety minutes. His words gush forth like torrents from a fire hydrant, while his thirsty auditors sip the swirling waters like soda through a straw or sift for sparkling nuggets of golden edification before they can wash away. His delivery is polished, professional, familiar but not memorized, the product of countless hours of similar presentations, rehearsals, and recordings. He floats out a few half-hearted jokes or witticisms -- usually to emphasize a point -- but, in truth, he doesn't have much time for humor. He sporadically attempts to engage the audience, but unless a lucky guess surfaces quickly he answers his own question and races on. He enhances his message with a handout, in my view a poor substitute for listening, and power point slides, which can be helpful but also disconcerting.

While my companions often gravitate to the sides and rear of the meeting room, I always sit in the first or second of the five or six rows of parallel tables, and near the center, in order to see and hear better. Some speakers will ask the peripheral folks to move forward and fill up the front seats; others will roam down a center aisle to reach them, leaving me, who had the courtesy to sit up front, staring into space, justifiably irritated.

My first class, "Rewards that Produce Results," is taught by Sam A., a tall, lanky, rectangular-faced gentleman who warms up his audience by recounting the trials, tribulations, and frustrations of working in his family's carpet business -- still owned and operated by his eighty-year-old father, who, since Sam left, can't seem to find any good help -- and blaming the requisite long hours for the breakup of his first marriage. He made a nice recovery, however, as evidenced by the striking, black-haired beauty, fifteen years his junior, brightening up the rear of the rear of the room selling his books and CD's.

Sam erupts with a barrage of aphoristic statements and statistics which, at first pass, sound like revelations, but, on second thought, are hardly ingenious. Businesses succeed because people want them to. Satisfied customers go elsewhere; only loyal customers come back. Our employees should look like they want to be at work; tell them to tell their faces that they are having a good day. The sales force generates four times as much loyalty as advertising and marketing. Ninety per cent of customer loyalty is generated by twenty-five per cent of the sales force. The single most important determinant of an individual's performance is his relationship with his immediate superior. A people problem is a leadership problem. (I wonder if Sam ran that one by dear old Dad.)

You can see where we're heading. Sam transitions into a philosophical analysis of leadership, which he defines as the finessing of contraries. Using the Abraham Lincoln of Doris Kearns Goodwin's "Team of Rivals" as an example -- a man who was charismatic yet unassuming, consistent yet flexible, willing to take risks, yet patient -- Sam portrays the inspiring leader as one who can manage conflict between opposing forces, even initiate such conflict, because conflict has the power to generate creative tension and original thinking. After all, he announces profoundly, the opposite of a profound truth may well be another profound truth. And the sign of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing views in the mind and still function.

Sam drifts from those profundities to the tactics of leadership -- hiring and firing, managing by walking around, measuring performance, setting goals, delegating, and coaching -- which he has little time for, because he is anxious to illuminate its most effective quality -- which inspiring leaders cultivate in themselves -- love. Yes, it turns out, all you need is love -- because you can buy employees' heads but not their hearts; managers have learned to love techniques and use people, when they should be doing just the opposite; and, in a truly felicitous play on words, love makes ordinary workers extraordinary.

Well, it is Sunday morning, so Sam's sermon isn't too far-fetched. The heart of love is the spirit of giving, and Sam, dripping with love for his congregants, bestows upon us the five love languages for success in business and personal relationships: quality time; acts of service; gifts; touch; and words of affirmation, encouraging words, kind words, humble words. He reminds us of what we innately know: the tongue has the power of life and death; the killer of motivation is criticism; a person needs eight praises for every criticism; inspiring leaders focus on strengths and manage around weaknesses.

I leave the room thinking that he certainly got that ratio right; my wife criticizes me once and I praise her eight times.

I enjoy Sam enough to risk a second class the next day -- on a different subject, of course, "Business is a Game of Margins," replete with a whole new assortment of insightful word-smithing, beginning with this groundbreaking formula for success: build a business; don't do business, that advice following hard upon the by-now-familiar saga of his carpet-store apprenticeship. Today's lesson is that a negotiated dollar adds or subtracts from the bottom line and to increase profitability, don't cut prices; raise them. (Apparently, Sam A. never heard of Sam W . . . alton.) Increase your prices ten percent, and you can make the same profit with thirty-four per cent fewer sales. (The problem with that calculation is that it's not so easy to raise prices ten per cent.)

As it turns out, pricing power is largely a function of positioning, your ability to differentiate yourself from your competitor. To put it bluntly, as Sam does, differentiate or die. Customers will never perceive you are the best unless they perceive you are different.

If your advertisements, store appearance, and customer service are no different (or no better) than your competitor's, then your customer, when confronted by similarity and reduced to commodity shopping, will make her buying decision on price, in which case, the lowest price wins. If a customer claims she can purchase your product at a lower price, tell her why you are worth more. Never admit sameness; if necessary, acknowledge the price differential, but convey your conviction that your product is better.

Add some love to your marketing mix -- the same kind of love Sam advocates for employees. Customers want our love, our empathy. The opposite of love is, not hate, but indifference, and indifference on the part of employees is why customer don't come back.

Sam tosses out a school of slippery fish, hoping his listeners can spear one or two more: shop your competition, not to copy him, but to surpass him; offer a diverse product and price mix; price every item on your floor; use printed price tags; price by perceived value rather than by a standard margin; highlight certain products for comparison with other products; and brand yourself -- with an identity, not a hot iron. That is an extensive to-do list; and I've got four other classes to attend.

Dave A. teaches the next one, entitled "Consumer Communications," a general treatment of communication skills applicable, in fact, to all kinds of interpersonal relationships.

Dave likes lists, beginning with seven rules for good communication: since communication is a dialogue, not a monologue, let the other person talk; listen with the mind, by developing better eye-contact skills, such as focusing on the bridge of the talker's nose (if nothing else, I have been honing in on noses lately); do not argue, which injects emotion into the dialogue; never interrupt, either verbally or non-verbally (such as by looking away); ask questions; minimize negatives; and deflect gossip, or negative talk about other people.

Fifty-five per cent of communication is transmitted by one's body language, thirty-eight per cent by voice, seven per cent in words (Now where did he come up with that one?) -- which means that, in a telephone conversation, one's tone of voice is five times more important than the words one speaks. Three barriers to communication are boredom (because one listens five times faster than the other person speaks, unless the speaker is a silver-tongued business consultant); voice inflection, which alters one's meaning; and the tendency of the listener to lock on to his own perception of what is happening and to lock out what is actually being said.

For effective communication, ask open-ended questions beginning with what, how, and why (like we did as children, until our parents started answering us, "Because I told you so, that's why"), not with closed-ended ones beginning with where, when, and who.

Dave concludes his remarks with a list which logically would have been more useful to his audience if shared earlier -- poor listening habits: pencil listening, or taking notes (and there I was, feverishly scribbling away, excusable, however, because this wasn't a one-on-one conversation, unless, of course, everyone else was asleep); pretending to listen; not listening and not even pretending; not caring about what is being said; completing another person's thought before he can; and displaying boredom -- by yawning, or similar body language, even during an 8:00 AM class, which this is. Fortunately, I can yawn, write, and listen simultaneously.

Who can resist a class with the scintillating title "Explode Your Sales," taught by Robert B.? Robert opens with a statistic that is not all that surprising but nevertheless embarrassing: fifteen per cent of weekly sales are made on Sunday, and our stores are closed on Sunday. Thus, I'm not sure if our company fits the alliterative model of the new Millenium Merchant, who operates during customer-friendly hours, understands the power of an exceptional staff, uses technology to benefit his business, and leverages other people's ideas.

Robert presents three ways to grow one's business, which, in retrospect, aren't that novel either: increase the average sale; increase the number of transactions per customer; and increase the number of customers. The first of these he dispenses with quickly: train your staff to sell more to each customer (which doesn't seem like much of a solution without some elaboration of the word "train") and raise your prices (which doesn't seem any easier to do just because I hear it a second time). At this point, I am tempted to tell Robert to go fly a kite, since furniture prices do not float up as effortlessly as the kites once manufactured by the company he co-founded with his brother in his youthful, entrepreneurial days.

Robert ramps up the originality when he addresses how to generate more transactions per customer: develop a frequent buyer program, rebating a customer after a specified number of purchases; market by e-mail, using short, interesting, and timely messages; and organize special events, such as parties, contests, and clubs.

Acquiring new customers is the most difficult of the three objectives. Robert proposes a new paradigm: give in order to get; lose on the first transaction to make money later; make a sale, regardless of cost, in order to get a customer (to which I would respond: since consumers don't purchase furniture that often, I'm not sure we can afford the initial losing transaction). Among the tactics one might employ in implementing this strategy are distributing gift cards, offering to share the proceeds from purchases with non-profits, and rewarding customers who refer others to your store -- all of which may yield benefits, but, even taken together, are hardly likely to create the critical mass furniture retailers are looking for.

I have to laugh out loud as I slide into my next class, "It's About Time," where the instructor, a professorial-looking fellow named George P., is extremely agitated. "What's wrong?" I inquire. "This has never happened to me in eight years of consulting work," he says. "The organizers of this program didn't give me enough time." Too bad, George, I think to myself, not wanting to engage in negative conversation, because, in your own words, time can't be saved, and, in a rather daring assertion for this Bible-belt territory, you might not have another life after this one. Actually, I believe that is a certainty.

Given a second chance this morning, George manages his time better, because my notes are brief and to the point. He lists ten principles of time efficiency. Zap distractions (by closing your office door, for example, when you do not wish to be disturbed -- and make sure your employees know why it is closed). Plan your day on the way to work. (Sorry, I'm listening to Mike and Mike sports talk.) Make a to-do list (another one). Delegate, because the person who rows the boat doesn't have time to rock it (as long as the crew is not up the creek without a paddle). Once you pass the baton -- give an assignment to an associate -- don't take it back. Make meetings about the future, not the past. Recruit rigorously and effectively, because eighty per cent of one's time is spent as the result of a bad hire. (And if you have wonderful employees, like I have, you can reduce your work time by eighty per cent.) Discipline effectively, following a brief verbal, formal warning, interview, and write-up process (which seems more time-consuming than time-efficient). Get your sleep (and remember to close your door). And finally, learn to multi-task, his best piece of advice, although I doubt any of the executives in this room would have made it this far if without already possessing that skill.

Taking to heart George's warning about bad hiring decisions, I rally for the closing day's serendipitous class on "Hiring and Firing." Attendance is embarrassingly sparse, as many of my colleagues, pressed for time, have headed home, leaving many empty seats in the rear of the room for the remaining dozen or so to choose from. Our instructor, Daniel A., is tall, well-groomed, nattily attired, and a fast talker who, it appears, can hire or fire with equal aplomb.

Daniel begins by identifying the hiring challenges employers face these days. By 2010 there will be ten million more jobs in our society than workers to fill them (unless, I reflect, we open up our borders or raise the retirement age, two simple, but politically suicidal, solutions). Whereas workers of my generation chose a job for life, today they opt for a life full of jobs, and change them eleven times before retirement (a number which seemed exaggerated to me, perhaps skewed by some who change monthly). Higher pay reduces turnover; Costco's average hourly pay is forty per cent higher than Sam's Club, and its turnover is six per cent compared to Sam's twenty-one per cent. Baby boomers like me (with a strong work ethic!) face a generational challenge; we are relegated to hiring Generation X'ers who, raised in a latch-key environment, may be defensive and angry, or Generation Y'ers who, operating in a universe of high-tech communications, desire working conditions suited to their lifestyle.

Daniel warns of several hiring traps. Seventy-two per cent of companies don't have a structured process. They hire under pressure and lower their standards. They focus on what prospective employees can do rather than on what they will do, when, in fact, they should hire on attitude and teach technique. Reference checks are worthless. Bad hires are costly: three times the employee's salary, lower company morale, retraining expenses, lost business opportunities, and poor customer service (not to mention, eighty per cent of the manager's time).

Who could argue with Daniel's next piece of advice? Look for people who possess integrity, intelligence, and common sense; who maintain eye contact (or at least bridge-of-the-nose contact); and who are organized, can multi-task, and are willing to change. (In other words, look for someone just like you!) Sadly, the best place to find such superhumans is in industries other than retail: customer service, hospitality, teaching, the military, and airlines. (I wonder which friendly skies he's been flying.)

Daniel suggests how such individuals might be recruited. Pay bonuses to current employees for referrals (as much as $1000 to be effective). Run advertisements, which are free, on the AARP web site. Ask manufacturer's representatives for assistance by posing such innocuous questions as "Who do you know who might be interested in this opportunity?"

Daniel goes into considerable detail on the interview process. He recommends three interviews: a telephone interview and one each by the prospective employee's supervisor and an associate. He screens applicants by having them respond to voice mail: "Welcome to Schewels. Please leave a brief message and five reasons why you would do well in the furniture industry." The best respondents are called back for a five-minute telephone interview, and those who pass this line of defense are invited for a personal forty-minute interview.

It begins with some casual pleasantries and the interviewer providing basic information about himself and the company culture. Then the conversation flips, and the interviewer asks the applicant about his background, education, military service, and job experience. He asks him to rank in order one to five his reasons for wanting to make a job change: challenge, location, advancement, money, and security. (They are easy to remember; just think "clams.")

He searches deeper, trying to ascertain the applicant's motivations. He asks for three adjectives his former supervisor would use to describe him, and, if he receives a prepared answer, he probes for amplification with open-ended "why" questions. (Remember those?) He asks what his former supervisor would say are three areas in which he needs personal improvement.

If he likes the applicant, he closes the interview by asking him: on a scale of one to ten, how interested is he in this position, and then, how the gap between his response and number ten can be closed. He asks the applicant to call him a 10:15 the next morning -- a sly test of punctuality. A third interview is conducted by an associate, whose reaction must be positive for the applicant to be hired.

Daniel concludes with the last sound bite of my strenuous three-day rest, rehabilitation, and re-education adventure: a failure to hit the bull's eye is not the fault of the target.

I'll remember that one, along with a few other zingers. Love your employees (but don't get too close). Differentiate or die (unless a competitor has an idea too good not to copy). Focus on the bridge of the nose (when you can't bear to look the person whom you are about to fire in the eye). It's about time (to get home and back to work). Actually, the maxim not a single one of these garrulous authorities propounded among the thousands of words they fluidly disgorged is the one that by far seems the most appropriate: It's all easier said than done.

Civil Warrior

I have a new hero: Ulysses S. Grant.

That's a surprising choice for a born-and-bred Southerner, a proud graduate of Washington and Lee University, and a man whose truncated armed forces career consisted of two weeks at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center in Chicago, Illinois, and two weeks aboard a destroyer that never left its berth in Jacksonville, Florida.

Not long after that stillborn voyage -- which marked the completion of a year-long reserve training course -- my Commanding Officer at the Naval Reserve Center in Lynchburg summoned me to his office, informed me that the Navy had a surfeit (my word, not his) of recruits, and offered me a voluntary discharge, ostensibly because my college degree overqualifed me for two year's active duty as an enlisted man, but most likely because my total ineptitude in all the requisite skills of seamanship (like swabbing the deck, painting the hull while suspended overboard on a scaffold, and swearing with unrelenting frequency) was painfully evident. By a stroke of good fortune, my original motive for enlisting -- to avoid the draft and a tour in Vietnam -- was no longer operative, the Selective Service having instituted in the intervening period a lottery system and consequently having assigned me a number which made the likelihood of induction extremely remote. After a pregnant moment of serious reflection, I thanked the Navy profusely and jumped ship.

That forgettable episode was a rude awakening to a fellow whose notion of military affairs was circumscribed by a youthful fascination with the Civil War -- an interest that was shared by several of my peers but which I have failed to observe in the current generation, at least in those in my family circle: sons, daughters, nieces, nephews. Granted, one's affinity for any particular subject is a matter of personal taste, but I suspect that historical studies as an avocation -- for all us non-athletes, that is, who had plenty of time for such diversions -- has fallen prey to stiff competition from a myriad of technological leisure time options -- like computers, cell phones, and Wii games. I would also argue, counterintuitively, that the popularity some years ago of Ken Burns's documentary was more an indication of a curiosity and lack of knowledge about the Civil War than a reflection of some widely-held, deep-seated enthusiasm.

In today's environment of political correctness, the classroom discussion of Southern Secession and the War is no doubt a sensitive subject. Intellectual honesty requires that teachers freely acknowledge slavery and its politics as their root causes and firmly reject the coded euphemisms of my segregated era, which defined the irrepressible conflict as a clash between industrial and agrarian societies, protectionists and free-traders, and federalist and states-rights advocates -- and minimized, if not ignored, slavery as the critical factor.

This benign neglect of the Peculiar Institution, coupled with a cavalier indifference towards the War's appalling devastation and loss of life (630,00 dead, 2% of the nation's population, equivalent to 6 million today), allowed students like me to invest it with a naive romanticism. With all the horror and inhumanity bleached out, the Civil War was reduced to an exercise of identifying obscure villages on a map (many of which were located in my own Virginia backyard), moving army units around like pieces on a chessboard, assigning politicians and generals their proper roles as heroes or villains, and imagining glorious might-have-beens in the service of a Lost Cause.

I remember a seventh-grade chronicle composed of handwritten text and cut-out illustrations painstakingly pasted on blue construction papers neatly tied together; one year later, a scholarly exposition of the crucial three-day struggle at Gettysburg, complete with my own crudely-traced maps, typed by my father's secretary, and bound in a green folder; a board game of the same name, its piece de resistance a large-scale rendering of the battlefield, on which my friends and I spent many hours maneuvering miniature brigades in imaginary contests of strategy and tactics; laboring over, at the insistence of another precocious military expert, the impenetrable but authoritative tome, "Campaigns of the Army of the Potomac," penned in 1866 by one William Swinton, a journalist who, I recently read, barely escaped execution after he was discovered eavesdropping outside General Grant's tent one night; and devouring the much more accessible "Stillness at Appomattox," by Bruce Catton, my youthful introduction to the joys of finely crafted narrative history.

Is there any doubt that the lens through which my fellow devotees and I peered into the past was clouded by a Southern (and Eastern) bias? Our demigods were the saintly patrician, Robert E. Lee, and his eccentric but brilliant lieutenant, Stonewall Jackson; their foils a series of incompetent Union commanders against whom the two teamed up to inflict one ignominious defeat after another: McClellan at Mechanicsville, Pope at Second Manassas, Burnside at Fredericksburg, Hooker at Chancellorsville, McDowell, Banks, and Fremont in the Valley. Even the draws -- Antietam and Gettysburg -- were moral victories; the Confederacy would not succumb until the brutal, remorseless Ulysses S. Grant, flush with his success in the western theater (although achieved against generals hardly comparable to Robert E. Lee) , came east in 1864, poured thousands of soldiers into the crucible of the Overland Campaign, and eventually subdued his invincible -- and more astute and humane -- opponent only through the sheer force of numbers. Or so went the myth.

A few years ago I picked up another book by Bruce Catton, this one entitled "Grant Moves South." After reading a few pages, in a sudden, apocalyptic correction of my juvenile myopia, I realized that, while I, a Virginian (like Robert E. Lee), had always thought of my home as the battleground state, upon whose sacred soil this War would be won or lost, there was another furious conflict raging 800 miles to the west, where the North was shredding the Confederacy with a number of stunning victories and where, inexorably, Ulysses S. Grant was moving South. I began to acquire a new respect for the man.

Grant was a man of the West -- he was born in Ohio and later moved to Illinois -- but he was also a man for the Union. His persona, fostered by those who knew and wrote about him and cultivated by himself in his "Memoirs," is that of an iconic Western (and, by extrapolation, American) hero (as described in Jean Edwards Smith's "Grant" and Catton's "Grant Moves South): quiet; careless of style, formality, and show; slouching, unmilitary, very ordinary; yet possessed of a good deal of common sense; and of whom it was said that, when he came around, things started to happen.

In some mysterious way, he embodied what Catton terms, dialectically, (in "U.S. Grant and the American Military Tradition") the lofty idealism and gross materialism of the Western pioneer, who saw his destiny as limitless, embracing the whole continent, and who was prepared to react with violence and energy against anything (read secession) which "threatened the unity and continuity of the American experiment."

Initially, Grant was not an Abolitionist, but he came to believe that the War was precipitated by the unwillingness of the "intelligent, well-to-do, and non-slave-holding free state population to secure, police, and protect the South's favorite institution." As John Keegan writes in "The Mask of Command," he understood that "American propriety required humility to the sovereignty of the people," that the majority must triumph over the minority for the two disparate Americas -- North and South -- to become one; afterward, he yearned for their citizens to commingle in peace and harmony.

A British journalist, quoted in Smith's biography, called Grant a "genuine commoner, a commander of a democratic army from a democratic people." According to Keegan, Grant grasped what many of his fellow generals did not: this was an ideological war fought by volunteers; men of "social standing, competence, wealth, and independence of character" were risking their lives for a principle. Instinctively, he came to employ the populist touch that made him master of the people's war, commanding by consent rather than by diktat -- "the great majority favored discipline," he later wrote -- and instilling the value of military routine by experience (marching, fighting) rather than by precept.

Grant's reputation as a "butcher" was initiated by early apologists for the "Lost Cause" and bolstered by Southern memoiralists and Northern historians disgusted by the scandals of his Presidency and angered by his Administration's efforts to protect the rights of freed blacks and to resolve ongoing hostilities with Native Americans. Recent scholarship has shown that Grant suffered no greater casualties -- proportionately or in real numbers -- than other generals on both sides, and, in many cases, fewer. For the entire war, Grant imposed 190,000 casualties on his foes while incurring 154,000. Grant had 18.1% of his men killed or wounded while killing or wounding 20.7% of the enemy; Lee had 20.2% of troops killed or wounded while killing or wounding 15.4% of the enemy. (Granted, Lee's forces were usually outnumbered.) Lee lost more soldiers than any other general in the war. "If a general could be called a butcher, Lee is probably more of one than Grant," says historian Gordon Rhea.

Major-General J.F.C. Fuller characterizes Grant as the "Master of Predicaments," and convincingly argues that therein lies his genius. When everything was right and orderly, in peacetime and prosperity, "he shrank into his shell of mediocrity," and managed to lose everything he had. When all was chaos, or when the occasion demanded desperate action, he emerged from anonymity, and "nothing would induce him to withdraw into it until normality had been re-established."

"He loved pitting his will against seeming impossibilities -- taming a buck-jumping circus pony, leaping over a battery of six guns in succession, fighting the bayous around Vicksburg, creating order out of confusion at Chattanooga, and pursuing Lee all over the bottomless road to Appomattox."

It was this theme I seized upon when I addressed my seven hundred employees at a company sales meeting on January 31st. In full regalia, of course.

It's not every one who gets to impersonate his hero -- and in front of an audience. Two years ago, on the same occasion, I had donned my all-white, all-bright Elvis Presley outfit and lip-synched "Blue Suede Shoes," but an encore performance seemed derivative and shallow.

I thought the story of Ulysses S. Grant's metamorphosis and unflinching resolve in moments of crisis could be a meaningful message in these uncertain economic times. The company had just suffered through its worst sales month since January 2001. It was the tenth consecutive month of sales declines on a comparable basis from the previous year. I was already engaged in a research project on Grant. And my corporate sales manger was insisting that I get out in front with some well-chosen words of motivation (or just make a fool of myself).

Although I have spoken many times before large groups and so no longer face them with fear, trembling, and perspiration, I believe that whatever lingering inhibitions one might secretly harbor magically evaporate beneath the transformative masque. Thus it was with a studied confidence that I strode out on the naked stage at the Roanoke Civic Center, in step with the patriotic beat of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," disguised in an authentic borrowed Union soldier's uniform, complete with gloves, boots, and sidearm belt, sporting a scruffy pasted-on black beard, cowboy hat, and unlit cigar, and spoke these memorized and mesmerizing (in my humble opinion) words:

"Mr. Schewel asked me to speak to you this morning because he believes that the lives of famous people can inspire us to excellence.

"My name is Ulysses S. Grant. Some say I was the greatest general of the Civil War. Some say I was the greatest general in U.S. military history. While others will have to judge the validity of those claims, certain facts speak for themselves: in four years, I never lost a battle, and I received the surrender of three Confederate armies.

"My childhood was unremarkable, although there were precursers of my future greatness.

"My father owned a tannery and a livery stable. I became an expert horseman and often drove horse-drawn wagons carrying trade and travelers to distant places. During these journeys, I developed a peculiar habit: if I accidentally went past my destination, I would take any kind of out-of-the-way detour to get back to it, even at a considerable inconvenience. I detested, even feared, retracing my steps; in other words, I hated to retreat.

"Because my father wanted me to get a good education, he secured an appointment for me to attend West Point. I doubted my ability to complete the course of study and couldn't bear the thought of failing. When I told my father that I wouldn't go, he said, after a brief pause, that he thought I would go, after which I said, after a brief pause, that I thought I would go, too. Which proves that, in order to be successful, a person must often do things he does not want to do or thinks himself incapable of doing.

"After graduating from West Point, I went off to war, the Mexican War, where I served under a general who made a lasting impression on me, Zachary Taylor. Known as Old Rough and Ready, he disliked military formality. He wore blue jeans, a linen duster, and a straw hat, and he lounged around headquarters like a backwoods farmer. But he was a fighter, and showed that, beneath all the glitter and brass, what really mattered was how you performed under pressure. And there must be some truth to that, because when Robert E. Lee surrendered to me at Appomattox, he was decked out in his finest dress grays, while I, swordless, was wearing a private's shirt and mud-stained boots and pants.

"When Taylor took his army on a 250-mile march through Central Mexico, I was appointed regimental quartermaster -- much to my disappointment, because I preferred to be on the front lines. I was responsible for collecting and organizing vast quantities of food, clothing, forage, and ammunition and transporting it by wagon train and pack mule -- a task which taught me that no matter how grand were the forces one had at hand and no matter how masterful was one's planning, success on the field depended on the logistics and equipment backing them up.

"After the Mexican War, I was sent to California. It was too far away. I missed my wife and sons so much that I resigned my commission and moved back to Ohio -- where, for seven lean years, I failed at one venture after another: farming, peddling, selling real estate, collecting rents, collecting taxes. If the Civil War had not broken out, I would have lived out my days as an unassuming clerk in my father's dry goods store. In 1861, the Governor of Illinois appointed me a colonel in charge of a regiment; a few months later, I was promoted to Brigadier General and given command of three divisions.

"Early on, I discovered that I possessed an unusual talent for reading maps and understanding topography. I perceived that the key to dominating the states of Kentucky and Tennessee was gaining control of two parallel rivers in northern Tennessee, the Tennessee River and the Cumberland River. In February 1862, with the help of a gunboat bombardment, I captured Fort Henry on the Tennessee River. I then marched my 15,000 men ten miles east and invested Fort Donelson on the Cumberland River.

"Those Confederates would not give up easily, however. They attacked the right end of our line and were near to breaking the siege and fleeing to safety, when, seven miles away, I mounted my horse and raced to the sound of gunfire. I saw that many Confederate soldiers had abandoned full knapsacks, and I realized that they were more demoralized than my own men and had fled the field in panic. 'The one who attacks now will be victorious,' I told General McClernand. Riding to the other end of the Union line, I informed General Smith: 'All has failed on the Union right; you must take Fort Donelson!' He led his men in a gallant bayonet charge; they drove the Confederates back into the fort -- and my terms of unconditional surrender were accepted two days later. We had turned a grievous defeat into the greatest Union victory in the war.

"Two months later I found myself in command of 35,000 troops encamped one hundred miles upriver at a place called Shiloh. I was overconfident and hardly expected what happened at daybreak on Sunday, April 6th: 40,000 Confederates launched a massive surprise attack. A savage battle ensued all morning; Union forces gave ground inch by inch, at a tremendous loss of life. I arrived on the scene at 8:30 and rode from one end of the line to the other, trying to stem the tide and maintain order in the midst of horrific destruction. In one area, known forever after as the Hornet's Nest, Union soldiers repulsed twelve separate attacks before giving way. By the close of the day, the Confederates had occupied our camps and driven us back almost into the river.

"At ten o'clock that night, General McClernand reported to me that one-third of our army was out of action and the rest downcast and disheartened. 'What do you propose to do?' he asked, 'Retreat?' 'No,' I responded, 'I propose to attack the enemy at daylight and whip them.'

"The next day was a mirror image of the previous one, only in reverse. Fortified by the timely arrival of reinforcements, we struck at dawn, caught the Confederates off guard, and fought them to exhaustion for six hours. This time they withdrew, and we reclaimed our former campsites. It was another victory snatched from the jaws of defeat but a costly one; both sides were learning that this war would be long and deadly.

"One year later I was again facing a daunting situation. My objective was the town of Vicksburg, perched high atop bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River, its gun batteries preventing free passage of the river from Ohio to New Orleans. Seven times I tried to master the defenses of Vicksburg and seven times I failed. I tried a head-on attack from the north up the face of the bluffs. I tried digging a canal to divert the Mississippi and bypass the town. I tried to create a circuitous waterway through the Louisiana swamps and emerge below the town. I tried riding the Yazoo River flood waters up close to the Confederate defenses but was blocked by a sunken steamer. I tried bringing troop-laden gunboats through the swollen ship channels but was driven off by sharpshooters.

"Finally, after studying my maps long and hard in the solitude of my tent, I devised a daring campaign that even my most trusted associates questioned but which would later be acknowledged as one of the most brilliant in military history. Twice, in the dead of night, I floated transports and steamers past the Vicksburg defenses. I marched my troops on a roundabout course fifty miles south of the town, used the transports to cross the river, cut loose from my supply base, and moved inland. During the next three weeks, my three corps fought and won five separate battles, defeated two enemy armies, occupied the capital of Mississippi, fed themselves from local farms, and eventually drove the remaining Confederates back into Vicksburg. After a one-month siege, that army became the second to accept my terms of unconditional surrender.

"In 1864, President Lincoln summoned me east to take command of all Union forces, but particularly the Army of the Potomac, which, after three years of combat against Robert E. Lee, was no further along than when it had first left the environs of Washington. We crossed the Rapidan River, stepped cautiously into the Virginia Wilderness, and on May 5th locked horns with the Army of Northern Virginia. It was a fierce two-day battle, fought amidst a dense, tangled undergrowth that impeded movement and visibility. At various times, each side appeared on the verge of a smashing victory (or disastrous defeat) only to be reversed by the arrival of reinforcements, a counterattack, or the missteps of a confused commander. Overnight fires burned alive hundreds of wounded soldiers lying helpless in the darkness. When the smoke dissipated, I had lost 17,000 men, Lee, 11,000.

"My soldiers were expecting retreat. After all, had not that been the all-too-familiar pattern of behavior in all their previous encounters with Robert E. Lee? That night I told a reporter on his way back to Washington to convey this message to President Lincoln: 'Whatever happens, there will be no turning back.' At 6:30 the next morning, I gave the order to march south. My men were astonished, then elated. They cheered, clapped, swung their arms, and tossed their hats into the air. They had been whipped to a draw -- yet they were moving forward, and would not rest until, eleven months later, Lee surrendered.

"In 1868, I was elected the eighteenth President of the United States. But I was no politician. Those qualities which had served me so well in wartime -- simplicity, candor, modesty, and magnanimity -- were of little value in the White House. I was undermined by greedy robber barons, jealous legislators, corrupt administrators, and the intractable problem of the freed slaves. When I retired eight years later, it was with a sense of relief.

"I had one more battle to fight. In 1880, I went into business with a man named Ferdinand Ward. I invested all my capital and encouraged others to follow suit, which many did, trusting in my reputation and good name. But Ward was a con artist and a swindler; the firm failed in 1884 and I was broke.

"My friend Mark Twain came to me and suggested that I write my Memoirs, my story of the great war in which I had risen to prominence and led the Union to victory. At first I was reluctant; who would want to read my writings, I thought. When Mr.Twain convinced me that it would be a way to make some money, I acquiesced.

"Late that summer I was sitting on my porch, making some notes, when I bit into a peach. I felt a sharp pain in my throat. When I rinsed my throat with water, it burned like liquid fire. My doctor diagnosed me with incurable throat cancer, and, suddenly, writing my Memoirs became a race against time and a last chance to leave something to my beloved wife and family.

"Only the courage, determination, and will power that had made me a great general enabled me to complete the task. I persisted through excruciating pain, debilitating weakness, and grogginess brought on by medication. Twice I almost died. When I became too weak to write, I would dictate to a secretary, and when it became too painful for me to speak, I would take up my pen again. Miraculously, I finished the work one week before my death on July 23rd, 1885. The sales of my Memoirs exceeded those of any previously-published book and earned a remarkable $450,000.

"I stand before you this morning as an ordinary man who performed extraordinary deeds -- by never giving up. Remember: when you are perplexed by an insurmountable predicament, when failure is staring you in the face, when all your efforts seem futile -- this is when true heroes rise to the occasion, and turn adversity into prosperity, defeat into triumph.

"But it's not easy. It requires the proper application of courage, determination, and will power, planning, preparation, and execution.

"Now, is the Schewel army ready to reverse the tide of ill fortune that has plagued it these past few months? Is the Schewel army ready to claim victory in the furniture and mattress wars? Is the Schewel army ready for its biggest HCP contest and biggest three-day sale ever?

"As I depart this stage to return forever to Grant's Tomb, let me leave with you one final message -- my formula for success. Like me, it's simple and straightforward. If you're a Civil Warrior, you take these words literally. But if you're a Pseudo-Warrior like Mr. Schewel here -- who has never fired a weapon -- you are to take these words metaphorically and apply them to the appropriate personal or business situation.

"Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can and as often as you can and keep moving on."

Team of Rivals

Since it would be disingenuous at this point to proclaim a disinterest in television viewing, this being my third consecutive blog inspired by that activity, let me begin with the frank admission that, like the proverbial couch potato, for past two weeks I have found myself fixated on the silver screen for extended periods of time, entranced by all manner of sound bites, speechmaking, interviews, commentary, and analysis relative to America's quadrennial exercise in presidential selection.

Is this season's circus any more intriguing and seductive than others of recent memory -- or is it just the fact that, like a championship sporting event, it's this week's game of the century? I will not be the first -- nor last -- putative pundit to point out two obvious reasons for a heightened level of interest: (1) This is the first presidential election year since Eisenhower ran against Stevenson in 1952 in which neither party is offering up a natural successor, that is, a sitting president or vice-president; (2) The number of viable candidates is unusually large, nine at this writing, although some may fallen from favor by the time I post -- or you read -- this article.

Nine is a number which should resonate with my faithful readers, at least those perspicacious enough to recall my past and present reverence for the game of baseball. Yes, nine players constitute a traditional baseball team -- minus the anomalous designated hitter -- a conceit I propose to expand upon in this political meditation. Since, of course, these contenders are rivals rather than teammates, I seized upon the title noted above, fully aware that I might be justifiably castigated for plagiarizing it from Doris Kearns Goodwin's best-selling history of Lincoln's Administration, among the members of which were, at Mr. Lincoln's invitation, three men whom he had bested for the Presidency: William H. Seward, Salmon P. Chase, and Edward Bates.

The sight of these players rushing to their assigned positions prompts me to reflect on just what this game is all about: the quest to become the President of the United States, the most powerful man on earth, leader of three hundred million diverse souls, commander-in-chief of 1.5 million uniformed men and women scattered throughout the globe, administrator of a $2.8 trillion budget, manager of two million civil service employees (and 10.5 million more when federal contractors and grantees are included). Baited by the press, we, his constituents, yearn for a Chief Executive invested in the shimmering aura of royalty and endowed with the superhuman powers each candidate claims to possess, only to be cruelly disillusioned when Shakespearian flaws erupt like ugly boils, the most painful of which is a stubborn inability to forecast the consequences of one's actions, whether personal, as in the case of Bill Clinton, or geopolitical, as in the case of George Bush.

While striving to lead, each candidate presents himself as a servant of the people. Speaking as a cynic or a realist, I submit, however, that what drives these seekers of our highest office is a synergistic combination of a will-to-power and the desire to promote a particular -- though often fluid -- agenda. And while these forces are actively informing the psyches of each individual, they are just as vigorously propelling two influence groups surfing in their wake: party functionaries and a tangled potpourri of special interests. For with victory come the spoils of war: appointments to be made, contributors to be rewarded, platform-driven legislation to be proposed, executive orders to be promulgated.

The imposing figures of Ronald Reagan -- actor as politician -- and Bill Clinton -- politician as actor -- and unrelenting media attention have transformed presidential campaigns into stage shows where performance trumps solidity. Through the unfiltered camera lens and the unforgiving microphone every grin, grimace, voice inflection, pause, body movement, and spoken word is amplified, scrutinized, and analyzed ad infinitum. Viewers are challenged to choose between authenticity and plasticity, experience and novelty, competence and likeability, humor and gravitas. Some rare stars -- like Reagan and Clinton -- are charming enough to project these contradictory traits simultaneously, setting lofty standards for their aspiring successors to emulate.

I used to believe that Presidents could not make a significant difference in my own -- or anyone's -- life, until the advent of George Bush. Now, seven years later, I am compelled to admit that his tax cuts -- passed at his behest by a malleable Republican Congress -- saved me money, lots of money, by reducing my earned income and capital gains rates. Whether economic growth and the stock market's meteoric rise during the same period -- which benefited my retail furniture business and increased my personal wealth -- can be attributed to these policies, experts wiser than I will have to determine. And whether these same policies have laid the groundwork for severe negative long-term results, manifestations of which may already be upon us, those experts also will have to judge.

At least one thinks they have. Writing in the December issue of "Vanity Fair," Joseph Steglitz slams the Bush Administration's economic policies and catalogues a litany of missteps and their consequences: passing the aforementioned tax cuts, which, skewed towards the wealthy, have deepened the gulf between rich and poor; enacting the Medicare prescription drug benefit, the largest increase in entitlements in four decades, which, in a sop to pharmaceutical companies, has prevented subscribers from purchasing cheap foreign-sourced medications and the government from negotiating with those same companies for lower prices; launching a preemptive war in Iraq, which has destabilized the region, driven up oil prices, and cost our government almost $1 trillion; failing to diversify America's energy resources, to invest adequately in a decaying infrastructure, and (this one is mine) to address our massive unfunded future Social Security and Medicare obligations; and fostering, by example and lack of oversight, a fiscal irresponsibility that has encouraged lenders and borrowers to accumulate unsustainable levels of home mortgage debt.

I believe a divided government -- a Democratic Congress and a Republican President, or vice versa -- where one branch checks the excesses of the other -- reflecting the brilliant design of the Founding Fathers -- causes the least harm, and offers the opportunity for the greatest good for the American citizenry. Whether voters, in their ultimate wisdom, will produce that outcome remains to be seen. In any event, I now believe our next president will have as great an impact on our individual lives as the current one. And he (or she) will be one of the following members of our baseball team.

Standing on the pitcher's mound is Mitt Romney, a surprising choice, since, given his catchy proper name, one would expect to find him ensconced behind home plate. But how callous would it be to veil that handsome visage -- the nobly chiseled features, the sparkling black eyes, the blindingly pearlescent smile, the luxuriously coiffed hair -- beneath leather and iron. (Of course, he poses capless.) The mystique enveloping Mitt -- flanked by his wife, sons, and daughters-in-law, all gorgeously stamped from the same mold as he -- is that he's too perfect; one speculates whether the delicately struck blow of a jeweler's hammer might not shatter him like a diamond. As one satirist remarked, when he goes into his windup to deliver a pitch, he's like Robocop eating paste.

Voters are not yet convinced that his positions are any more durable than the fragile shell that encases him. Anyone who has slipped so smoothly from moderate (or liberal) positions on social issues like abortion and gay rights can just as easily blow back -- which might make him more appealing to me, except for the confusion and shoddiness of his flip-flopping. And although Washington may indeed be broken and in dire need of a fixer -- the newest of his themes, which change colors like a chameleon -- does anyone believe bureaucracies and legislatures can be re-engineered like the companies Mitt's venture capitalist firm bought and sold? And, more to the point, does the man on the street really care?

Crouched behind the plate, giving Mitt the finger, is the scrappy, pugnacious, bulldog of a catcher and, by virtue of his seniority, the designated team captain, John McCain, whose scarred mug, crooked arm, and uneven gait are not only the vestiges of prison camp torture but the symbolic wounds of political warfare, including the battle he lost in 2000, when the Republican establishment and religious right, weary of his independence (read, liberalism) and fearful he might derail George Bush's coronation, threw him under the bus. Ironically, he turned out to be one of Bush's strongest war and immigration reform supporters, and is now riding the surge to a renewed primary popularity.

Of all the candidates, McCain seems less driven by naked ambition than by a genuine desire to serve and lead his countrymen, or, as he refers to them, ad nauseum, "My friends." When attacked by his opponents on issues like the Bush tax cuts and immigration and forced to compromise and qualify his convictions, his pain and disgust are palpable. Smiling doesn't come easily to him, another reminder of his life story -- but no one can doubt his sincerity, courage, or gentlemanly conduct; except on rare occasions, he is too kind to his rivals.

I fear, however, that his time has passed. At age 72, McCain would take office as our oldest first-term president. His advisers, apprehensive about what the unleashed "Straight Talker" might say, prefer that he avoid speaking extemporaneously; he read a ten-minute prepared acceptance speech after winning the New Hampshire primary. While I applaud his hawkish crusade against out-of-control government spending, I thought he passed the ball when he used a question about a possible recession to reassert his reputation as the congressional "Sheriff" and to congratulate himself for sinking a $6 billion tanker expenditure.

Anchoring first base is the tall, lean, craggy-faced, Tennessee-drawling, former actor, Fred Thompson. This position requires less mobility, less pure athletic skill, than the others and is ideal for the player whose engagement and commitment have disappointed his supporters ever since he bubbled up from the underground and his immediate name recognition boosted him into the thick of the race. I believe that the Republican establishment was desperate for a candidate whose conservative credentials were untarnished and consistent and that his hungry trophy wife persuaded him to throw his hat in the ring.

As one pundit remarked, Thompson has played many roles well, except the one he must play now: himself. (He reminds me of Henry Fonda -- the President -- in the 1964 movie "Fail-Safe.") He stumbled early, appearing lackadaisical and uninformed. He was articulate enough and serious-looking -- which only served to deepen his wrinkled brow; he just didn't seem to know, or care, what he was talking about. He's been a quick study, though, and performed well in the Republican South Carolina debate (one focus group pegged him the winner), pouncing on his direct opponent in that primary, Mike Huckabee, as too liberal for Reagan Republicans. I was surprised to hear him express concern over the looming insolvency of Social Security and Medicare, an issue on which all other candidates and the media have been resoundingly silent. I expect Fred's flare-up is ephemeral and will expire soon from lack of energy and oxygen.

The man with two first names, Ron Paul, holds down second base, where limited range and a weak throwing arm will do minimum damage. Paul's libertarian philosophy has mobilized a sympathetic base, generated millions of internet dollars, and garnered a tolerable number of primary votes. In public appearances he has criticized both parties for enlarging the federal government, pursuing unnecessary and expensive foreign missions, and weakening the dollar and endangering our economy through uncontrolled deficit spending -- valid arguments, to be sure. Yet, in my view, his rambling, unfocused, isolationist, whining diatribes have sadly undermined his own and his disciples' credibility. Reduced violence in Iraq and the success of the surge have also negated his cause. Libertarians deserve a better spokesperson; it's time for Ron (or Paul) to retire.

The hot corner, third base, is capably defended by former New York mayor, Rudi Giuliani, the Italian stallion (or stud, according to some reports), Sylvester Stallone without the hair, who spears line drives as deftly as he deflects terrorist attacks. Based on his expertise in national security and his perceived edge in a mano-a-mano contest with Hillary, and in spite of his un-Republican pro-abortion and pro-gun-control leanings, before any votes were cast, Rudi was the front-runner -- that is, until Hillary squandered her inevitability, a revived McCain co-opted national security, and Huckabee made social issues relevant.

Rudi is struggling mightily to recover from this flurry of hard-hit balls as well as a strategy that has him banking on a victory in the Florida primary -- which has left him out of sight, out of mind, out of the conversation, and out of the running in Iowa, New Hampshire (where his poor showing has made his staff downplay the considerable time he actually spent there), Michigan, and South Carolina. Rudi is shrewd, well-spoken (even with rocks in his mouth, which he sometimes evinces), and sure-footed, but at the same time passive, in that he never challenges an opponent; maybe he fears a counterattack against his vulnerable left. His latest proposals (they may not be new) smack of panic: a one-page income tax return, featuring three simplified levels of taxation, 10%, 15%, and 30%, with about as much chance of adoption as Rudi's being named father of the year; and an impractical and intrusive national ID card to register illegal immigrants and, I assume, legal citizens (which sounds to me like just another identification to be stolen). I doubt Rudi can regain traction.

Meanwhile, he's been overtaken by our slick-fielding, nimble, witty shortstop, Mike Huckabee. I am embarrassed to admit it, but, in the words of the slogan plastered all over his bumper stickers, signs, and lapel pins, "I like Mike." Who can resist his hucksterish country-boy charm, self-deprecating humor, and crooked, congenial grin, all of which remind me of a cross (no pun intended) between Gomer Pyle and Ronald Reagan? Who cares if he's an Evangelical Christian and former Baptist preacher? I've always felt that the Republican Party of recent vintage was the product of an unholy coalition between big business and socially conscious middle-class churchgoers who would one day find themselves at odds. It takes tax dollars to build better roads and schools -- and often to provide food, shelter, and health care to the impoverished -- and if Mike Huckabee raised taxes in Arkansas for those ends -- which I have no doubt he did, in spite of his equivocations -- more power to him. He's preaching an economic populism and compassionate conservatism that is luring audiences, contributions, and votes.

I won't deny that Mike has his problems, and they won't be easily salved with snake-oil. Ghosts of corruption haunt him from his days in the governor's mansion. His lack of knowledge and experience in foreign affairs and security matters is painfully evident -- but so was Reagan's at a similar time in his career. Running constitutional amendments banning abortion and gay marriages up a Confederate flagpole will win him few friends and lots of enemies. His Fair Tax Plan is unfair, flawed, going nowhere, and mostly a carrot dangled in front of economic conservatives. But wouldn't it be refreshing to have a president who took his job seriously but not always himself; who hadn't sworn allegiance to multinational corporations and special interest groups; and who espoused a brand of warmhearted Christianity that even a Jew like me can appreciate?

Although my readers will no doubt argue that all three Democratic contenders belong in left field, proper defense dictates an occupant for each outfield position. And of the three, furthest to the left is the boyishly handsome, toothy, silver-tongued son of a . . . mill worker, John Edwards, former trial lawyer, former Senator, former nominee for Vice-President -- to review his laundry list of qualifications for our Highest Office. By all accounts, Mr. Edwards's Senate record wasn't all that remarkable (he voted to authorize military action in Iraq, and for other measures which he now apologizes for) and he ran for President in 2004 because he knew his Senate re-election chances were slim. Along the way he appropriated the role of spokesperson -- or defender, as in a courtroom -- for all the underrepresented, uninsured, dispossessed, disadvantaged, and forgotten elements in our society (the Other America, to recoin a phrase), and embarked on a crusade in their behalf, in 2004 and, deja vu, in 2008.

At the risk of offending those whom Mr. Edwards (it just doesn't sound right to call him John) is championing, I find his tone and invective so strident, belligerent, and repetitive that they distort him into a caricature of himself. While I acknowledge that the great divide between rich and poor in this country has widened in the last twenty years -- a condition exacerbated by the current administration's fiscal policies -- I submit that assailing corporate America and health insurance companies as cold-blooded sinners and staking a presidential campaign on a handful of victims tragically underserved by our health care system is futile rhetoric at best and demagoguery at worst. Mr. Edwards's railings may indeed be the only way to draw attention to some fundamental inequities, but, if I may take a cheap shot, their authenticity and purity are blemished by exorbitant hairstylings, lavish residences, and cozy hedge fund relationships.

Patrolling center field is the graceful, lithe, charismatic upstart, Barack Obama, only last year an unknown minor leaguer but now, suddenly, a major player. I must admit that my conceptualization of Mr. Obama is as vague as, well, some of his policies. Maybe I've been watching too much Fox News, but I haven't seen that much of him on television. I did catch a snippet of his and Oprah's revival -- where the size, excitement, and enthusiasm of the crowd clearly eclipsed comparable events. On a superficial level, I find it amusing that, as his poll numbers have risen, Mr. Obama has largely abandoned his much-discussed, trend-setting, suit-with-no-tie attire and is sighted now usually sporting a blue appendage. Is it possible that, having won over the dress-down constituency, he has been advised to expand his base?

My younger readers (and some older Democrats, too) may cringe at my opinion that Mr. Obama's credentials are of even lighter weight than Mr. Edwards's -- a speech at the Democratic National Convention and three years in the Senate. (At least the latter completed a full term before running for President.) So what, I am sure they will respond; where we're headed, no experience is necessary, conjuring up images of John Kennedy, although, since Kennedy served fourteen years in Congress, I believe a more apt comparison would be Abraham Lincoln, except for the incongruity that Mr. Lincoln started a war and Mr. Obama wants to end one. This movement is all about the future, hope, change (you can believe in), vision, leadership, unity, and, quite frankly, a powerful voice, and so historic that its herald, in a rather peculiar declaration of independence, has even invoked the name of hallowed Hall of Famer Ronald Reagan as an inspiration. A testament to Mr. Obama's durability is the fact that the spark that ignited his campaign -- his initial opposition to the War in Iraq -- has in recent months lost its luster. Meanwhile, he has ridden his own surge to equality with the presumed front-runner, courageously kept to the high road, and, in his own inimitable style, successfully projected his personality as the message.

Which leaves only right field, manned (!) by Hillary Rodham Clinton, HRC in blogspeak, because, as the only female on the team, it's where her suspect defense will do the least harm, even though she may ultimately turn out to be the best player.

MSNBC brought our three outfielders together a few nights ago in Nevada in what was billed as a debate, but which, with Obama pulling his punches, Hillary sheathing her fangs, and Edwards dancing around the edges, quickly evaporated into a mild-mannered coffee klatch. YouTube voters said Obama won, but I thought Hillary, seated royally in the center of the semi-circular table, a magnet for the camera, clothed in red and black, emerged as dominatrix, calm, controlled, commanding. She spoke more authoritatively and specifically on the issues -- executive management, economics, and energy -- than either of her opponents. I winced at her proposals to ban home foreclosures for ninety days and to freeze interest rates on adjustable mortgages for five years -- problematic disruptions of free markets -- but, in reality, her pandering is no worse than Obama's or Edwards's.

The Clintons as a team, however, disturb me. I liked Bill as president, although, after a while, I had to tune out his gravelly voice, interminable speeches, and slippery rationalizations. I never thought sexual misbehavior and its attendant lies (who's going to admit to adultery?) were grounds for impeachment. Early in the campaign, when Hillary looked unstoppable, I grudgingly accepted her as the Democratic nominee and the person I would be voting for if I were to remain true to my Democratic roots. But lately, the more I see of her and the more I see of him, I've come to realize that George Washington had the right idea when he walked away from a third term in 1797. I know that Hillary and Bill are two different people and that I'm probably guilty of some sexist, anti-feminist prejudice when I reject a spouse simply because she's a spouse, but the facts are that these two are inextricably and permanently linked, and that when she goes into the White House, he comes along. That doesn't sound like change to me.

It's possible I've been listening to too much right-wing talk radio, but I am also no longer willing to turn a blind eye to the Clintons' unscrupulous lust for power. Politics is a ruthless business, and maybe it's just more Clinton fatigue on my part, but their brand seems egregiously hypocritical and mean-spirited. Slyly-leaked insinuations about Obama's drug use, dredging up old abstention votes on abortion rights in the Illinois Senate, clumsy back-handed attempts to inject race into the race -- followed by patronizing protestations of innocence -- are typical of the nasty tactics and behavior that will shadow another Clinton Administration. It may well be beneficial for the country -- and an improvement over the current one -- but, in my view, will suffer mightily from the burden of too much baggage.

We are now in the fifth inning of our imaginary game, with players singling, doubling, tripling, and striking out. Sooner or later, somebody on this team is going to hit a walk-off home run in the bottom of the ninth. My guess is that the opposing parties will rally around Mitt and Hillary, and, with the 2008 election a referendum on the economy and George Bush, HRC will prevail.