In 1992 at the tender age of 25, I ran for state representative. I knocked on almost ten thousand doors. I whored myself out to raise money. I went into senior citizen homes where aged New Dealers heckled me. I even kissed a few babies, but I have to confess that I kissed babies because I actually enjoyed doing so on a kitsch level. On Election Day, the voters rewarded my industrious efforts with a whopping 33% of the vote. As I sat at home alone, late on Election Night munching on cold pizza, I felt like crying. Of course I didn’t cry – I wasn’t raised that way. During my childhood, whenever my eyes began to well up, my father would sternly look into my Skinnerian Box and bark, “Knock it off, or I’ll really give you something to cry about.” Nevertheless, the urge to cry was there. Why did I feel like crying? Was it because my hard work had gone for naught? Was it because my dreams of serving under Massachusetts’ Golden Dome were crushed, and that I wouldn’t be getting one of those nifty license plates that members of the Massachusetts legislature receive? Was it because I had been publicly rejected and humiliated? No, no, no and again no. I felt like weeping for the children. They were the true victims of my defeat. They were the ones who would be denied my heroic leadership. And God only knew what would become of them.
