LIKE FINE CHAMPAGNE, former President Bill Clinton bubbled up to the top of the front-pages this week, popping and fizzing, spilling and overflowing into segments on 60 Minutes and Oprah and Larry King Live. It was just like old times. Clinton was hawking his new book, of course, My Life, which in its first week sold well, with lines of Clinton fans encircling book stores in places like Northwest Washington, D.C., and midtown Manhattan. And yet there was an air of anticlimax to Clinton Week, a sense that a highly anticipated event–the publication of our 42nd president’s “tell-all” memoirs–had come and gone, without anything more than the usual PR blitz that accompanies all political book debuts these days. There was a sense, too, that as Americans got their large, doughy hands on Clinton’s large, milquetoast book and ploughed into the tome’s 957 pages, a question would hang unavoidably over the scene:
What next?
