I am 100 percent undecided at this point. I don't even lean toward someone. I will date around, see if there's anyone I fall for. But I'm in no hurry, and none of us should be either. Make them work for our support.

But I will say that there are things I'll be looking for -- executive experience, a track record of leadership, especially in controversial issues, an outside-the-beltway mindset, loyalty to party, demonstrated material assistance to the Democratic gains in 2006, an embrace of people-power, and some Webb-style cojones.

I expect no one can meet all those guidelines, but the more, the better.

My own take: Vilsack's the non-starter's non-starter; Richardson's got baggage; Hillary's negatives are too big a burden; Obama's a star for sure, but one with significant liabilities (he's black, he's inexperienced, he's got a funny name); Biden's a fool, Edwards didn't add as much to the ticket in 2004 as I had hoped; Clark's got no base; Bayh's too conservative; Gore's still Gore, an awkward man and a lousy campaigner who isn't going to run anyway.

I'm developing some 2008 Presidential Candidate Rules of Thumb:

• Progressive populism!


• Cast the candidate


• Persona is important


• Prefer governors over senators

I'm of the mind that progressive populism is the platform that gets us to the White House, and effectively addresses the domestic problems facing us, so for me, at the moment, that means Edwards, who continues to focus on poverty and the Two Americas as no other candidate does. His persona is good, almost precisely what Central Casting would want. Maybe he's a little young, without much gravitas, but then again he's also handsome, personable, and not distant, cold or alienating the way Kerry and Gore were. He passes the six-pack test. (And his career as a Senator was probably short enough to protect him from the Senator problem.)

Tack on Clark as Veep and you add sufficient national security credibility to the ticket.

(Although Iraq will still be a major issue, because Bush will not withdraw, by the time the 2008 campaign reaches the general population national security issues are not going to be as important as they are now -- as long as a candidate confirms his or her intention to take us out of Iraq. By then, that's all anyone is going to want to hear, so having NatSecCred seated in the #2 chair instead of the top dog is going to be just fine.)

Until something better comes along, my lean is to Edwards-Clark.

279) A man named Flitcraft had left his real-estate-office, in Tacoma, to go to luncheon one day and had never returned. He did not keep an engagement to play golf after four that afternoon, though he had taken the initiative in making the engagement less than half an hour before he went out to luncheon. His wife and children never saw him again. His wife and he were supposed to be on the best of terms. He had two children, boys, one five and the other three. He owned his house in a Tacoma suburb, a new Packard, and the rest of the appurtenances of successful American living.

Flitcraft had inherited seventy thousand dollars from his father and, with his success in real estate, was worth something in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars at the time he vanished. His affairs were in order, though there were enough loose ends to indicate that he had not been setting them in order preparatory to vanishing. A deal that would have brought him an attractive profit, for instance, was to have been concluded the day after the one on which he disappeared. There was nothing to suggest that he had more than fifty or sixty dollars in his immediate possession at the time of his going. His habits for months past could be accounted for too thoroughly to justify any suspicion of secret vices, or even of another woman in his life, though either was barely possible. "He went like that," Spade said, "like a fist when you open your hand." [...]

"Well that was in 1942. In 1947 I was with one of the big detective agencies in Seattle. Mrs. Flitcraft came in and told us somebody had seen a man in Spokane who looked a lot like her husband. I went over there. It was Flitcraft, all right. He had been living in Spokane for a couple of years as Charles - that was his first name - Pierce. He had an automobile-business that was netting him twenty or twenty-five thousand a year, a wife, a baby son, owned his home in a Spokane suburb, and usually got away to play golf after four in the afternoon during the season."

Spade had not been told very definitely what to do when he found Flitcraft. They talked in Spade's room at the Davenport. Flitcraft had no feeling of guilt. He had left his first family well provided for, and what he had done seemed to him perfectly reasonable. The only thing that bothered him was a doubt he could make that reasonableness clear to Spade. He had never told anybody his story before, and thus had not had to attempt to make its reasonableness explicit. He tried now. "I got it all right [...] but Mrs. Flitcraft never did. She thought it was silly. Maybe it was. Anyway it came out all right. She didn't want any scandal, and after the trick he had played on her - the way she looked at it - she didn't want him. So they were divorced on the quiet and everything was swell."

"Here's what happened to him. Going to lunch he passed an office-building that was being put up - just the skeleton. A beam or something fell eight or ten stories down and smacked the sidewalk alongside him. It brushed pretty close to him, but didn't touch him, though a piece of the sidewalk was chipped off and flew up and hit his cheek. It only took a piece of skin off, but he still had the scar when I saw him. He rubbed it with his finger - well, affectionately - when he told me about it. He was scared still, of course, he said, but he was more shocked than really frightened. He felt like somebody had taken the lid off his life and let him look at the works."

Flitcraft had been a good citizen and a good husband and father, not by any outer compulsion, but simply because he was a man who was most comfortable in step with his surroundings. He had been raised that way. The people he knew were like that. The life he knew was a clear orderly sane responsible affair. Now a falling beam had shown him that life was fundamentally none of these things. He, the good citizen-husband-father, could be wiped out between office and restaurant by the accident of a falling beam. He knew then that men died at haphazard like that, and live only while blind chance spared them. It was not, primarily, the injustice of it that disturbed him: he accepted that after the first shock. What disturbed him was the discovery that in sensibly ordering his affairs he had got out of step, and not into step, with life. He said he knew before he had gone twenty feet from the fallen beam that he would never know peace again until he had adjusted himself to this new glimpse of life. By the time he had eaten his luncheon he had found his means of adjustment. Life could be ended for him at random by a falling beam: he would change his life a random by simply going away. He loved his family, he said, as much as he supposed was usual, but he knew he was leaving them adequately provided for, and his love for them was not of the sort to make absence painful.

"He went to Seattle that afternoon," Spade said, " and from there by boat to San Francisco. For a couple of years he wandered around and then drifted back to the Northwest, and settled in Spokane and got married. His second wife didn't look like the first, but they were more alike than they were different. You know, the kind of woman that play fair games of golf and bridge and like new salad-recipes. He wasn't sorry for what he had done. It seemed reasonable enough to him. I don't think he even knew he has settled back naturally into the same groove he had jumped out of in Tacoma. But that's the part of it I always liked. He adjusted himself to beams falling, and then no more of them fell, and he adjusted himself to them not falling."

Dashiell Hammett
The Maltese Falcon (1930)

Note: "3089/898" is the designation I've given to the project of posting all my collected quotes, excerpts and ideas (3089 of them) in the remaining days of the Bush administration (of which there were 898 left when I began).

As of today, there are 783 days remaining in the administration of the worst President ever.