Letter from AL

National Review, Oct 26, 1998

Dear Rusty!

The new policy around the Gore household is that we're not going to talk about it. That's right. You heard me. We are Not Going To Talk About It at all. That's final, you have it from me.

Tipper's got some kind of repetitive-motion injury from flipping the TV clicker back and forth from CNBC to MSNBC to CNN to Fox News, Little Al has developed a gutter mouth, the girls have started to whisper to each other about last year's White House Easter Egg Hunt, and to be totally honest I simply cannot take it one more minute. So we're Not Going To Talk About It. Not Talking About It, NTAI-that's our new motto around here.

Which is good, because there's so much else going on with the family, which our obsession with It-NTAI! NTAI!-has completely drowned out. So I've taken it on myself to act as a sort of family conversation policeman, patrolling the house for noises that sound like It.

This morning, at breakfast, Little Al was eating his cereal and reading the newspaper. So, right from the start, I was on my guard. The newspaper, I've discovered, is pretty much filled with It from front to back. So I was careful with Little Al.

"Hey, Sport," I said, trying to sound casual, "whatcha reading?"

"Newspaper," was his mouth-full-of-cereal reply.

"Oh, Anything in particular?"

"Well," he said, "there's an article in the foreign news section about Fidel Castro. Apparently he's got some form of lip cancer. I guess it was from all those years of smoking cigars."

"Stop it!" I cried. "Not Going To Talk About It! Not Talking About it! NTAI!"

I quickly gathered up the paper and, over Little Al's protests, tossed it into the recycling bin. Sarah came downstairs, ready for school. She was wearing what looked like a new dress. "Finally," I thought, "something to talk about besides It."

"Good morning, dear," I said. "That's a very pretty dress-is it new?"

"Thanks, Dad," she said. "But it isn't new. I just got it back from the dry cleaners. See, I spilled-"

"NTAI! NTAI!" I shouted. "Not Talking About It! Not Talking About It!"

They looked at me like I was crazy. Okay, then, I'm crazy. Let's talk about that.

Later, I was passing by the TV room, and Tipper was in her usual pose: on the edge of the sofa and rocking back and forth, phone in one hand, clicker in the other. She looked paler than usual.

"Tipper," I said sharply, "it is a beautiful autumn day outside. Turn off CNBC or MSNBC or Fox News or whatever it is and let's go for a family outing."

She didn't even look up from the television. "You gotta watch this, Al," she said. "Your political life depends on it."

"Tipper, for the last time, my political life does not turn on some sordid and disgusting sex scandal, okay?"

Finally, she looked up. "What?" she asked. Then it dawned on her. "Oh, that," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "That's old news. Monica Lewinsky is on her way to Jessica Hahnsville."

"So what are you watching?"

She gave me one of her you-are-so-dense looks. "I'm flipping between Greenspan's testimony, Rubin's speech about the global economic meltdown, and John Meriwether, the Long-Term Capital Management guy, on Oprah. He's blaming his parents, by the way."

I sat down next to her. "What's going on?"

"We're in trouble, is what's going on," she said.

I rubbed her neck soothingly and spoke in a low, measured tone. That usually relaxes people.

"Tipper, put on your coat and let's go for a walk, get some fresh air, okay?"

"Al, listen to them!" she shouted, flipping the channels wildly. I saw Greenspan flip to Rubin flip to Oprah flip to Neil Cavuto on Fox flip to Joe Kernen on CNBC. I was getting dizzy. But Tipper kept talking. "We're in for a brutal recession. Corporate profits are projected to be down next year. The Dow is skidding to a 3,000-point loss. There are more hedge funds about to implode. Unemployment is rising for the first time in years. And it's all going to hit one year from now. Right in time for the New Hampshire primary."

I watched the TV for a moment. Then I called to Little Al, and together we hoisted Tipper off the couch, carried her fireman-style into the hallway, struggled her into a topcoat, and took her outside for a walk. We haven't talked about Monica Lewinsky since. As for the coming global recession, we're Not Talking About That either, Rusty.

Write soon,

Your Pal,

Al