After highly energetic introductory speeches by the likes of Rep. Sheila Jackson-Lee, D-Texas, and Tennessee Speaker Pro Tempore Lois DeBerry roused the sleepy masses. The Gores and Hillary Rodham Clinton entered the Mayflower Hotel ballroom amid alarmingly near rock-concert screams (I was surprised no one waved a lighter). At first, Tipper's waves to the assembled throngs were shy and hesitant -- her arm barely lifted to waist level, fingers wiggling gingerly at the crowd -- but then she stepped up to the mike. "I guess this won't come as very much of a surprise for you, but I came here to endorse Al, too," coyly quipped the Tipster as her smiling husband stood stiffly by. That loosened 'em up. (Are you taking notes, Bob and Liddy Dole?)

"I really want America to know the Al Gore that I love," she said somewhat wistfully (could all that wood really be Ikea-style veneer?) before adding another wish to her list. "I wish I had the chance this morning to endorse someone else for some other race," she said meaningfully, "but I guess I can't do that."

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Meanwhile, the woman Tipper hopes will be her predecessor just smiled enigmatically. And when she stepped up to the podium, Hillary -- just back from vacation and looking minty-fresh in a stylish pale-green suit -- refused to tip her cards about her own political plans. Like Tipper, she was there to endorse Al, with whom, she says, she has a lot in common. "We're both products of strong mothers, we both love long campaign bus trips and we both love to dance," she said with what may as well have been a wink. Hey, and one more thing: They've both been seriously slimed by the same frisky feelin'-your-pain fellow.

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One cheap shot deserves another?

"Charlton Heston does not deserve that kind of a cheap shot from this second-rate movie producer."

-- House Republican Leader Dick Armey, reloading and firing another round at Spike Lee, who Armey says didn't do the right thing when he said the NRA prez should be shot

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Let them not eat cake

Make no mistake. Arriving late to a National Press Club luncheon carries its consequences.

The ladies who check my name off the list look concerned -- due to my tardiness, someone has been seated in my assigned place. No matter, I tell them. I don't care where I sit. Relieved, they swipe my credit card and hand me over to the man who magically coordinates these affairs.

"Right this way," he says, showing me to a table with just one open seat. He introduces me to my cooling entree and efficiently informs me that I have only about five minutes to down it before the speaker, Pat Buchanan, takes the podium and C-SPAN's cameras start to roll. (The club hates it when you look more interested in your food than the speaker as the cameras pan the audience.) Then, in a whisper, he drops his bomb with what sounds to me like a cross between awe and apology. "You'll be sitting with Mr. Buchanan's people."

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