I went to Los Angeles more hopeful about Democratic offerings, but soon realized that I would rather bed down with a circus animal than any of those schmucks. Picture a mass gathering of former high school class presidents who think that their clunky use of words like "awesome" and "cool" actually renders them awesome and cool. They preferred listening to President Clinton prattle on inside the convention center to the infinitely more exciting Rage Against the Machine concert-cum-riot going on outside, a litmus test for undesirability if ever there was one.

Then I got assigned coverage of Ralph Nader's presidential campaign and finally figured out where the cuties come home to politically roost. They appeared by the thousands: bright-eyed, broad-shouldered boys locking up their muddy mountain bikes outside campaign events. Boys with worn hiking boots, revolutionary slogan T-shirts and grad student glasses. Boys who knew how to tie good knots, tell good jokes and roll good joints. Boys who gathered to swill microbrews after Nader's speeches, progressive putty in the hands of any reasonably resourceful woman activist. ("So, is that a Noam Chomsky reader in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?") Indeed, covering Nader's campaign affirmed for me the greatest perk of being a journalist, which is the permission to shamelessly hit on cute boys under the pretense of an interview.

So you can imagine my surprise when in the midst of all this yumminess, I fell for Public Citizen No. 1 himself.

My crush on Ralph Nader started more than a month ago at the Milwaukee airport -- albeit slowly, as all things go in the Midwest. I flew in early from New York to meet his modest entourage, coming in from Washington for a three-day tour with Michael Moore. Milling in the baggage claim area while a campaigner checked on our transportation, Nader turned to me and said, "You look like a reporter." He extended his hand -- our first touch! -- and I shook it cordially.

Now, most who know him will tell you that Nader is not the handshake type. He will obligingly shake a hand if it's thrust at him like a gun barrel, but he almost never offers his own hand first. Perhaps it's a hyperawareness of germs, or the fear of dropping the ubiquitous brown file folder that he hugs to his chest. Regardless, that moment in the airport was an anomaly outside the narrow range of Nader gestures, and after replaying it over and over in my head, I realized what it really was -- a declaration of erotic intent.

Private Life Romance, relationships, and the personal side of Table Talk