The Man Who Came to Dinner

"Then of course he gets hit a week later and all of a sudden -- a serious issue. Of course his was a little more violent. Watching it, I must say, was more violent than receiving it. And in his case, you're the mayor of the city. It was wrong. And it may have been in good fun. But I was shaking for two hours. Because it did shock the hell out of me. I mean you didn't know what hit you. And then they hit you again. And they hit you again. And you're like: Well, what is this? Is there something that's in the pie that's laced? You know, acid or something? But they didn't even know why they were attacking me, which frustrated me because they could have easily called me, made their point in my office because I don't ever refuse, I'm happy to meet with them, literally."

And just when he wasn't looking I hit Gavin with a little verbal pie of my own, my Final Jeopardy question:

"So, Gavin. Why aren't we eating at PlumpJack?"
Suffice it to say Gavin had his reasons, and I had my Balboa.
As I made my way home that night I reflected on the politician I had just met, as well as the man. Lots of liberal rhetoric and pontification, as Gavin himself would surely call it. Lots of bleeding-heart sentiment. All of which I applaud, if it's backed up with action.

As I said, I'm not a reporter. And I'm already thinking about my next meal with a stripper. Or maybe Alex Trebeck. So all I can offer in the way of conclusion is: Get yourself a table at PlumpJack if you can swing it. And always vote with your heart.

By Barry Levine

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