What does Mike want?

Unlike the myriad pundits and armies of cable news and C-Span junkies I'm not asking What the *#$@ does Hillary want? Nor have I ever. I feel the Clinton's pain in my bones, as I felt the exhilaration two years ago when it dawned on me I just might live long enough to see the first woman in the White House. It felt great, but nothing like the tectonic spine tingles I've experienced regularly for the past 36 hours each time that my TV screen is graced by that Tiger Woods smile, stretched between the most awe inspiring ears since Dumbo's lifted him out of the Big Top to soar treetops and commune with those crows that only a child or a Disney could love.

One of my favorite pundits made me chuckle a short while ago when he said “the primaries are over, alas” – I’m sure most would have ended that sentence as I did with “Thank God!”

I think I know what Hillary and Bill want at this point, and possibly always have always counted on in the deepest lock boxes of their aging boomer parents’ hearts – they want the first woman in the White House to be CHELSEY, and I predict she will be, unless Caroline pulls a Dick Cheney and ends up being Vice-President.

At this point I’m going to die happy no matter what, just as long as Camelot is finally restored to Washington by Barak and Michelle, and my son continues to love me as I know in my heart that he does and always has. Anything beyond that will be frosting on each of my swiftly decreasing number of birthday cakes, and that includes the novel I’m going to write, the restaurant I’m going to open on Kaua‘i, and the horse I’m going to buy and ride and love as my Mom and her siblings did all their lives. And grandchildren? Oh yeah. They’re going to love my horse too!