On Monday night, just before I turned off the Tiffany whale lamp next to my bed, no earlier than 2:30am, drowsy, still slightly hung over from Saturday night, my mind drifted over the slightest memory of an evening years ago in my dimly lit Stadium dorm room when I called Alex in tears, unnaturally worried about my losing my parents while I was so far away from home.

That night he came to my room and talked me down. Held me until I was calm and rational once again.

Alex.

It's been six, seven, maybe even eight years.

So I wasn't surprised when I received an email from him today.

Life works like that.

Todd likes to pretend like he's often exasperated by my interest in politics, my adoration of CSPAN, my passion for the political process.

But I know better.

My phone rang soon after the debate ended with news about midnight visits from George W. Bush and frustration over the ubiquitous fuzzy math. We laughed about my fear that Bush's economic plan will put my entire social security savings in my pocket and when I'm 65, I'll only have a killer CD collection to show for it. We puzzled over how a man who is usually asleep before 9pm EDT will find the time to run our country.

Who is your quipping partner?