Ten years ago, for almost two months, I worked at the best job I'll ever have in my life.

Officially, I was the assistant to the regional coordinator for the Clinton/Gore campaign. I worked out of an office in the just-becoming-trendy Westport section of Kansas City. For the honor of slaving away 12 hours, a day six days a week (only 8 hours on Sundays), I was paid $500 a month.

Among my responsibilities: Drive to every TV and radio station in town (there were some 20 or so that I tracked weekly) and look in their public files, taking any note of ads placed by the "enemy"; organize and oversee rides-to-the-polls for the Missouri side of the metro area; organize and oversee weekend canvassing activities; deal with computer problems when the experts were away working real jobs; draw up and copy fliers for local appearances of celebrities like Henry Winkler; track down a copy of "Don't Mess with Bill" by the Marvelettes (#7 in 1966) to be played at the victory celebration; run sound and light for a Hillary Clinton appearance; pick up dignitaries at the airport and give them impromptu tours; point George Stephanopolous in the direction of a bathroom at the Crown Center Hotel; and, of course, dance around in a chicken costume in public places in a silly attempt to goad George Bush into debating on Clinton's terms.

Campaigns are loads of fun, if you like politics. I got to hang out with James Carville in a bar for a few minutes (he is a funny guy, and not necessarily in that showy way he exudes on camera) and discuss strategy with Sen. Tom Harkin of Iowa. Booze does flow freely, though only at night after the work is done. Caffeine fuels the days. By the end of the road, I was drinking a 12-pack of Mountain Dew a day. Cut me, I bled yellow.

Stress? No worries as long as you like to go 100 mph all day every day. I was 22 at the time, so this was not a problem.

Spontaneity is a way of life on the campaign. And even when the going gets dull, something interesting always seems to happen. The head of our office spent his days working like a fiend and his evenings drinking O'Douls and tipping heavily in strip bars. He didn't like his wife. One of those "don't ask don't tell" situations. Anyway, one afternoon he was working at a voter registration site outside of a grocery story. A stripper (dressed normally but still obviously, you know, a stripper) ran up to him in that weird shuffling girly way and squealed "Hi Jimmy!" Well, his name wasn't Jimmy, but still, Jimmy wasn't thrilled at being identified as a "regular" in front of his staff. To his credit, he gave the woman a hug back and proceeded to register her to vote.

The end of the campaign has its moments as well. "We" won, of course. A friend and I managed to demolish a 1.75 of Jim Beam at the party, I took a cab home and passed out in the bathtub. A bathtub full of water. Before I passed out, I called my parents. I have no idea what I said, but to this day my dad describes that event as "one of the more interesting moments in my life."

Sometimes I want to ask what I said. Most of the time, I don't.

The day after the election, I interviewed for a gig doing paste-up for the Kansas City Star. I had to pass a drug test. Problem is, after drinking nearly a liter or bourbon the night before it's really hard to work up any urine. I didn't. Still got the job.

From the rush of a campaign to a world dominated by hot wax and sharp knives. Still lots of deadline pressure, but not much variety. Since then, I've worked dozens of other jobs (and gotten paid for some of them), but none of them as much fun as those days in the early autumn of 1992. The question has to be asked: So Jon, why didn't you get a job in politics?

I don't know. I'm still a political beast, as my columns will attest. But I knew then that everyday political work had very little of the glamour and excitement of campaigns. There are a lot of phone calls to be made. I hate using the phone--this is the main reason I have a journalism degree but am not a reporter. As for hiring myself out as a campaign specialist, well, I like to live in the same place for a while. Not necessarily a long while, mind you, but more than two months at a hitch. There also, of course, was (and still is) a woman involved in the equation. And now a baby as well. Every once in a while (twice a year, tops) I do get a wistful twinge wondering about what might have been. But then I wander over to my bar, pour myself a drink in my glass and settle down on my couch to read a book from my bookshelf. And I know I'm pretty happy with my choices.

I learned one thing during my time with the Clinton campaign. I learned that although folks get involved in politics for all sorts of reasons, one of the biggest is patriotism. It is foolish to question the love of country (or state or county or city or whatever) in a candidate, and that goes doubly for all the people who work to put that candidate in office. Because most of those folks are volunteers or are paid a mere pittance in exchange for their life's blood. Yes, some of them do expect political favors in return (as long as their candidate wins, of course). But even without the possibility of jumping on the crony wagon, most of those folks would still be in there plugging away. A person gets only so many chances to do something good for his or her country. And believe me, making the political process work--no matter what side you're on--is an act of extreme patriotism.

Jon Worley commands you to vote on Tuesday.