Back in 1992, I got paid $1000 for two months of work for the Clinton/Gore campaign. As I understand it, I was actually paid by the Missouri Democratic Party, and my position was "voter registrar" or something like that, despite the fact that voter registration closed two weeks after my start date. I'd guess that some sort of election law might have been violated, but I'm no lawyer. Anyway, I really needed the money.

I worked six or seven days a week, and I don't think I ever clocked fewer than 60 hours in a given seven-day period. Even in 1992, $500 a month for such labor didn't rise to the level of minimum wage. But hell, I had fun. I got to meet all sorts of cool people (and I'm not talking about getting to hang out one-on-one with folks like Sen. Tom Harkin, but all the equally-committed people in the Kansas City area who used our office as a base of operations), ate well (local restaurants often sent food to the office) and partied hard (duh). I like to say that I did everything from tracking media buys to running sound for a Hillary Clinton event to dressing up in a chicken costume. I did do all of those things, but what made the job great is that I did something new every single day.

That was the best job of my life. The best job, in fact, that I will ever have. Because back then I was an inexperienced, dewy-eyed idealist, unburdened with the detritus of the real world.

After the election, I seriously considered getting into political campaigns as an avocation. I didn't really have the degree or the background, but I could have gotten around such minor difficulties. Then I realized was that the 1992 Clinton campaign wasn't the real world. In the real world, even one as hyper-stylized as politics, you don't always get to work for people you like. You have to kill yourself for candidates that don't excite you, or worse, ones that you actually can't stand.

Sometimes the real world has a nasty way of crashing down on exuberant idealism. I hear that the same thing is happening to some of the Prez's young boosters.

A cadre of thirty-something lawyers (and such) who each raised $50,000 or more for the Prez's campaign were stunned to learn that they'd have to raise similar amounts if they wanted to get into the "good" inaugural events.

I'm not talking about the balls. Inaugural balls, that is. Not that the balls aren't great. They are. I got an invitation to attend the "Midwest" ball on January 20, 1993. Barbara and I acquired the necessary evening wear, her father cashed in some Southwest miles and we scored a cheap motel in Silver Spring. The Midwest ball was the least exclusive of the bunch, as determined by proximity to the White House and by the size of the crowd. On that night in 1993, some 5,000 folks pushed their way into the ballrooms at what is now called the Wardman Park Mariott (located a couple blocks from the National Zoo, just off Connecticut). Unlike some balls, which had to contend with second or third-tier entertainment like Kenny Loggins or the like, we got Lyle Lovett and the Fabulous Thunderbirds, which made up for just about everything else. We blew our drinks budget on two Sam Adams apiece ($4 per, wine and beer only) and had a great time. Al and Tipper stopped by some time after 1 a.m., and Bill and Hillary made it a bit before two. We were, in both cases, the last stop of the night. Which was just fine with us.

Anyway, the balls are cool, but apparently these young studs are a bit cheesed. They seem to believe that their first $50,000 ought to get them into an "intimate" dinner with the Prez and a couple thousand other friends--at the very least, they ought to be able to get a picture with the Prez, the First Lady, or most preferably, the Presidential twins. But no. That sort of entree requires a second round of cash--cash to pay for the very events these folks want to attend.

I feel for these young Republicans. I do. Some of them even talk about a "loss of innocence" or even "the destruction of idealism" when they muse about the new fund-raising requirements. None of the folks interviewed in any of the stories I read actually ponied up the additional money, and most didn't try. After all, it's one thing to hit up Aunt Crandall for a grand so that a righteous man can keep his spot in the White House. Somehow Auntie isn't quite so free with the checkbook when she's asked to kick in a thou so that the same righteous man can have the greatest party ever thrown. That sort of thing is, well, a wee bit unseemly.

My guess is that these young Republicans won't forsake their party, even if they don't get to squeeze the flesh of the Presidential progeny. After all, ideals such as "more money for me" and "screw the poor" are bedrock; they can't be tossed away just because their peerless leader has shown himself to be a shameless moneygrubbing whore. And anyway, what's wrong with that? Moneygrubbing is the path to moneyholding right? The man sets one hell of an example.

Anyway, I hope the folks do attend an inaugural ball. Even if they get stuck out at the National Zoo and have to listen to the dulcet tones of Ashlee and the Britney-ettes while sipping Players gin and tonics, they'll still have a good time. And unlike me, I bet they'll have enough cash on hand to get completely obliterated.

Party hearty, guys. This kinda bash may come along every four years, but you won't always get an invite.

Jon Worley still likes politics. He just doesn't care to get involved monetarily anymore.