The Luv Doc: Gone Soft

Dear Luv Doc,

Dear God – you've actually been dishing out some sound advice lately. What the hell's the matter with you? Where is your bitter, critical lack of empathy? Are you going through mano-pause? Don't worry, it happens to the best of us. Sometimes I feel like my balls are residing somewhere between my stomach and my pancreas. I'm not sure if that's even possible, but anyway, anatomy has never been my strong point. Back to you. Are you getting soft? ... And I'm not just referring to your johnson.

– Milk Carton Kid

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Back in August of 1992, William Jefferson Clinton spoke on the LBJ Library lawn. Though Austin was one of many stops on his campaign tour that year, it was a rare occurrence to have a presidential candidate in town – rarer even still to have him stumping for free in a public space, so my officemates Rachel, Paul, and I decided to blow off work and willfully participate in the democratic process. Work comes and goes, but presidential elections only happen every four years unless some heavy shit goes down.

Billy Jeff gave a rousing speech, but his warm-up acts were absolutely en fuego. First there was DNC chair Ron Brown, a political rising star whose plane would plummet into a Croatian mountainside while on a trade mission four years later. Brown tee'd the crowd up for Al Gore's Harvard roommate, Tommy Lee Jones, a native Texan who was a recent hot commodity from his stellar performance in Lonesome Dove.

Tommy Lee's measured West Texas drawl laid a solid groundwork for his roomie Al who somewhat unbelievably – at least in retrospect – lit up the crowd like a coke-swilling evangelist greedily saving souls to support his habit. By the time Gore left the stage I was ready to vote for Clinton ... and his children ... and his children's children – maybe even his wife, too. When Clinton himself finally took the stage his oratory was a bit of a letdown, but I was greatly impressed by his command of the issues and the clarity with which he conveyed his platform.

At the conclusion of his speech, all of the speakers walked down through the middle of the crowd shaking hands. Rachel, Paul, and I squirmed our way to the front to take coup. The first hand I shook was Brown's – manly but somewhat delicate. Tommy Lee's handshake was firm and calloused, much like the man himself. Gore's was firm and enthusiastic. And finally, with great effort, my hand managed to clasp the hand of William Jefferson Clinton.

That hand was the softest hand I have ever felt. Maybe the softest thing I have ever felt. Softer than a bag full of puppy ears ... plush and malleable like the dough from a freshly broken tube of biscuits. The softness was transformative. Until then, I would never have believed a hand could be so soft.

This is why when people were incredulous at Bill Clinton's claim that he never let Monica Lewinsky fellate him to completion, I understood completely. Nothing truly could feel better than that hand. Among her many burdens, this is the greatest that Hillary must bear. She may be Bill's better half, but she will never be softer than his right hand. So have I gone soft? Maybe, but not that soft.