Entry 7:

Hi again,

Just got back from my lunch-hour tutoring, where I discovered a budding local insurgency: the Harry Potter Rebellion. When my tutee, Rafi, saw me pull out the book, he grimaced in horror and screamed "No! I hate Harry Potter. I won't read it!" He took the book out of my hands and sat on it. To distract me, he proceeded to narrate the elaborate plot of his latest Pokémon book, which I could barely follow. Something like the Education of Ash, where the little warrior learns it's important to have more than one Pokémon, by way of Professor Oak and some flesh-eating sparrow.

A happy distraction on a beautiful day, but now I'm back. I agree about that New York Times Star Wars-whistle-blower shocker. It's a Reagan hater's dream, too good to believe. Although, when you read the descriptions of what she was hired to build, shouldn't we have known? "A kill vehicle, which would zoom into space atop rockets and smash enemy warheads to pieces." Yeah, right. And sparrows eat flesh. I am proud to note that our heroine, one Dr. Nira Schwartz, is a fellow sabra. By the way, what does TRW stand for?

But I delay, coyly. Why of course I have the poll numbers, it being after 2 and all. And the winner is ... I can't tell you. I'm not that brave. And just a minute ago, I could swear I saw our pollster glaring at me suspiciously (after this "Breakfast Table," my Slate connection won't be hard to trace).

I will give you some hints from the newsroom: sackcloth and ashes. David Broder rending his garments. The political staff refreshing their Kleenexes.

(For all of you press conspiracists out there, just kidding. None of these people are even here. They're scattered around the various primary states.)

A bichon frise update, and then I sign off: It seems a vigilante manhunt has been organized to track down the pooch killer, who is right now hiding somewhere in Virginia. As a friend says: Write about a kid killed in foster care and they shake their head sadly. But right about a dog killed and they mobilize. I say hire the sparrows!

Yours, coyly,

H