Whore City— At first, I had separation anxiety.

          I missed all the chaos and intrigue, the lies and cover-ups and sweet talk
          and reconciliations and razzmatazz.
          I stalked my ex. I couldn't help myself.

          I drove up to Chappaqua and stood around for hours in the cold and slush of Bill's driveway.
          I bought a box of Pepperidge Farm Double Chocolate Chunk cookies at his favorite deli,
          hoping the aroma would lure him out of the house.

          Bill still had trouble written all over him. I still wanted to cover a guy who had trouble written all over him.

          I wasn't ready for Junior. I wasn't looking forward to a lot of towel-snapping bonhomie, punctuality
          and discipline from the West Wing, and peace and quiet from the East Wing.

          The future was looking depressingly like the past. Washington smells of
          mothballs — a tax cut, recession fears, a Star Wars shield, energy woes,
          abortion curbs, Christian righteousness, a rumor of war in the Middle
          East, the trio of Bush, Powell and Cheney saber-rattling at Saddam.

          In this week of birthday homages to the Gipper, W. even resumed a
          Reaganesque theme-of-the-week to hawk a Reaganesque tax cut.

          As Bill flew off to the Boca sunshine, I slunk back to rainy D.C. to face the music.
          W. was busy peddling his tax cut with a lot of photo ops featuring working-class families.

          To hear the Bush rhetoric, the tax cut was all about helping poor single waitress moms, grannies who
          can't pay their heating bills, lower-middle-class families that are maxing out credit cards for their kids'
          medical bills, and small businesses owned by women.

          On Monday, President Bush made like the host of a game show and displayed a big blown-up check
          made out to "U.S. Taxpayer" for $1,600, the average benefit that he says the average family with two
          children would receive. He introduced three average families that would get anywhere from $1,055
          to $3,266 in savings from his plan.

          On Tuesday Mr. Bush went to McLean, Va., to visit an adorable store, Tree Top Toys and Books,
          and make the pitch that his tax plan would create capital so that other adorable businesses like this one,
          and trail-blazing female entrepreneurs like its owner, could thrive.

          Today the president planned to have a reunion with the "tax families," as the families used as props on
          airport tarmacs during his campaign were called. At the White House he will be welcoming Tammy,
          a waitress at the Pit Stop Emporium; Ken, a repairman at Bennett's Garage; Joseph, a manager at
         Aldi Foods; Denise, a stay-at-home mom; and Michael, a driver for U.P.S.

          I seem to recall President Bush vowing to restore integrity and honesty to Washington.
          Then shouldn't his photo ops this week have been a whole lot different?

          On Monday he could have gathered Jack Welch, Bill Gates and Kenneth Lay, the chairman
          of Enron Energy Corporation, one of W.'s biggest corporate contributors.

          The president could have brandished a blown-up check made out to "U.S. Fatcats" for $160,000
          and come clean about who will make out like bandits, courtesy of his bill: not the blue-collar crowd
          but the golden-parachute crowd, that elite 1 percentile that will get 40 percent of the cut.

          Dick Cheney, lately of Halliburton, and Paul O'Neill, lately of Alcoa, could have been on hand to share
          inside tips about tax shelters, trust funds and stock option packages to defer income.

          All the moguls' progeny could have smiled for the camera, since, if the Bush tax cut passes, they won't
          have to pay any of those niggling inheritance taxes on their parents' estates.

          On Tuesday, instead of going to a toy store the president would have headed to the nearest Lexus dealership
          to show the sort of toys the wealthiest Americans could buy with their humongous tax cuts.

          Today, instead of a reunion of his tax families, he could have gathered the fur-clad and Gulfstream-riding
          Pioneers, the rich Republicans who pumped $90 million, the biggest fundraising haul in history,
          into W.'s campaign, hoping for a tax windfall.

          Lastly, in the spirit of bipartisanship, W. could have ushered out to the cameras a new millionaire who
          could use a good tax cut now that he's raking in $100,000 a pop for his speeches: my ex.