Dear New Yorker,

At a recent visit to my dentist's office (when half of your diet consists of marshmallow surprises, proactive dental care cannot be overemphasized), I was passing time as the doctor saw my friend Albert (that so-called silly rabbit with the enviable multi-year Trix deal), sifting through the waiting room's woefully outdated periodical selection when I chanced upon your June 4 issue. (No mailing label: apparently it was a benefactor's gift to future patients who shared thier annoyance with the frustratingly indestructible "Who's Hot in 2004?" People magazine.)

I methodically flipped the pages hoping for something to hold my attention for the duration of Al's visit (since he refuses to floss, his appointments are invariably marathon-esque): A story about Paul McCartney (Let me guess: they ask him about The Beatles?); another installment of David Sedaris reshoeing his one-trick pony and telling us that after, what, 20-odd years in France, he still can't conjugate etre (with ambassadors like that, no wonder they hate us); a review of the movie "Knocked Up" (Not to blow smoke up your pipe, but you're a respected arts magazine: the compulsion for topicality shown by opining on a sophomoric comedy about accidental pregnancy confounds me.)

Then I found Jeffrey Goldberg's article, "Party Unfaithful", with the engaging subtitle "The Republican implosion", and I was hooked. 6 years ago the Elephants were looking like the permanent aristocracy, yet now the news offered daily accounts of political corpses found with their trunks sawed off to be used as global warning totems. As anyone employed in my arena knows, America is a fickle nation, and it's unwise to crown yourself the de facto king. (Just ask Count Chocula, the one-time breakfast champion who was forced into retirement in 1993 and now lives as a recluse in his nut-brown bungalow outside Chico.)

Imagine my surprise when in the first paragraph, my lineage was name dropped in a reference to Karl Rove:

"...his voice is suffused with bonhomie, his jokes are bad and frequent, his enthusiasm is communicable; he resembles an oversized leprechaun, although one with unconcealed resentments and a receding hairline."

Then I got to thinking: Karl Rove? Joe Lieberman, sure, a human-sized leprechaun if ever there was one; Ted Kennedy could pass for an improbably portly leprechaun, though the long steep in martinis and his tendency toward angry pontification brings cousin Fergus to mind again. But Karl Rove? That's just not accurate. Have you ever seen such a frumpy, cherub-esque leprechaun? We dress smartly: suit jackets, vests, even bow ties; Karl Rove looks like he buys off the rack at Sears, then selects his ties in the dark. We are a witty and clever race---our jokes are never (as Goldberg implies) "bad and frequent."

Leprechauns are mischievous folk by nature, and I admit that any reputation for roguishness is more self-inflicted than imposed. However, there is a marked difference between mischief and hegemony, and Goldberg would do well to remember that such glib comparisons have hurtful undercurrents. Just as "tax attorneys" and "tobacco lobbyists" would be offended if their ilk was used in a Karl Rove analogy (despite certain accuracies), leprechauns would prefer to be left out of any conversation involving Karl Rove. (Though feel free to name-drop us in your next piece on Ted Koppel.)

Respectfully yours,
Lucky
June 12, 2007