See Y'all in New York

Twelve years ago, I delivered one of the keynote addresses on the first night at the Democratic National Convention in New York. It was a stinging rebuke of the administration of George H.W. Bush and a ringing endorsement of Bill Clinton. This summer I'll again be speaking in New York, but it will be to the Republican Convention that renominates George W. Bush.

Many have asked how I could have come so far in just over a decade. Frankly, I don't think I've changed much at all. At 72, I don't feel much need to change my opinions. Instead, the reason I'm not attending the Democratic Convention in Boston is that I barely recognize my party anymore. Most of its leaders -- including our nominee, John Kerry -- don't hold the same beliefs that have motivated my career in public service.

In 1992, I spoke of the opportunity and hope that allowed me, the son of a single mother growing up in the North Georgia mountains, to become my state's governor. And I attributed much of my success to the great Democratic presidents of years gone by -- FDR (a hallowed man in my home), Truman and JFK. The link these men shared was a commitment to helping Americans born into any condition rise to achieve whatever goal they set for themselves.

Bill Clinton did deliver on welfare reform, after a lot of prodding from the Republicans who took hold of Congress in 1995. But much of the rest of the promise I saw in his candidacy withered during his two terms in office.

Today, it's the Democratic Party that has mastered the art of division and diversion. To run for president as a Democrat these days you have to go from interest group to interest group, cap in hand, asking for the support of liberal kingmakers. Mr. Kerry's no different. After Hollywood elites profaned the president, he didn't have the courage to put them in their place. Instead, he validated their remarks, claiming that they represent "the heart and soul of America."

As our economy continues to get better and businesses add jobs, Mr. Kerry's going around America trying to convince people that the roof is about to cave in. He talks about "the misery index" and the Depression. What does he know about either?

Now Mr. Kerry wants to raise taxes on hundreds of thousands of small-business owners and millions of individuals. He claims to be for working people, but I don't understand how small businesses can create jobs if they've got to send more money to Washington instead of keeping it to hire workers.

Worst of all, Sens. Kerry and Edwards have not kept faith with the men and women who are fighting the war on terror -- most of whom come from small towns and middle-class families all over America.

All the speeches we hear this week won't be able to hide the truth of what today's Democratic Party has become: an enclave of elites paying lip service to middle-class values. Americans looking for a president who understands their struggles and their dreams should tune in next month, when we celebrate the leadership of George W. Bush.

I lived in an Atlanta suburb for five years in the mid-1990's. I was one lost puppy . . . a small-town, West Texas redneck, a devout and defiant conservative Republican in the big and ultra-liberal city of Hot-lanta.

I'd just finished taking my biggest client to the airport to catch the semi-red-eye back to LA. It was after 11:00pm on a Tuesday night. The minivan in front of me had a blow-out on I-285 and smacked the guardrail on the left then swerved to beat hell all over the highway trying to keep the van from rolling. Anyone who has ever driven in Atlanta knows I-285 has taken many lives and those with faint hearts had best just stay at home. More than a few crimes have been perpetuated along this asphalt jungle as well.

It was a miracle that I and a slew of other drivers managed to avoid the van. I was going too fast to stop completely and I saw the van finally come to a stop half-on and half-off the emergency lane on the right side of the highway. I saw a tiny woman crawl out of the van . . . then I hit a curve and the sight disappeared.

Someone will stop to help her, I thought. Not my problem. Hell's Bells, this is Atlanta. My Dodge Ram had already been pelted with eggs and yellow paint because of my "Reagan Backer" bumper sticker. Some Nutball will shoot me if I stop on the side of I-285. Surely, somebody will help her.

Then, remembering the Chauvinistic Pig lessons hammered into me by a Gentlemanly Grandfather -- another West Texas Redneck -- my conscience got the best of me. I had to check on the lady. Yeah, somebody would stop to help her . . . but what else would they do?

I u-turned at the next overpass, u-turned again past the accident site and traffic had already backed up to this overpass. I just put the Ram in the barditch and slowly made my way to the van. Everybody and their dog had stopped . . . but not one jackass had gotten out of their vehicle to help. Some were honking at the lady, some were flipping her off, and some were just zooming by in the left lanes.

Her vehicle was still half-way on the right lane of the highway. She was in a helluva mess . . . and regardless of what I thought, I wasn't Superman. I didn't see anything else to do but just push her van off the highway. The motor wouldn't run . . . smacking concrete dividers sometimes causes that.

Anyway, as I was lining up with her bumper to shove her off the highway . . . this mile-long, stretched limo slammed on it's brakes in the far right lane and made a sharp and damned dangerous turn to the right . . . towards us. Towards a three hundred pound gorilla -- this Redneck West Texan -- and a crying little lady who couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds. She was almost hysterical and I had to shout at her three times to get in the van and lock the doors before she did.

I just knew we were about to be accosted by a drug lord. I mean . . . who in the hell else would drive like that, right? Late at night, on a super-busy highway, like they owned the asphalt. And nary a vehicle honked at or flipped off the limo. I figured they knew a helluva lot more than I did about the situation. I'm too stupid to run, but I was scared to death and I ain't afraid to admit it.

Then out popped this skinny, gray-haired man from the back after the limo pulled in behind us. I didn't know him from Adam . . . but I figured I could take him unless he had some reinforcements in the limo. He stopped and yelled something to the driver and the limo inched out into traffic . . . completely blocking the right lane so the limo would get smacked first if some wino hit our little convoy.

The skinny guy offered his hand, said, "I'm Zell Miller. Y'all got some problems?" Folks can say what they want about us Texicans . . . but ain't a one of us ever drawled as much as this cat.

We heard sirens in seconds and I noticed a cop car backing up against traffic in the front of us and two or three of them coming from behind us. Evidently 'ol Zell rated escorts.

To make a long story short . . . Zell and his troopers stayed there for over an hour until a wrecker could finally manage to haul the lady's car away. And 'ol Zell was an active participant in directing traffic. He didn't just bark out orders, he got his hands dirty.

Hell, he even gave the lady a ride home in his limo.

Me? I chuckle everytime I think of the last words I would hear from this great, great guy. He cocked his head at my bumper sticker, nodded a couple of times, then said, "Damn good thang for you, son, that I ain't a speed reader. Couldn't read that 'til I got close. I'da seen that and I'da had you ticketed for parking and being a public nuisance . . . then I'da had you locked up for being an illegal immigrant. Get them Texas license plates changed, son." Son, hell, I was 40-ish but the guy had a twinkle in his eye that always brings a smile to my face.

FOR THE FIRST AND ONLY TIME IN MY LIFE . . . I VOTED FOR A DEMOCRAT. FOR GOVERNOR.

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