Go home, Kenneth Starr

Of course, this soap opera with few, if any, commercial breaks can become complicated, not to mention messy. Sooner or later, the dating scene feels like a tiny bowl filled with Siamese fighting fish, but it's certainly never dull. That ex-boyfriend you hate is no doubt dating a friend of a friend. Chances are you'll all end up at a party along with three other old boyfriends and two of their ex-girlfriends. Yet I love the thrill of being able to track down someone's history in mere minutes.

In Little Rock, any secret, however big or small, should never be told, not even whispered. Eavesdropping and gossiping, right behind attending church and volunteering, are favorite hobbies in the city. Forget Los Angeles. Cell phones work overtime in Little Rock. Rumors started at dawn are posted on electronic gossip bulletin boards by evening.

And if you plan to run for public office, it's best to stay celibate and live in a cave. The president had to learn this lesson the hard way.

Yes, Little Rock is small; some may even say it suffocates. It has its flaws: Not enough art museums or theater. Rock stars don't play the local arena. Foreign films don't debut here. It's hard to find good Thai food. And there are only a few -- maybe two -- all-night coffee shops.

But Little Rock makes up for what it lacks with more than its allotment of kooks, quacks and quirky places. Like the crazy bag lady wearing camouflage selling daffodils on a street corner in the prestigious Edgehill neighborhood where the president attended a private reception last weekend. Or the Jesus man who doesn't believe in material possessions and roams through the city preaching the Gospel. Everybody knows them here -- probably even Ken Starr.

I'm always surprised when friends do leave Little Rock, seduced by bright lights or better paying jobs. Once they are gone, they call and ask, "When are you leaving?" They haven't gotten it yet. Why would I leave this slow-paced city with three-lane freeways and a mini-skyline, a place where I can be in the rolling hills in 20 minutes or cotton country in the same amount of time? Why would I give up a hometown where I can decide at the last moment to rush to a movie and not have to wait in line, where I can strike up conversations with strangers in the grocery line and realize within a few seconds we have a mutual friend, or that they know a player in Whitewater? For a politics and gossip addict like me, it's heaven.

I'm staying. But I'm getting a new bumper sticker for my car. It says: Go Home, Kenneth Starr.

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