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Forty years ago I spent the summer stalking Jimmy Carter, a then relatively unknown Georgian running for president.
After devouring Hunter Thompson’s Rolling Stone endorsement, driving around Jimmy’s hometown of Plains and attending election parties, we even snuck into his acceptance speech in Madison Square Garden, hoping, yet failing to get close.
We left dejected. Stuck in traffic outside our hotel, I stepped out, only to be cut off by several police cars and a limo. A door opened. Jimmy exited and looked, puzzled, at me. I shook his hand, congratulated him on his speech and headed back home, happy.