Just a few months ago, I, too, was moving to New York in search of a new job. I, too, was a carpetbagger, selling my wares to people I didn't know, who didn't know me. Or care.

I was looking for a place to live, just like you. I was learning the lay of the land. I was trying to make fast friends-fast!-who would support my ambitions and give me a boost when things were down. Just like you.

Yes, Mrs. Clinton, you have enlisted in a battle that is waged every day-the battle to become a New Yorker. I am one among its legion of veterans. And having made it this far, having been lost and lonesome in New York and having lived to tell the tale, I want to share a few lessons I learned. A few tips for fitting in.

No. 1: Don't pretend to be what you aren't.

Contrary to popular belief, New Yorkers are not mean. But they are savvy and they will not be played for fools. They can tell a real Yankee from a Cub in Yankee clothing.

When I first got here, I tried to act the part. I dressed in black, top to toe. I bought fat, clunky heels. I even tried to wear those little barrettes that everyone sports around town. But they slid from my hair, utterly embarrassed by my charade.

It takes more than a few months, more than a few years to become a true New Yorker. And the harder you try, the louder they will laugh as you fall. So don't work at it, Mrs. Clinton. The best thing about being a New Yorker is you can be yourself.

No. 2: Ignore the rest of the state.

I know. This is a tough one for you, as you toy with a statewide Senate race. But we newcomers learn two things early on: (a) Upstate hates the city, and (b) the city ignores upstate. It's the "Green Acres" rule: You can't belong to both. So you have to choose. And correct me if I'm wrong, Mrs. Clinton, but all signs point to you making your bed in or near the city.

Now this is not altogether a bad thing. We saw those placards in Binghamton-"Carpetbagger Go Home!" Upstairs don't want you here. And how does that saying go? "The enemy of my enemy …"

Luckily for you, the city and upstate have one thing in common-their name. So whatever the audience, you can still safely say: "How could anyone live anywhere but New York?" Upstate, they'll think you're one with them. But we in the city will know what you mean.

No. 3: Love the Mayor / Hate the Mayor.

For New Yorkers, it's either one or the other. No middle of the road.

But here's the rub. Even if you despise Rudy Giuliani with all your being, even if he's ticketed you for jaywalking, even if he sent your porn shop packing, even if you are the candidate running against him for the Senate (which, as a matter of fact, you are), all true New Yorkers end their tirade against the Mayor with the following words: "But he has done a lot for the city."

It's the dragnets thing. Rarely has a more reviled man had higher praise. So give the Mayor his due as you set out to do him in.

No. 4: Steer clear of "Door Open."

This is a different world from the Arkansas you know, Mrs. Clinton. Down there, when someone dashes for the elevator, you lunge for the "Door Open" button. And you hold it heroically in place until all have passed safely through the mechanical jaws.

Not here, Mrs. Clinton. Not in New York. Look next time you're in an elevator. Which button is used and worn? "Door Close." New Yorkers don't like to wait. And if you make them wait, you'll never win friends. Or voters. So keep your hands to your sides and let the elevator take its course.

No. 5: Routinely cancel appointments.

One big mistake new New Yorkers make when they first arrive in town is actually showing up. And on time.

I've had more people cancel on me in my six months in New York than in my 10 years of business elsewhere. New York is, by definition, changeable, so everybody does it. They cancel. They reschedule. They cancel. They reschedule. No excuses are necessary.

It's an art form. And-in a twisted way-it's also a measure of friendship. You cancel the most on those you know best. It's the people with whom you're closest you end up seeing least.

So the next time you're lined up to meet a prominent group of voters, call half an hour before and say you just can't make it: "The day I'm having!"

Be assured: They'll love you for it. There was certainly something else they needed to do. After all, this is New York.

Terry Golway is on a short leave. He will return later this month.

"Could you be as brave as the saints?" Sister would ask.

Of course we could.

"Well, what if someone walked into this classroom now, pointed a gun at your head and asked: 'Do you believe in God?' Would you deny him?"

We knew what she wanted to hear: "We would never deny him."

"Even to save your life?"

"No, never."

We never would-we thought-because it would never happen.

But, of course, it has.

Two months ago, Cassie Bernall lay on the floor of Columbine High School, a gun pointed directly at her. "Do you believe in God?" her tormenter asked. "Yes." It was the last word she ever said.

Today, Cassie Bernall is revered by many Christians across the nation. Young and old gather at rallies to spread the news of her faith. Some believe that it was God's plan to take Cassie, so that she, in death, could show others the way.

It's a difficult rationale-one not without its critics, who claim that some in the evangelical movement are exploiting Cassie's story to get conversions. But in these days of uncertainty about why such a thing could happen to our nation, "God's will" is the only answer some people can find.

The questions have swirled for two months. Was it the availability of guns that made them do it? Maybe. Was it the movies? Maybe. Disinterested parents? Maybe. Video games? Maybe. A lack of community, a lack of Christianity, a lack of prayer in schools? Maybe.

The search for a cause is desperate and exhausting. The symptom is finger pointing. We are

under pressure-we must find the answer so that we can find the solution. That's the American way. But so far, we have come up short.

Other countries watch us with nervous trepidation, hoping they won't be next. "We know we're right behind the United States," said Val Besag, a school psychologist in England, in an interview with Wise Guys. "We're just holding our breath. What will America do about all these killings?"

Good question. If only we knew.

The harder we try, the worse it becomes. After the shooting in Springfield, Ore., in May 26, 1998, that killed four people, we committed ourselves to end the madness. Before that, after a shooting in Fayetteville, Tenn., we committed ourselves as well. In Pennsylvania, Arkansas, Kentucky, Mississippi and Alabama-each time we slam down our fists and swear, "Never again."

Still, statistics tell us that nearly every day in America, a child kills another child. Staggering.

It's the school massacres, of course, that grab our attention. They stand out like blood on a wall, executed in our most hallowed place-the suburbs-by our most privileged race-young white males. But children in urban areas are even more at risk. Statistics tell us that a black teenage boy is seven times more likely to be murdered than his peer who is white.

"Everything's just gotten worse," a 16-year-old lamented after a shooting outside Harry S. Truman High School in Co-op City earlier this year. "The fights after school, the little gangs fighting over nothing, and now someone's got shot."

After Columbine, we all understand. And we all warrant a portion of the blame. It is a tough pill to swallow, but in scrambling after our American dream, we have somehow trampled on our children, and we have taught them to trample on others.

Here we stand at the last moment of what the world willingly agrees is the American Century, when our economic and technological progress cannot be matched. It is the century of social advancement, of accumulated wealth, of megamillionaires who still don't have enough money. It is the century of American games and gain.

A magazine advertisement sums it all up: "Isn't it time you started thinking about No. 1?"

Isn't it time we stopped?

Our children emulate us and imitate us. They, too, crave their toys: their designer clothes, tennis shoes, beepers, cell phones, even guns. The currency of their value system. A survey reveals that the average student spends 1,500 hours per year watching television, 600 hours in school and 33 hours talking to their parents. And we wonder why we and teenagers are so out of touch.

Imagine this. A gunman walks into your office, into your boardroom, into your dining room or den and asks: "Do you believe in America's children? Are you willing to spend time with them, to listen to them, to hear when they're lonely or scared?"

It's a life-or-death question. What's the answer?

Terry Golway is on a short leave. He will return next month.

The public, the press and the President share the opinion that our Vice President needs to loosen up-loosen his tie, his coat jacket, his clenched jaw, and become more a man of the people, one of us. "I have told him to go out and have a good time," our good-time President told The New York Times .

But surely this is unfair. Al Gore is 51 years old. In that relatively short span of time, he has done more than most people would ever dream of doing. If all of his accomplishments sound boring, then life must be pretty exciting for the rest of us.

Now, in the interests of full disclosure, I am a native of Nashville, Tenn., and my family has had a relationship with the Gores. So I am familiar with his public record and his political biography. Here is a man born into the lap, not of luxury but of politics, the son of a country teacher turned national Senator. Young Al spent his school days with his family in Washington, D.C.-the hotbed of democracy in the fever heat of the 1960's. He spent his summer days in small-town Tennessee, working with hired hands on the family farm as his father took courageous stands for civil rights in what was then a very uncivil South.

Here is a man who at Harvard was hip enough to smoke pot. (And, later, man enough to admit it.) Though an opponent of the war in Vietnam, he clenched his jaw and went to serve. But he was wise enough-before he left-to marry a smart and feisty young woman, the love of his life.

Here is a man who, back home in Tennessee, spent his nights exposing corruption as an investigative reporter and his days attending-how's this for depth-Vanderbilt Divinity School. He then went on to study law. When the Congressman for his home district decided to retire, Al Gore leaped into the race and he won. He established himself as a politician who studies an issue, masters it and acts on it. Nearly every weekend, without fail, he boarded a plane bound for his home state to host town meetings with the people who elected him.

Simply put, Al Gore is the most involved Vice President in the history of our country, a partner rather than a puppet, standing loyally by his President while other not-so-loyal supporters flee into the ever-open arms of TV talk-show hosts.

He is a good father, a supportive husband, a churchgoer, a practical joker, and, one-on-one, one of the most compassionate people you're likely to meet. Yes, he has erred, particularly on the dicey matter of fund-raising. No one believes he went to that Buddhist temple to throw out the money changers. He must answer for those mistakes and we, as voters, must take them into consideration. But he is without doubt a man of substance and, yes, poise, who still has the chutzpah to dress up each Halloween and pose for the world with his wife on their front porch.

We sit around our boring dinner parties and tut, "What a bore!" But take a look at the other candidates? Has anyone done more?

Whenever we ponder what we want in a President, we-the American public-say that he (do we ever say "she"?) should be intelligent, loyal, compassionate, dedicated, effective, strong, well-educated, a good family man with strong moral values, who is willing to take risks, who understands and deals with issues, and is handsome to boot. But now, when presented with Al Gore, who is such a candidate, we throw away our long list of criteria and worry about whether he is charming enough. Are we choosing a dinner companion or the leader of the free world?

There once was a day-and I'm sure Al Gore remembers it-when little boys and little girls stated proudly, "I want to be President." With enthusiasm and creativity, they charged forward to earn merit badges, science fair prizes, 4-H ribbons and cross-country trophies, yearbook citations for "Most Likely to Succeed," "Most Talented," "Most Popular" and "Best All Around." All with the aim of getting as close to greatness as they could. But today, in this land of one-liners and two-timers, such childhood pursuits matter little. It's flash and panache that attract our attention. We draw a picture of "the ideal candidate" and Al Gore smiles back at us from the page. Yet the polls say we are looking for something else. Why are we so bored? Does it reflect more on Al Gore or on us-on our insatiable desire to be seduced, to eat chocolate, drink champagne, puff cigars and imagine it's love.

Perhaps Al Gore will take Bill Clinton's advice. Perhaps he will drop the serious subjects for the sound bites. Perhaps he will plunge more often into crowds. Perhaps he will shed the blue suit for blue jeans.

Still, the next time he attempts yet another bad joke about his wooden approach, he will surely be wondering: "When did they change the rules?"

Terry Golway is on a short leave. He will return next month.