And then I began to wonder: Is it just my imagination, or is the American public becoming less articulate, less apt, less coherent in direct proportion to its growing stridency? Is everyone now a verbal kamikaze, or at least a little Mr. or MissNomer?

Take "Buddy." He wrote: "I believe that your reporting is along the lines of Jerry Springer and has about the same significance. Enough!" Anthony M. was slightly more restrained, offering me what I took not to be a straightforward compliment: "I enjoy reading your slander. We have a respectable team in the white house. Sorry they are not quite as sleazy as you want … god bless america."

Under the subject line "Twisted Mind," Voyle T. was apoplectic: "Shame Shame on you. You say a lot with out any proof. How did you get to be so ' sick '?"

What had I done to earn such diagnoses? I had written an article for the online opinion magazine Slate (which bounced to a wider audience on the MSNBC Web site) that documented, rather soberly, I thought, cases in which the Bush administration suppressed economic data. My editor had, perhaps injudiciously, tried to enliven the piece by rechristening administration officials as "Bushies," but other than that the essay was almost boringly factual. I didn't even assign blame for the country's recent economic woes. Many of the 257 readers who gave me feedback, however, detected greater crimes on my part.

"You sound just lick Clinton," wrote J.W. Adams (perhaps a typing-challenged descendant of our second President). "I have heard lots of BS in my lifetime but uoy are one of the worst I have ever heard."

James L. Jr., who seemingly had me confused with Joe Conason or James Carville, wrote with little accuracy, less sense and absolutely no proof: "For 8 years prior to this Administration … you fought to prove that the President should not be held to a higher standard of conduct. Murders, lie after lie, adultery, fellatio in the White House …. You allowed it, now live with it."

I was a bit flummoxed to get so many letters from people ignoring or entirely misconstruing what the article was about. Are the great masses now so out of touch with reality, I pondered, that any journalism not "Fair and Balanced" in that peculiar Fox News mold registers as anti-American?

I soon learned what Paul Krugman surely knows-nobody appreciates the guy who rains on a patriotic parade. "[S]uch actions only tend to discourage, tear down and destroy what our soldiers, past and present have fought for and delivered to us," wrote "Roger in Dallas."

Many letter-writers seemed to share a continuing obsession with the Clinton witch-hunt and a determination to compare Mr. Clinton's sexual misadventures with any controversy surrounding his successor, no matter how unrelated.

Barry L. inquired: "Do you think Intern player Billy was perfect?", while Robby E. ventured: "You must have been an intern in the Clinton Whitehouse!"

"Scott South Carolina" argued: "You say Bush is hiding information and that is wrong but when the Clinton Admin. did the same thing, you sayed it was his right to privacy. Get off your high horse and get a real job."

Soon I was hearing from readers who associate suppression of economic reports with virtuosity. John D.: "After I became a family man, I suddenly realized that values, morals and testicular fortitude matters …. [W]hat Clinton had done, was too much to stomach …. George Bush will remain popular no matter what it is you write, or say! Why do you ask? Because he has morals, values, and enormous brass tacks!"

Certain correspondents were inspired to action. Al R.: "I started a new group of Hispanics … [which] is growing daily because of the … lies that you and your liberal friends tell thru the elite media and I have collected information and facts about what Mr. Bush is doing and information about what you (liberals) have said during the last 10 years. This way I can prove that you people are liars and full of hate for Mr. Bush."

Various individuals, finding no other rational basis for an argument they wished to have, took shelter in euphoric self-interest. "I have made more money the last 2 years in this so-called bad economy then ever before," wrote Rick H., a.k.a. "Crusher of Liberal Bull." "In fact everyone I know is doing better than ever …. Where did you get your economics degree? Cracker Jack U? …. Email me back if your not scuurred to do so."

After attacking me for what I had (not) written, many readers graciously wished me a good day. More took a moment to profane me. Still others seemed to endorse expansion of the Patriot Act. Frank E.: "I wish that there were a island somewhere that all you liberals where put on and could not get off." Robert H: "I wish you lived in one of the middle east countries so your ass could be put in jail or worse."

Out of this swirling mass came one particularly bracing confession. Having politely criticized me about something or other, Jonathan W. appended his observations with: "Sorry if my thoughts were jumbled, I didn't have time to process fully, but I wanted to write before I lost your email [address]."

So what does all this teach us, you might ask? I emphatically have no idea. Still, I'll hazard a few conclusions. 1) Despite the constant lip service paid by politicians to the ineffable wisdom of the ordinary person, there is some truth in Plato's famous doubts in that regard. 2) Folks have always been foggy thinkers, imprecise articulators and miserable at spelling, grammar and usage. Now, though, they're especially deadly, armed as they are with IITFS-Internet Itchy Trigger-Finger Syndrome. 3) With so many amateur insta-pundits out there happily shooting up the political barroom, we professional pundits ought to learn some humility and self-restraint.

We ought to, but we won't. Not as long as we also keep hearing from people who actually like-really like-what we write. Readers typified by Julie M., from "Harry Truman's Home town of Independence, MO": "I just read your article about the President's creative bookkeeping and … wonder … 1) why it's not on the 10 o'clock news and 2) are you running for office? I'd vote for you!"

Wow-much obliged, Ms. M. I'll admit to dreaming every now and then about public service. Except that I keep hearing from readers sharing the views of Heath K., whose message line read "Hey Asshole." He had excellent advice: "Get over it."

Thanks, Mr. K. I think it's safe to say that I am now over it.

Thirty seconds later, I had another reply. Then another and another. "Hello," began one. "What an intriguing concept!" And signed off with: "Hope to hear from you-this is interesting!" Another remarked: "Though at present I am lacking the requisite resume that is so necessary when applying for jobs these days, I'm hoping you will meet with me by virtue of my sheer dynamism and sparkling wit. (How about my good looks, brains, and ability to recite all 50 states backwards?)" They came in all forms: smart, goofy, blunt, boastful, modest, apologetic. And they kept coming. One or two a minute for, literally, hours.

I was aware that, notwithstanding the trauma and economic destabilization of 9/11, New York City is still a lure for hopeful hordes of ambitious-and unemployed-youth from across America and around the world. But this flood of imploring responses to my ad exceeded all expectations. Touched by their bravado in the face of a grim and worsening job market, I tried reading all the messages to decide which candidates looked promising, but I couldn't keep up. By midnight, the often heart-rending entreaties were still streaming through. I'd gotten so wrapped up in them that I forgot to have dinner. Now, I forced myself to shut the computer off and go to bed.

The eager candidates, however, did not. When I awoke and turned my computer on early the next morning, I was alarmed to see that scores of additional messages had come in, even in the wee-est of the wee hours.

"Mr. Baker, I cannot begin to tell you …. "

So I did what any sane person would: I left town. However, being a creature of habit, I still occasionally peeked at my mail count and, much to my chagrin, the torrent continued unabated.

By the time I got back to my desk a few days hence, people were "checking back." One wrote a vaguely indignant note, wondering why he hadn't heard from me yet. Others, noting that I had probably received "quite a few" applications, reminded me that they'd met me once, maybe worked together somewhere or, in certain cases, invoked people I barely remembered as reliable job references for them. "Mr. Baker, not to drop names inappropriately, but I just spoke with _____, whom I believe you know …. "

I hope it is clear how much I appreciate the dilemma of these folks, and how deeply I sympathize with their plight. I know how hard it is to find gainful employment in these recession-plagued times: My immediate family includes a crackerjack smart, hard-working and long-unemployed lawyer-M.B.A. brother with kids and a Silicon Valley mortgage. And as a freelance writer, I am familiar not only with the pain of rejection, but also with the ever-rekindled hope that some kind soul will acknowledge my brilliance-or at least my existence. So I approached my hiring task resolved to temper with kindness my determination to get the most competent assistant for the modest wage I could afford.

Perhaps to avoid compassion-overload, I found that I could rule out many of the least creative applicants without even finishing their pitches. A good half of the letters began, "My name is Agsplatz Figgelsuch … " as if mere identity were the principal selling point.

To give potential applicants some idea of whom they'd be working for, I had, a little self-importantly, labeled myself "Nationally Known Journalist." I got a fair number of letters expressing the firm conviction that the applicant had spent his or her formative years preparing exactly for this "opportunity to work at Nationally Known Journalist ."

Some felt the need to trumpet their own 15 minutes of fame. "Not yet nationally known, I did have a letter to the editor of the N.Y. Times mag published a few weeks ago." Or "A singer/songwriter not yet nationally known (although I did share the bill with Ike Turner a couple of years ago, and managed to resist the temptation to slap the man), I have two CD's to my credit."

Others sought to establish their writing credentials, though I found myself wondering if any of the cited publications actually existed. "I currently write a travel column for Hoop Magazine … I've also written food and travel articles for Northwest Palate … I also regularly edited copy for The Bear Deluxe Magazine before moving to New York last year in search of new opportunities." One person said she freelanced for Playgirl and www.affluentmale.com.

A few provided invaluable insights into life at "lifestyle" periodicals. "I do some work for STUFF magazine as well-bathroom humor, really, but lucrative bathroom humor. They pay more when one uses the words 'dude,' 'hottie' and 'babe.'"

Some sounded a little too experienced. "I have written and sold more than 3,500 articles in the past 27 years," one told me, "many of them on topic subjects."

Another wrote:

"Dear Russ,

"Have a look at my credentials which span journalism, Wall Street, the United Nations and Public Relations. I have several recent Op Eds, published by … Eastern Connecticut's largest daily. I have been doing stories for all 10,000 newspapers for the last 12 years … I have written a film for Steven Seagal and am off to L.A. next Tuesday through Friday, to attend his birthday celebration …. "

By contrast, some were painfully honest: "I had a look on your Web site, and I'm not sure whether my knowledge base is up your alley."

Finally, to see who was serious and who was knowledge-basing up the wrong alley, I mass e-mailed some of the more promising candidates that they would have to prepare a research memo on a difficult topic, and send it to me within 48 hours.

Forty-eight hours later, I found myself remembering what I'd hated about teaching: more than 100 essays on the same topic. In the end, after reading a dozen or so of these two-to-seven-page responses ("be brief and succinct," I had said), I called up the author of the best submission and hired him to read the rest.

Now, with time on my hands, I began compiling a personal anthology of my favorite solicitation letters. "I've attached three résumés (evidence of my heretofore schizoid existence)," wrote one. "If you find anything here of interest, please feel free to get in touch."

"I am a fan of clean copy, baseball, the N.F.L., Van Gogh, Aretha Franklin, Sting and Star Trek , among other things," another informed me.

And then there was the hopeful who wrote: "I work well in a group, chew up deadlines like grandad's Skol, and make a mean turkey chili." Unfortunately, he added: "I'd like to think that the only difference between you and I-as journalists-is the 'nationally known' thing …. When can I start?"

You can't. It's not, as you wrote, "between you and I." It's between "you and me ." Sorry about splitting hairs-and, again, I totally sympathize-but tough times call for tough grammatical standards, Skol or no Skol. (Oh, by the way, that wad in grandad's cheek isn't Skol-it's Skoal .)

I was filming Ms. Runyon for a documentary when she showed up for her party, she had a remarkable story, as she often does. This one had to do with her buttons. A white lady who grew up in the South but has spent the last half-century in Harlem, fighting slumlords and working for every underdog imaginable, Ms. Runyon is known for her buttons. She's got a wall full of them-tracing America's great progressive causes-in the entryway to her apartment. And when she has something to say and can't find the right button, she makes up her own and hands them out. She's been on television a lot recently, at homeless-rights demonstrations, for example, handing out one of her own creations: a button that displays Mayor Giuliani's picture with a disapproving red slash across his face.

Lately, she's been wearing another of her buttons-a green and white one she had made-pinned to her purse. It reads "Amadou Lives," in memory of the young Guinean felled in his Bronx foyer by 19 of the 41 bullets fired by undercover police who mistook his wallet for a gun. It was this button that led to the sort of encounter with a cab driver that could only happen to a New York activist.

She and a friend had just paid for a cab and were walking away when they heard the horn toot. Her first thought was that she had forgotten to get her change. But the driver had a surprise. Moved by what she had been saying to her friend about the buttons, he wanted to show her something. He held up his Taxi and Limousine Commission permit. His name was Amadou Diallo. Ms. Runyon was so flabbergasted that there was more than one person in the city with this unforgettable name that she forgot to get the driver's address before he drove off.

On Ms. Runyon's behalf, I decided to reach out to Mr. Diallo. But that proved more difficult than I had imagined, and taught me something surprising about ethnicity in New York. Before the shooting, I had never heard either the name Amadou or the surname Diallo; all I knew was that he had come from the republic of Guinea in West Africa, one which few New Yorkers could identify on a map.

Nevertheless, when I searched New York City telephone information, I found not one Amadou Diallo but 19. I thought I would narrow my search by concentrating only on cabbies. Yet a call to Allan Fromberg at the T.L.C. yielded an even more remarkable statistic: There are no less than 106 Amadou Diallos driving yellow taxis and livery cabs in New York City. That seemed doubly impossible-how could there be five times as many Amadou Diallos driving cabs as living in the city? Mr. Fromberg speculated that many of the drivers may live outside the five boroughs or not have their own telephone listings.

My amazement and curiosity led me to the Permanent Mission of Ghana to the United Nations, where a gentleman taking my call explained that the surname Diallo is quite common in the Fulani ethnic group in West Africa, and that Amadou (with minor variations) is a common first name. "In fact," the Guinean diplomat added, "my name is Mamadou Diallo."

Reached by telephone, Kadiatou Diallo, the mother of the late Amadou Diallo, estimated that in her hometown, some 80 percent of the people are named Diallo. So, although she was none too surprised about all the drivers with the same name, she was quite moved by Marie Runyon's effort to keep her son's name alive. Told of Marie Runyon's curbside encounter, she exclaimed, "This is beautiful. Oh, my God, this old woman who is very caring."

Mrs. Diallo asked for Ms. Runyon's number, and called her. Ms. Runyon invited Mrs. Diallo for Saturday evening dinner to her Morningside Drive apartment, jammed with mementos of her involvement in the civil rights, antiwar, housing rights and other movements.

Expected visitors are instructed in a secret series of doorbell rings before they are buzzed into the building. That night, May 13, each time the appropriate code came through, Ms. Runyon raced excitedly to the elevator, only to discover with some disappointment that it was friends she had also invited. She began to get nervous. Maybe Mrs. Diallo wasn't going to show after all.

Finally, on the sixth trip to the elevator, she was rewarded. Out stepped Mrs. Diallo, a strikingly youthful and elegant woman clad in a West African wrap, deep blue with red flowers, and a matching headdress. With her were two brothers and a very pregnant sister-in-law, who have been staying with Mrs. Diallo as she seeks justice. Ms. Runyon dispensed hugs, kisses and handshakes, struggled with names and marched the group into her apartment.

Perhaps not sure of what to make of this white lady with posters of Martin Luther King, Alvin Ailey and Malcolm X on her walls, to say nothing of the poster "Uppity Women Unite" and the antique "Beware of Loose Women and Pickpockets" notice, the Diallo clan was polite but reserved. Everyone remarked on how youthful, lovely and poised Mrs. Diallo was.

At the table, Ms. Runyon, a regular churchgoer, said grace, and the Diallos bowed their heads as some of Ms. Runyon's friends watched. Ms. Runyon gave thanks to God for bringing them together and for the food, then she broke down and shed a few tears as she asked that Amadou's soul be allowed to rest in peace.

Then Ms. Runyon, a vegetarian since she was 75, served her guests a broccoli casserole and another with tuna and a large salad, polished off with chocolate-vanilla and butter pecan ice cream. Some of the assembled drank wine; the Diallos, who are Muslims, had apple juice.

Ms. Runyon had seated Mrs. Diallo next to a particularly voluble Harlem activist, and the Southerner in her looked a little chagrined as the woman monopolized Mrs. Diallo and delivered a predictable screed about police brutality and injustice. Not that Ms. Runyon disagreed, but she likes a little more decorum. Mrs. Diallo nodded, and made polite conversation. Her brothers and sister-in-law, scattered amongst the guests, did their best in this pit of old-left nostalgia. And, slowly, the Diallos warmed to their companions, sharing stories about their family, their lives back home and their struggle to maintain a balance between their personal needs and the greater obligation to establish a larger purpose for Amadou's death.

At one point, Mrs. Diallo remarked on how Amadou was such a people person and would have enjoyed the gathering. The family stayed longer, perhaps, than they had planned, finally saying their goodbyes after several hours and venturing out into a downpour to a waiting livery cab.

But not before some exchanging of numbers, and Mrs. Diallo's happy acquiescence to speak to the students at nearby Public School 43, where Ms. Runyon is involved. Then Ms. Runyon asked if Amadou's family would like a few "Amadou Lives" buttons. They said they would. She handed them a sack. Must have been a thousand in there.