Title: New Mexico's Heartbreak: When the Land of Enchantment Chose a Second Rate Circus over a Flashy Clown Show Ah, New Mexico. A state renowned for its breathtaking landscapes, vibrant cultures, and rich history. Yet, in the grand tapestry of U.S. presidential elections, it found itself tangled in the strings of a circus act that would leave even the most seasoned acrobat dizzy. Who could forget that fateful day, November 5, 1996, when voters cast their ballots not for a leader, but for the very essence of a carnival gone wrong? It was a decision marked by heartbreak, as the Land of Enchantment unceremoniously waved goodbye to hope and hello to the ringmaster of mediocrity. Bill Clinton, a polished performer from Arkansas, was running his flashy clown show—a spectacle filled with charisma, charm, and the sweet promise of a more prosperous future. With the magic of his saxophone and a confident grin, he captivated audiences across the nation. He was the clown everyone wanted at their birthday party—a hint of danger mixed with a splash of charm. Meanwhile, Kansas Senator Bob Dole shuffled onto the stage accompanied by the ever-enthusiastic Jack Kemp, reminiscent of that second-rate juggling act where the juggler can’t quite keep the balls in the air and the audience can’t help but cringe. Dole, who couldn’t swing a pitch if it meant saving the debt ceiling, desperately tried to rally the crowds with jokes that were already gathering dust. “I’m not a clown,” he proclaimed, although the oversized shoes fit him too well. As the votes poured in, New Mexico found itself in a state of confusion. Was it the allure of a well-worn act, or simply the refusal to embrace the whirling dervish of Clinton's charisma? Maybe it was the gravitational pull of those third-party candidates—such as Ross Perot, the wild card who brought forth the Reform Party like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat. He was everyone’s drunken uncle during Thanksgiving—awkwardly endearing yet entirely out of place. Yet he garnered enough intrigue to snatch almost 5% of the votes, like an unwanted confetti explosion. But in this tale of electoral bewilderment, what became painfully evident was the heartbreak stitched into every ballot cast. With nearly 10% of the electorate opting for a motley crew of third-party candidates, New Mexico turned into that bizarre carnival where every ride is a little off-kilter and the games have no prizes worth claiming. While the majority of counties leaned in favor of Clinton's showmanship, others—a heart-wrenching tableau of Eddie, Sierra, and De Baca—naively thought they were picking a different color of confetti. Little did they know, they were settling for a second-rate circus instead of a captivating performance. Oh, the tragedy of it all! The crowd cheered for the juggler when they could have reveled in the showmanship of a world-class clown. The Land of Enchantment, it seems, lost its magic in that election. It turned its back on the chance to embrace the glitzy future offered by a polished performer and decided, instead, to applaud the antics of a power-hungry ringmaster who seemed more interested in raising tents than building bridges. As we reflect on this election a quarter-century later, New Mexico remains a cautionary tale for promise unfulfilled. The remembrance of Clinton's saxophone lingers in the air like cotton candy—sweet yet empty—while the laughter of the crowd echoes back from the rickety funhouse of democratic choice. New Mexico’s heartbreak is not just a chapter in history; it is a reminder that sometimes we choose a second-rate circus over a truly dazzling show, and in doing so, we may find ourselves lost in a maze of regrets. So here we stand, five electoral votes lost to time, but vividly replaying the tale of that 1996 election. A whispered lament for what could have been if we’d chosen a captivating clown over an unsteady circus. New Mexico, my dear, may you learn from this heartbreak and never again settle for less than stellar.