Max Cleland's pain, John Kerry's gain

Max Cleland lives life with great gusto. "When you come back from war," he says, "every day is an extra-credit day." He laughs from the belly up, sweats when he campaigns hard and brings a voracious appetite to the table. At a coffee shop in Seattle, breakfast consists of oatmeal with bananas and raisins, eggs, bacon and a hubcap-size pancake slathered with berries, extra butter and syrup. He says grace before the meal, something he does even when he isn't feeling particularly blessed. "I've prayed for the ability to experience the joy that life has every day, even when I'm not feeling it," he says.

His purpose, he states repeatedly, is to help other Democrats, to "turn my pain into someone else's gain." It is one of the many aphorisms and little self-help squibs that Cleland collects, the way another person might seek exotic stamps or gather rare coins. They sound hokey, except that Cleland seems to cling to their inspiration so utterly.

The LA Times magazine on what drives Max Cleland and, by extension, much of the anger and fight of the Democratic party these days.