It troubles me little, much as I like to be on the forward side of the cultural curve, to admit that I have never heard a Howard Stern radio show. Nor have I read his book. Nor did I indulge myself with his New Year's Eve pay-per-view special.

What I've seen of him, on talk shows and in magazine articles, doesn't leave me with a sense I've missed anything ... that is, not missed anything in the sense that public shows of xenophobia, belching and gender bashing can be found in many quarters.

I am like most people in this regard; they don't see Howard Stern every day, he has zero impact on most lives, yet he is somehow known. What Stern has achieved is the rarest and least arduous sort of celebrity; he is famous mostly for being famous.

And in a mixed-up world of where hype and politics are next of kin, Stern stands well positioned for even greater things. The so-called "shock jock" finds himself on the ballot as a candidate for governor of New York, the nation's second most populous state.

People attuned to the art of self-promotion suspected Stern's candidacy as merely an investment, casting his name into a political race in hopes of a return in publicity. His idea of public service must surely be that which serves the wallet (which might not make him so different from many of his more serious brethren in that profession).

With that the case, and it most surely is, Stern embraces the forum for his heart-felt, if limited, views on state policy. Specifically, he wants three things: filled-in potholes, a restored death penalty and a new way to collect highway tolls. After addressing these matters, he vows to leave everything else alone.

Remarkable about modern politics is the fact none of this seems particularly amiss. Just because Howard Stern entertains his legion of fans with stories about flatulence and his own anatomical shortcomings, that doesn't doom his chance for attaining higher office.

While you might be hard-pressed to convince Gary Hart, politics is a remarkably forgiving business. It isn't exactly like Hollywood, where all publicity is seen as good publicity, but candidates are necessarily resilient.

How else can you explain Richard Nixon? Defeated for the presidency in 1960 and for the governorship of California two years later, swearing he would not be kicked around by the media anymore, he turned up a couple of years later on a popular television program called "Laugh In" with a single line: "Sock it to me?"

With that as an implausible springboard, he won the presidency twice, resigned the office in disgrace, spent his remaining years on the comeback trail and died with eulogies of the most honorable sort.

Dan Quayle, the former vice president who accommodated media belittlement by meeting it halfway, embarks now on a journey of reinvention, peddling a memoir and hoping a nationwide book tour will fetch him support for a presidential bid.

Sound improbable? Surely, you say, no one who suffered the media crucifixion of Dan Quayle would enjoy a chance of recovery.

Remember, though, that an obscure governor from Arkansas made a fool of himself at the 1988 Democratic convention, giving a nominating speech that nearly required an intermission. He became the butt of so many late-night jokes that Johnny Carson eventually invited him on "The Tonight Show" out of a sense of fairness.

Four years later, the governor was blowing sax with Arsenio Hall's Posse and positioning himself as the MTV candidate. If practice, practice, practice gets you to Carnegie Hall, persistence, persistence, persistence gets you to the White House.

Howard Stern chose to run for office on the state Libertarian ticket. The old joke goes that Libertarians are just Republicans with a sense of whimsy. Only about 300 New Yorkers were registered as Libertarians before Stern announced his candidacy, a number that quickly more than doubled.

The party faithful saw this as something of a mixed blessing. Never before had the Libertarian state convention been held with anything approaching media attention; this changed with Stern's presence. Still, these weren't the sort of people serious-minded Libertarians were used to associating with.

For example, a speech seconding Stern's nomination consisted of an even dozen words: "Vote for Howard Stern or I'll put my foot up your butt." (In terms of brevity if not content, Bill Clinton might take note.)

At a recent forum for Missouri candidates for the U.S. Senate, the Libertarians provided the only lively exchange of the afternoon. One, an inner-city St. Louis resident, said he objected to government interference in all aspects of private life, except for feeling crack cocaine should be illegal. His opponent for the state Libertarian nomination angrily denounced him for this exception, insisting he was straying from the party line.

Certainly, this show of ideological purity eclipsed a rambling response by a Democratic candidate who, asked to describe his view on health care reform, supplied a too-detailed account of his gall bladder problems. As the graphic clinical history dragged on, the media types in attendance began to take on the queasy appearance of people fearful there would be an encore appearance of lunch.

Walking out of the session, a colleague from another newspaper said, without conviction or irony, "It's a good thing they'll let anyone run for office, I guess."

Yeah, I guess.

Ken Newton is editor of the Southeast Missourian.