AS I WRITE this, they're probably still cleaning up from the Bob Ehrlich victory party, yet already I've got a monster case of campaign withdrawal.

God help me, I even miss all the negative commercials that polluted the airwaves in recent weeks: "Bob Ehrlich: Do we really need a governor who favors tire-dumping in the Chesapeake Bay?" "Isn't it time Kathleen Kennedy Townsend comes clean about her plan to release Maryland's inmates?"

I miss the candidates waving at me with their big, toothy grins from busy intersections at rush hour, and the frisson of fear I get when, attempting to wave back, my car drifts into the other lane and the guy behind me lays on his horn.

(Tell me, what does all this waving at intersections do? Is this a proven campaign tactic?

(Has any motorist ever driven away from this experience and thought: Gosh, he's a good waver - well, he's got my vote?)

I miss going out to the mailbox to find it stuffed with campaign literature, each candidate promising to clean up the environment, the school system, the criminal justice system, the state bureaucracy - in a matter of days, too, if I'll only pull the lever for them.

I miss the dueling lawn signs and dueling bumper stickers that cropped up, sometimes with comical effect, such as the Ford Festiva I saw on the JFX with a Townsend/Larson bumper sticker.

Under that was another bumper sticker that said: "Can't we all get along?"

And under that was another bumper sticker that said: "Bomb Iraq Now!"

I miss all the yammering on radio talk shows, the pure delight of listening as, say, Roy from Catonsville offers his analysis of the gubernatorial campaign with such supreme confidence that you wonder: Why isn't this guy making 300 thou as a network analyst?

I miss Denise and Vic, Sally and Kai, Rod and Marianne, Mary Beth and whoever the other anchors are at WMAR, moving the action on election night at a dizzying pace from one campaign headquarters to the next as the votes are tallied. ("Let's go now to American Legion Post... I'm sorry, we're going instead to Townsend headquarters at the Wyndham Hotel. ...")

I miss the harried TV reporters doing stand-ups in front of cheering, placard-waving mobs at the candidates' hotel headquarters - "Denise, as you can see, this crowd behind me is energized!" - somehow resisting the urge to elbow the obligatory drunk who's always trying to get into the shot.

Look, I even miss the windy concession and victory speeches.

And let's face it: Can there be anything more difficult after a long, grueling campaign than having to give a concession speech?

For the poor loser, the scenario is always the same: It's late. You're exhausted and depressed. Half your supporters are gone - short of a smoking airliner after an emergency landing, nothing empties quicker than the loser's hotel ballroom on Election Night.

The hotel staff is standing around yawning, ready to start the vacuum cleaners and whisk away the Bud Light empties and half-eaten platters of limp vegetables and congealed cheese squares so they can go home.

Yet somehow you must screw on a brave grin and take the podium and look into a sea of mournful faces and the harsh, unyielding lights of the TV cameras.

Somehow you must thank everyone for their support and reassure them that it was not in vain, that their goal was admirable, their cause just and blah, blah, blah.

But then you have to say it: we came up short.

We failed.

We lost.

It's all over, folks.

By comparison, the victory speech is a walk in the park, a breeze at your back, the sun shining brightly.

If you're a proud, beaming Dutch Ruppersberger, fresh off a solid win over Helen Bentley in the 2nd District congressional race, you introduce everyone in your family to the cheering crowd, and then you introduce everyone who supported you, and then you introduce seemingly everyone you've ever known in your life, including the guy who takes care of your lawn.

If you're Bob Ehrlich, radiating joy over being elected the first Republican governor in Maryland in 36 years, you hoist your little boy in the air and say: "Where do you want to go?" and the kid responds, right on cue: "Annapolis!"

The winners party long into the night, the sounds of laughter and back-slapping following them everywhere.

The losers go home and hug their families and stare at the walls and wonder where things went wrong.

God, what a business, politics.

And what a crazy ride, a political campaign.

I miss it already.