Sure, Reviving the Economy and Bringing Peace to The

By MARGARET CARLSON WASHINGTON

IN THE AVALANCHE OF ADVICE CROSSing the President-elect's desk, there is a dearth of guidance on truly crucial matters -- like whether dressing as if you're going to church is necessary for the photo op boarding Marine One for the hop to Camp David. Statecraft may define a presidency, but so will small acts at the margin. Who knows? If Richard Nixon hadn't dressed the White House guards like Prussian police, he might have survived Watergate. There would have been no need for the fashion-obsessed Nancy Reagan to debase herself at a Gridiron Club dinner dressed up like a bag lady in hand-me-downs if the East Wing had not declared a tablecloth crisis and ordered new hand-painted china inscribed "Nancy" the minute she moved in. George Bush got most of the symbols right, except for the pork rinds and country music. Like not inhaling, those proclivities, even if genuine, should have been kept secret because they are too out of synch with what is already known for ready acceptance. Atmospherics count. So here are a few things for Bill Clinton to keep in mind:

-- You are no longer just a regular guy, except perhaps to Hillary, and even she may want you to act presidential now. A little toasting your own English muffins and carrying your own garment bag go a long way. The costs of the White House are fixed, and few people begrudge you the luxury as long as you don't go around complaining about the problems of life in a fishbowl. When most Americans have company, they put on airs, and so should you. Just as only Nixon could go to China, you can get away with serving fine cuisine and vintage wines. Hold the barbecue. Jimmy Carter should have.

-- Pay courtesy calls on the Washington establishment, a kind of reverse welcome wagon that Carter self-righteously shunned. It will go more quickly this time around, since so many of the Democratic Pooh-Bahs are power lunching in the Great Marble Halls beyond or are under indictment. And once you pay your respects, you don't have to hire them.

-- Presidents are partly known by their vacations. Summer in a place where your arrival does not cause a one-hour traffic backup (as happened in Kennebunkport), does not subsume the town (Plains), doesn't fit (Nixon in wing tips on the beach in California) -- or where summer is used as a verb. Your preference for intellectual retreats with friends during Christmas vacation to discuss enterprise zones should give way to the real thing: find a lazy cottage on a lake near Hot Springs, Arkansas, where you can relax.

-- Take up a sport that is not associated with a country club. Anything that can be played in the backyard goes down well. The Kennedys still own the patent on touch football, and Bush expropriated horseshoes. Badminton or volleyball might do nicely. And keep running, as long as you look funny in the shorts. Beware of Lycra. Caveat jogger: pin to your locker a picture of the ashen-faced Jimmy Carter collapsing near Camp David to remind yourself that you have moved to the tropics and that running in the heat should be kept at a stately pace.

-- Compared with playing a sport, being a fan is a no-lose proposition. Cheer at all of Chelsea's games, patronize presidential boxes, and visit the locker rooms after events like the World Series. Don't be cowed by the Secret Service. Like all bureaucracies, it has perpetuated itself all out of proportion to necessity.

-- Hipness is undesirable for state-dinner entertainment. Anyway, it's time to face up to the fact that Elvis is dead. A Grammy winner is insufficiently stodgy; even Frank Sinatra didn't go down that well. Think Kennedy Center honoree or a Life Achievement Award winner: Pablo Casals (Kennedy), not the Allman Brothers (Carter).

-- You didn't campaign on the promise that you would send Chelsea to public school, so you shouldn't, unless she likes walking through metal detectors to go to basketball games. In fact, you campaigned on the premise that the schools needed fixing. The press will go into high dudgeon, but parents will admire you for putting your child before politics.

-- To Chelsea: Your parents were right when they said, Don't talk to strangers. Embed this in your brain: the press is made up entirely of strangers, no matter how much candy they offer you. But you must always smile for the cameras, even though other kids get to stick their tongues out if their parents so much as reach for an Instamatic. Roll your eyes once, and you will become tabloid material and Saturday Night Live's poster child. For guidance, do not look to Caroline and John Kennedy Jr., who were too little to be criticized, or the Ford kids, who were accidental White House tourists with sleep-over rights. Let Amy Carter serve as a cautionary tale. And get a dog: it deflects attention away from you better than a cat.

-- Avoid the temptation to take a victory lap abroad on Air Force One, even though visiting with Francois Mitterrand looks a lot more pleasant than dealing with honeymoon-pooper Bob Dole. At least wait until the GDP surpasses 2.7% growth.

-- Presidential brothers should reside in a different time zone.

With reporting by Melissa August/Washington