By Gustavo Arellano
By Aimee Murillo
By Matt Coker
By Vickie Chang
By Matt Coker
By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
Bill Simon advance man Eric Beach speeds around the tarmac at the Santa Barbara airport like he has a bellyful of meth. He'd set the stage with blue Astroturf and taped down every cord. An American flag—stolen from a local elementary school—flies above the riser; Beach left a note at the school saying he'd return the flag later. It's standard operating procedure with flags. Nobody ever seems to mind.
But Beach let one thing slip: the event soundtrack is songs, and he doesn't notice the opening wheezes of the Bob Dylan classic "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35," which includes the oft-repeated refrain, "Everybody must get stoned." I am laughing my ass off. State party political director Nathan Fletcher snaps Beach out of his reverie—the haze that might settle on you when you've almost completed cooking a full Thanksgiving dinner for 12.
"Dude!" Fletcher says, "fastforward through this song right now!"
* * *
I'm in Santa Barbara three days before Election Day to join Republican gubernatorial candidate Bill Simon's last-ditch, airborne, multicity Fire Gray Davis Tour. My boyfriend, Jimmy Camp, is Simon's political director. To be totally honest, I want Bill Simon to win: I don't want an unemployed boyfriend, and a win-bonus would allow us to do the unthinkable and buy a house. I would personally benefit by the Republicans taking the governor's mansion. And that's why I could never vote for Simon or write anything that could help his candidacy: I often like Republicans as people, but they're almost universally disastrous for the hopes of average Americans.
Most of the state Republican ticket is on Simon's 727 when it touches down. Staffers and reporters emerge from the rear; candidates spill out the front. OC state Senator Dick Ackerman, running for attorney general, is there; in a blue blazer and white paints, he ought to be on a yacht. Bruce McPherson (lieutenant governor) is there, too, and crotchety old Greg Conlon (treasurer) and Tom "The Devil" McClintock (controller). McClintock has great ads; too bad he's the Devil. When they appear in the plane's doorway, Bill and Cindy Simon beam contagious smiles.Brent Lowder, Bill Simon's bodyman, is holding an orange. "Hey, Brent," I say. "What's the orange for?" Since he's holding it rather gingerly, I assume it's not for lunch. "When Ronald Reagan was traveling, he used to sign an orange and roll it down the aisle to the press," he says. "They'd write a question on it and roll it back. They want Bill to do that, too."
"That is super gay!" I tell him.
"I know," he says.
* * *
On the plane, I introduce myself to the woman in the next seat, San Jose Mercury-News reporter Laura Kurtzman. "Sorry for not being more social," she smiles politely, as she types on her laptop, earphones on. She could be listening to gangsta rap. Next to Los Angeles Times reporter Michael Finnegan, there's Dave Drummond, a young guy from a paper in Ontario.
On the campaign plane, we can talk on cell phones, loll in the aisles and not wear seat belts. In a wink, we're in Monterey. The hangar is as luminous and bright-white as the TV room in Willy Wonka. Simon tells the crowd one in three classrooms lack textbooks and one in four is home to cockroaches and other vermin. The Democrats have let insurance get too expensive, Simon says straight-faced. Really, he should blame the trial lawyers. But, no: he blames the lawyers for out-of-control workman's comp settlements. That'll work just as well. And we're done.
* * *
We get the first press avail with Simon on our flight to San Jose. Erica Werner of the Associated Press sits beside him. Kurtzman hangs over the seat back, taking notes. Finnegan and Drummond stand in the aisle, bracing their legs wide even as the plane lands in San Jose. I'm struck by how respectful the press are. Their few questions are well-modulated and not at all argumentative. They don't interrupt. They don't shout. They're almost meek.
* * *
San Jose is the day's only stop that won't take place in a hangar; we're bused to the Hyatt for a luncheon rally. I sit down next to Werner, and she changes seats. Do I smell?
Consultant Sal Russo tells the press about the ad they're going to unveil, which will tie together all of Gray Davis' ethical ambiguities with charges from former Coastal Commissioner—and convicted felon—Mark Nathanson, who says Davis was a co-conspirator in a bribery scheme. "It doesn't matter whether Nathanson told the complete truth," Russo says. "We know his statements contain strong elements of truth." He also says the energy crisis wouldn't have happened under former Republican governors Pete Wilsonor George Deukmejian.
Say what? Wilson used to declare energy deregulation one of the two great triumphs of his administration—Proposition 187 was the other. But the reporters are too well-mannered to point this out or just don't remember. Nor do they ask Russo if it's wise to trumpet the statements of a jailbird so soon after the campaign's last unsubstantiated charge—that Davis took an illegal contribution—blew up spectacularly in their faces. Not one of us mentions this. But out of earshot, everyone is happy to hold opinions
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