Walking With Ben

Some colors clash with orange, Crockett red for instance, but Granato green is a pretty good match.

On Saturday morning a crowd of volunteers convened at our headquarters. It was a joint effort sponsored both by the McAdams campaign and Sam Granato's campaign for county council.

We divided up Millcreek and, two by two, set out to distribute literature. Ben and I were assigned a neighborhood near 4500 South. 

Like a single planet solar system, Ben knocked on doors while I orbited leaving literature at unoccupied homes. It was a replay of the parade season when Ben shook hands as I spun around taking photographs. 

By now we have the drill down. Yet this day was particularly emblematic of the times we've spent together. For instance...

A young mother and I arrived at a front door simultaneously. I had a stack of pumpkin orange literature in my hand, while she carried a plate of pumpkin orange cupcakes in hers. 

However, this was not all that occupied her.

She had a toddler in one arm and two other children seeking purchase on her knee caps. Hers was a mission of hospitality, while my purpose was entirely political.

As we waited at a door that never opened I explained the reason for my visit. She was patient, but my position on her list of priorities was in the triple digits.

My advantage? I had only to occupy her long enough for Ben to see our conversation. With that accomplished, Ben would take over and I could retire.

True to form, Ben arrived in short order. Suddenly the burden of her toddler became like a helium balloon, the woman's posture became erect and her careworn expression gave way to the idles of girlhood.

Ben offered, "Hello, I'm Ben McAdams..."

Before he could finish she replied, "Yes, I know. (eyelash flutter, eyelash flutter) Please tell me why you want to be my mayor."

Her emphasis on the word "my" was unmistakeable.

Within a few blocks I had gained substantially on

Ben's position. Not wanting to stretch that distance to the breaking point I waited for him to catch up. It was then I saw a matron of a certain age target Ben from a blind on her front porch. 

I should have called out, "Pull!"

Ben's solitary presence exploded into bits of clay retrieved into her front yard. I knew to expect a long wait. 

There is a class of women, mostly over the age of sixty, who, once they have sighted Ben, instantly produce a set of adoption papers.

If you are with him you watch at a remove as they try to negotiate their own maternity. Ben dodges left, and Ben dodges right, endlessly explaining why his signature can't be placed on their mother's day card.

This Saturday, as that process unfolded, I stood between two fenced-in yards while competing chihuahuas complained I was there illegally.

Eventually, I grew weary of my predicament. Grabbing my phone I impatiently texted Ben, "Have I lost you?"

He pulled out his phone and gestured as if my text announced a great emergency. When he finally caught up he said apologetically, "Thanks, I needed an excuse."

Canvassing with Ben has been a lot of fun, and nine days from now it will all be over. (Sniff, sniff) I'll miss it. Yet there have been a thousand trying moments just like these: moments when you can easily identify with David Archuletta's road manager on a tour of Utah County.

Leave It At That

The wonderful Julie McAdams called me a few days ago. She reached out to repeat her gratitude for the small things I do for our campaign.

I have no idea how many volunteers receive her calls. For their sake, I hope they are many. It was a warm and generous moment that elevated my entire day. 

On this one occasion, however, I processed her call in a slightly different way. As Julie said "thank you" in her own inimitable way, I began to feel a little guilty. 

I caught myself enjoying her kind words perhaps a bit too much. After all, Julie and Ben are exceptional people, and it's hard not to experience their gratitude as a point of pride. When I describe either of them as a "friend," some part of me feels as if I'm bragging.

So in the middle of my response to Julie I paused for a moment. I thought to myself, "Yes, I'm fond of you both and your gratitude is important to me. But I'm not doing this out of friendship, or because I want you to be happy. Though both of those things are true, and they're reason enough."

"But how do I put this in words?" 

"Julie," I said, "you probably shouldn't be thanking me. As much as I enjoy your gratitude, I don't deserve it. Working on this campaign is exactly what I should be doing. This is not a favor, it's a matter of conviction. No part of me wants to do anything else. So really, I haven't sacrificed anything."

I'm not sure Julie understood a point I was making so very poorly. I sounded like an ingrate, and I'm sure I put her off balance with my odd response.

She assured me there were many important things I could be doing, and it was kind of me to make this choice. She and Ben appreciated it.

"Stupid me," I thought, how hard would it be to say, "You're welcome," and leave it at that.  

Big Deal Ben

The conversation dominating our campaign continues to be about Crockett's press conference at the county jail. The episode was simply bizarre.

How could a candidate at the end of a tight race advocate for prerecorded happy talk as a way to free up jail beds? 

Even if it were a good plan, which it is not, the idea is so easily parodied. Now the tweet-o-sphere is alive with #TextsFromCrockett. My own contribution: "As a consultant, I advise you not to do it! Please remit $25,000 and 4% of what you didn't steal."

Sadly for Crockett, my contribution is lost in an ocean of similar tweets. #TextsFromCrockett is currently trending #1 in Salt Lake County. 

......

Last Friday Ben and his nemesis had one more in their long string of public debates. It was held at the Salt Lake library and the auditorium was filled with orange t-shirts. 

This was one of Ben's best performances. The highlight was an impromptu cross examination of Crockett about his vague and ever changing SkiLink positions. 

The usually glib Mr. Crockett melted down in a pool of adversatives and half finished sentences. Even the scrupulously neutral Ken Verdoia, the moderator of the debate, tossed off a concluding complement to Ben's cross examination.  

I sat with Kathy Kirby, an attractive woman of about my own age. At the end of the debate Crockett decided to do something gracious. He walked into the audience, then approached the two of us and said, "So you must be the proud parents of Ben McAdams."

In this campaign I'm attached to a group with a median age half my own. So Crockett's faux pas has become the source of kidding. If I'm called "Pops" or "Dad" one more time I'll strangle someone.

Soon after the debate Ben approached me with his own version of the jibe. After watching me wince Ben grew serious for a moment, "How could Crockett make an error like that? I know the names of his entire entourage." 

As Ben turned and disappeared into a swarm of orange I had a cynical thought, "Big deal Ben. That gives you what... maybe three names to remember?"

.....

Before I left for the evening I spoke with Ben's mother Susan. Eventually our conversation turned to Ben's famous likability quotient. 

I commented that while many might oppose Ben's positions, I'd yet to hear anyone say something critical of him personally.

Susan appreciated the observation, and I think she found it credible. However, I'm sure she discounted some of my assurance based on the crowd with which I associate. So I asked her, "Have you heard anyone say something critical of Ben?"

I fully expected an answer of no. After all, what cretan would speak critically of someone in the presence of his own mother?

Surprisingly, Susan offered a series of digs culled from the trash-talk at the bottom of on-line news articles. The comments were ugly, and some of it extended to Ben's own family. 

I felt for her. As extremely proud as she is of Ben, being the mother of someone in the public eye isn't always easy.

A Suggestion

Substituting jail time with robocalls begging criminals to stay on the straight and narrow. Does that sound ridiculous? You're not alone in thinking so. 

Yet last week Mark Crockett made that proposal and left everyone mystified.  

If someone set out to sabotage a campaign, it would be challenging to do better than this self-inflicted piece of political parody. 

For the Crockett campaign the electoral trend lines are not good, but on how many levels did this "Hail Mary" go wrong? Let's summarize...

With his hyper-conservative constituency - How could they be pleased by a program that makes Mr. Rogers look hardbitten and cynical?

With the Sheriff - Jim Winder was neutral in the race for County Mayor. However, a press conference critical of the jail, at the jail, without first calling the jail, guarantees the popular sheriff will reconsider his options.

With his own campaign message - Crockett based his candidacy on the contention that he's a tough minded businessman with practical methods for cutting the budget. So, how does emptying the jail with prerecorded happy talk reinforce that contention?

With independents - Does Crockett expect that outsourcing the jail to a small business with strong Republican ties will survive the smell test? 

Evidently, Crockett's campaign thought this circus act would demonstrate his commitment to saving tax dollars. If last week they were willing to advance this proposal, perhaps I could offer a suggestion for next week.    

Why not close the county complex and move it all back to fourth south and state. After all, isn't that Victorian monument still called the City AND COUNTY Building? 

Missing McAdamsville

Work, job, labor, task...

What tells you if what you are doing belongs on that list? Simply ask yourself, "Am I happier doing this, or not doing this?"

Then you'll know.

I walked into McAdams headquarters last Thursday night and saw Martha multi-tasking at her desk by the door. She smiled and said "Hi George," with the sort of habitual familiarity that accompanies friendship. 

I retuned her greeting and looked back toward Joel's office. At the sound of my name he looked up and smiled, broadcasting the same warmth. "Great to see you," he said, and then he quickly returned to an unfinished project.

My gaze shifted in the direction of our bull pen populated by a checkerboard of mismatched desks. Each was occupied by a computer, a telephone and a person I both knew and cared about. 

Turning toward the hallway I waved to them, but said nothing, not wanting to interrupt their calls. They smiled and waved back even as their presentations continued on without missing a beat. 

Finally, in the back of the office, I found my seat with a group of volunteers earnestly writing on postcards; all of them telling voters, in their own words, why they supported Ben.  

As I sat there I was filled with a feeling hard to define. It was an odd sort of longing, a melancholia founded on nostalgia. Something for which the English language lacks a precise word, but which the Portuguese call "saudade."

I was missing something I still had, anticipating the morning of Wednesday November 7th when, win or lose - and I hope it's win - all of this will be over. 

I'd be missing McAdamsville. I'd miss this sense of mission and purpose. I'd miss the parades, the festivals, the worries, the hopes, the humor. 

But most of all I'd miss these people. Come that fateful Wednesday morning they will all spin off along their own vectors. It will be like a small solar system for which the law of gravity has been repealed.  

There was an ache mixed with gratitude - gratitude mostly to have no one around charging for membership in our campaign, because I could never afford what it's been worth. 

At the beginning of this post I said there's a gut check that will tell you if something is work. Simply ask yourself, "Am I happier doing this, or not doing this?"

Sitting at that table last Thursday night I clearly knew the answer to that question. However, a large part of me wished that I didn't.

Different Kinds and Colors

A debate is unlike any other political event. Parades, canvassing, phone calls, festivals and speeches all have this in common: your participation is on your own terms. You're doing it in the company of like minded people. There is no sense of conflict.

Debates are the one instance where two candidates, and two campaigns collide. It's like a place where matter and antimatter are brought together. Everyone's curious about what will happen, but it's nerve-racking if you're quite fond of that small bit of matter at the center of the experiment.

I had the day off, so I went to McAdams headquarters hoping to spend my day there. As soon as I walked in the door I could tell something was different. There was a sense of tension and urgency. Martha didn't say hello, instead she gave me a look caught between hope and pleading. "Where will you be tonight?" she insisted.

I felt like a misbehaving husband on a short leash. "At the KUTV debate," I replied, a bit defensively.

Her posture relaxed, and I could hear a feminine voice somewhere in the background say, "You're an angel."

I know that's not true, but still, it's nice to hear your attempt to fool the world has been marginally successful.

We were caught somewhat flat footed. A few on the staff thought the debate was scheduled for the following Monday. The consequence of this misunderstanding fell disproportionately on Martha's shoulders. She was desperately calling; hoping to find enough volunteers to provide Ben with a show of support.

She needn't have panicked. One of the wonders of the McAdams' following is that in response to an urgent call aprons get hung, hard hats hit the ground, textbooks snap shut, and a small while later you have a bus filled with orange t-shirts.

So it was yesterday.

As the "Ben Bus" rolled up State Street, in all its gaudy orange glory, motorists honked, people waved, and arms extended from car windows with a thumb pointed up. It was a wonderfully affirming experience. I thought that if the point of our exercise was to give Ben encouragement, then he should be on this bus. He should see what we're seeing.

My views on the issues, and the two candidates, are well documented. Therefore, I won't bore you with a recapitulation and call it my analysis of the debate. Instead, let me share two favorite experiences.

Before the debate started Mark Crockett walked over to our huge contingent. It was meant as a show of good sportsmanship, and it was accepted that way. In an effort to make small talk he commented on the different shades of orange worn by our various volunteers.

Laurel, a lovely young woman with a wicked sense of humor, leaned over and whispered to our row, "We're Democrats Mark, we come in all different kinds and colors."

Nicely put.

When the debate was over I started to drift back in the direction of the bus. Suddenly I noticed Ben's wife Julie, who had been invisible during the pre-debate milling about.

In greeting I said, "Hey Julie, where have you been? I didn't see you earlier."

She gave me a hug and said sheepishly, "I was hiding over there behind the greenery."

"What? Why on earth would you do that?"

"I can't stand watching Ben when he's in this kind of situation. And besides, it only makes him nervous if he sees me in the crowd."

Here's a Columbia trained lawyer. An expert in intellectual property law. Julie could have a frontal lobotomy and still be smarter than I am. But her comment could not have been more honest or disarming.

At that moment, if she were my sister, I'd have put my arms around her. Not to offer consolation or reassurance, but simply to say, "What a wonderful human being. Don't you dare ever change."

And so ends my wrap up of yesterday's debate, minus anything that actually happened during the debate. But that's life, it always happens when you're on your way to do something entirely different.

A Long Way From Lima

It's like being thrown from a Yatzee cup. The sum of five dice could be anything from five to thirty. The number of combinations hard to calculate.

Canvassing for a political campaign feels just that way. Who will be your partner? Where will you go? Who will you meet? What new memory will be stuffed in your back pocket?

Last Saturday I was paired with Sara Palomino. What did I know about her? Only this, she's a little Peruvian coed with ambitions to someday become five feet tall.

I've seen her float randomly through crowds promoting Ben like a soap bubble refusing to pop. I've been at headquarters and heard the background music of her voice making call after call. When we close I've seen her alone in the dark waiting for the bus that takes her to the opposite side of the valley.

Until yesterday, that was the extent of my witness to who she is. But that would change.

Walking down a street that was strange to us both I asked, "Tell me Sara, what's your story?"

"My story?"

"Yes, where'd you come from? How'd you get here?"

“Well, I'm from Peru, which you already know. Beyond that I'm from a small town a long way from Lima - the only real city in Peru. Chances are if you don't live in Lima you herd sheep and you're poor."

"That's what brought you here? The opportunity to be better off?"

She paused for a moment, thinking how best to answer that question. "If being better off means having more money, I don't think so. Our problem was The Shining Path."

I knew The Shining Path as a famously brutal revolutionary movement that murdered thousands. "I've heard of them," I said, "True believers. Extremely ruthless."

"Exactly," she replied, "They were led by a man named Guzman. He appealed to the rural poor who have no access to health care or education. He told them they were invisible in Lima, and he was right about that. Unfortunately, he wound up only manipulating them and creating death and misery."

"Your own family was affected?"

"The mayor of our village was assassinated. My uncle was murdered simply because he had the same name as a prominent politician."

"So you came here for safety?"

"Yes, but we've been blessed in other ways too. I was thirteen when we arrived and knew only Spanish. Next year I'll graduate from the 'U.' I hope to become a teacher."

This brief part of our conversation is not all there is to know about Sara. Far from it. An additional detail is Martha, a young Latina even more active in our campaign. Until yesterday I thought their friendship was the sole motive for Sara's original devotion to the cause.

But now I wonder.

Were there other motives at play? Does the ideal of a just society have special meaning for Sara? Does she have reason to believe that access to education and health care are particularly important? Could she be motivated by something as simple as the joy of politics without fear?

I don't know.

What I do know is that next time I hear her asking someone to vote for Ben, I'll appreciate that request in an entirely new way.

Political Terrorism?

Okay, so Mark Crockett had an unpaid $172 tax bill. At one point I considered writing a post that included that fact. I thought I'd say that this tax lien and the return of a few thousand dollars in campaign contributions argued against his financial competence.

Why didn't I?

Let's face it, this is tiny stuff. $172??? That's the price of a speeding ticket. In my life I've done worse - all of us have. To sound indignant over this small malfeasance would have two effects: it would make Crockett look human, and me both trivial and self-righteous.

No thanks, I'll take a pass.

But a highly partisan media pundit had no problem doing exactly that. To him it was a gift meant to fill air time. He'd do his best to turn $172 into the Watergate scandal. So Crockett's tax lien was copied onto the pundit's blog.

Embarrassing? Yes. Crockett's best response? Eat a little humble pie and appear more mortified than such a tiny error would normally merit.

But that's not Crockett.

He has a deadly aversion to anything that makes him look human. Therefore, this little cut and paste, by a little media pundit of a little tax bill becomes "political terrorism."

This is no joke. That's a Crockett quote lifted from the Deseret News.

Crockett is an intelligent man, but he thinks with his brain stem. He let's anger override good judgement and then acts out in the most preposterous ways. In this case, the posting of four digits from his social security number, by a third party, becomes an invitation by Ben McAdams to hack into his checking account.

Let me share what makes this particularly laughable to those of us close to Ben's campaign. And this observation flows beautifully from a quote by the aforementioned pundit who, "...criticized McAdams on his radio show for not seeking out possible tax discrepancies by his opponent on his own."

At the McAdams' campaign we routinely beat up on Ben for refusing to go negative... even a little, especially when it's so richly deserved. From our point of view, Ben is routinely letting Crockett get away with murder. We're perpetually exasperated because Crockett has made some new fallacious claim that Ben won't publicly contradict.

The next time I hear, "No, too confrontational, too personal," I swear, I'll save Crockett the trouble and strangle Ben myself.

You're hearing this from someone once asked, politely, to take down a post. Why? Because some of my information came from the video of a Crockett speech acquired from a Democratic Party operative.

Ben didn't object to the accuracy of what I wrote, only to the source. So I gritted my teeth, swallowed my pride, and hit the delete key.

Against this backdrop, we hear that Ben's non-existent strategy committee has secret designs on Crockett's bank account.

Crockett's ever-present anger is eclipsed only by his narcissism. No, Mr. Crockett, Ben's world does not include a plan to crack your safe.

Why Is He So Angry?

Why is Mark Crockett so angry? That question is a recurring theme in his brief public career. He struggles with a vein of contentious resentment coursing below the surface, its genesis a mystery. 

He invents a version of reality obliged to agree with only one thing - his sense of himself. Then, when facts fail him, or the argument passes him by, he defends that manufactured reality with anger, condescension and a blithe disregard for the truth.   

That pattern of behavior is repetitive and predictable. 

For example, his position on ski link has occupied every possible side of that issue. It's clear, it's taped and it's on the public record.

Yet, when Ben referred to that history, he responded with an eruption. "That's not true!" he yelled in a loud outburst disproportionate to the tone of their recent debate.

Yet it was true, and the Deseret News called him on it.    

More recently, there was a Dan Jones poll showing Ben down by only three points. The previous Dan Jones poll had Ben down by eleven points. So, by any measure, that's huge progress. The trend line is clear. 

And Crockett's response? 

According to the Deseret News he said, "Our opponent has spent over $500,000 so far, and it doesn't seem to be changing the numbers."

What? 

He could say, "I don't believe in polls," or "I expected things to tighten." Almost anything would be more credible than simply denying a verifiable fact.  

But that's what he did.

And then there's the repeated assertion of being a lifetime CEO who has run large organizations. It's a claim his resume contradicts. In fact, ten years ago he ran a small business for less than thirty-six months. His big achievement? Selling out. 

That's his CEO experience… period. 

Beyond that, he's bumped along to ever smaller consulting firms. Now his business is a pretentious website listing only one employee, himself. (No wonder he's interviewing for another job.) 

What Crockett relies on is a media disinclined, or unable, to give him scrutiny, and an opponent too polite for personal and public confrontation. 

I believe Crockett's marriage to this invented reality, made up as he goes along, is the wellspring of all that anger. The gap between what he wants to be true, and what is actually true, is simply too large to sustain. Any challenge to it becomes not an argument over fact, but a challenge to who he is.  

While everyone else is having a conversation, Crockett is engaged in self preservation. For him it's not politics, it's pathology.

…..

A recent Crockett quote before the Salt Lake Rotarians: "Salt Lake County is becoming… how do I put this politely… ever more diverse."

Makes you wonder, how would he express himself if he wasn't trying to be polite?

The Pope at My Birthday Party

A few days ago there was a meet and greet for Ben out in Draper. "Big deal," you might say, "there have been a hundred just like it, with more to come." 

"Ummm, not so quick" I'd reply, "This particular meet and greet had a curious detail that set it apart. For there, in attendance, was Elder Christofferson. 

For my fellow gentiles who speak only broken Mormon this might not seem particularly important. After all, there are a million RM's out there still worried about dates and pimples, and they're all called "elder this," or "elder that."

Well actually, Elder Christofferson is sort of an "elder elder." In fact, he's what the LDS church calls an Apostle, of which there are only fifteen. If these folk were Catholic, he'd be a Cardinal. So for him the title "elder" has the same reverse prestige that "Mr." would have before the word "President."

Him being there was a very big deal. For me, it would be like the Pope coming to my birthday party. If that were to happen, which is as likely as grass growing on the moon, what could you assume from that event?  

• George is a very good Catholic
• George is popular with very important Catholics
• At least one important Catholic, and probably his dearest friends, all wish George well

Those are appropriate assumptions. However, one thing is dead certain. If I went to mass next Sunday and sat next to George, I'd be looking at him in an entirely different way. Which, in fact, was probably the point.  

Ask the higher up muckity mucks in Ben's campaign about this extraordinary event and what do you hear? First there's a look of humble gratitude, followed by, "Ben's family and the Christoffersons are old family friends. Elder Christofferson was there only in a very private way, and to express personal friendship, not a political endorsement." 

Hmmmm, the McAdam's clan from West Bountiful, and the Christoffersons of American Fork, old family friends. Sure, without a doubt. 

......

Before I leave the subject of Elder Christofferson, let me offer a few interesting details gleaned from Google. 

Here are some video links featuring D. Todd Chistofferson. Regardless of your faith, or lack thereof, he's a great public speaker with a fine mind. You'll be impressed.

• A Life In The Law
• The Doctrine of Christ

Guess who Elder Christofferson clerked for after he graduated from law school at Duke? It was none other than Richard Nixon's nemesis: Federal Judge John J. Sirica of Watergate fame. 

During his secular career Elder Christofferson was volunteer chairman of Affordable Housing for Nashville. So he was a part-time community organizer, not unlike someone else I once heard of. 

Perhaps the famous promotional campaign showing off Mormons as politically and intellectually diverse is not entirely marketing hype. After all, there is a Ben, and that fact is not lost on Elder Christofferson.