I’ve never run for office before, never worked in politics, never worked in government. And if you know me, you know I have real trouble making up my mind. So when it was pointed out to me recently that my status as an inexperienced outsider made me a natural choice to run for governor of California, I began plans to form an exploratory committee, though I’ve been careful to keep up the fiction that I’m completely devoted to my duties as a think tank fellow, whatever the hell they are.
I have a clear recollection of reading somewhere, though I can’t remember exactly where, that it’s important to have voted. And that it’s especially important to have voted if you run for office, since voting – along with personal wealth, campaign contributions and opposition research — are what decide elections in this country. And I just know that the press is going to investigate every little random little inconsequential thing, such as whether I voted, instead of investigating my management experience, which involves coaching a series of highly successful Little League teams in Pasadena.
Since I couldn’t remember how many times I’d voted, or all the places I’d lived, or where I left my wallet, I knew I had to investigate my own voting record before the Sacramento Bee beat me to it and ran a story that would leave out all the stuff I didn’t tell them. And every political consultant I know says that a candidate should break bad news about himself first, even though I’ve never found a political consultant who followed this advice when it came to his or her own financial and sexual problems.
So I investigated—well, I made a few phone calls and searched a few electronic databases. And, according to the records of the registrar-recorder of Los Angeles County, it turns out that I’m registered to vote right here in Los Angeles, conveniently at the place where I live. It also turns out that I’ve voted in most of the recent elections, including all the cool ones that are covered on cable news. I also discovered that I’m still on the registration records in Redondo Beach, where I briefly lived four years ago with a friend and his wife and their two cats, both named for soccer players, when I was working on a book about Gov. Schwarzenegger and my wife’s job moved to Washington DC.
I’d completely forgotten I was registered in Redondo Beach or that I had even lived there. But I’m quite sure that while I was there, I missed a number of elections. There’s no excuse for my lack of engagement with California issues, since all I did seven days a week back then was talk to the governor and the governor’s aides and legislators and their aides and political consultants and policy experts for my book.
I also need to apologize for the handful of times I did vote in Redondo Beach, because my clear recollection is that I voted for all the wrong people.
Prior to that, I appear to have been registered for three years at an apartment building near Paramount Pictures in Los Angeles. I don’t remember living there since I spent most waking hours at my newspaper job. I need to apologize to myself here for wasting all that youthful energy in a dying industry.
I do recall voting at a really fancy private girls’ school nearby, and parking my dented sub-compact car in a line full of Mercedes sedans driven by women who all seemed to have had scary plastic surgery. I’d like to apologize immediately for making such a remark about these women, whom I didn’t even know. There’s no excuse. And I skipped most of the elections while I was registered there, but I would like to emphasize my conservative bona fides by pointing out that I voted – at least as near as I can recall, I have a very clear memory, I swear – for a Republican in that 2002 gubernatorial election. He was a Republican who was a great leader. A Republican named Mike Scioscia, the manager of baseball’s Anaheim Angels, the winner of that fall’s World Series. I wrote him in. Since he didn’t win and wasn’t the party’s nominee and wasn’t even running, I’d like to apologize for wasting my vote. I can see now that I was irresponsible.
Before that, I lived in the Maryland suburbs of DC, according to old cable bills that I should have thrown out by now. But there’s no record that I was registered to vote there. But there was a Congressman for that area, since we were a few hundred yards from the DC line, and so even though I probably didn’t vote, it’s important to remember that I was represented. Why didn’t I vote? There’s no excuse for that. Why can’t I explain why I didn’t vote? Well, give me a couple of days first to chew this over with my advisors, but eventually I’ll tell you I was too busy at my newspaper job in Baltimore, spending time with my wife, and playing tennis on Sundays. Plus, I just didn’t give a crap.
No part of this explanation, of course, will satisfy Steve Poizner, who just wants me out of the race.
Prior to Maryland, I spent 18 months in New York City, according to autopsies performed on some cockroaches in my storage boxes from that period. Authorities there can’t find any record that I was registered to vote, though that doesn’t mean they can prove I didn’t vote. And I must confess I didn’t really ask them that forcefully because I was getting tired. I do have a strong recollection of casting a ballot for Al Sharpton in the Democratic mayoral primary of 1997, which I wrote about for the Baltimore Sun, because he was such great quote and because he called me Baltimore because he couldn’t remember my name.
And I’m pretty sure I voted for Giuliani in the general election because Sharpton wasn’t in the general election, and because I wanted to be able to say I was the only guy in New York City to vote for Sharpton and Giuliani in the same election cycle. In retrospect, I see now that my motives for voting may have been frivolous. And I may have a weakness for demagogues who are good copy, though I think voters should take into account my entire record, which includes well-documented weaknesses for science fiction, redheads and fried cheese curds.
Before that was college in Massachusetts. I can’t remember that far back. To the extent that this record is incomplete or inaccurate in any way, you can blame my staff. I know I will.
For all of my civic failures, I am sorry. Deep sorry. I know now that I was wrong. But you know what?
Leaders acknowledge error.
Leaders own up to their mistakes.
Which means I can say I haven’t made any.