San Diego Magazine / April 2004 / The Not-So-Dry Art of Politics

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The Not-So-Dry Art of Politics

Arriving backstage, I decline makeup. Real print journalists don’t do base or powder. We uncover façades. Not the other way around. Still, I’m here at Channel 10’s TV studio to participate in the last mayoral debate before the March primary. Everybody else is getting made up. Even the radio guy, KOGO’s Phil Farrar, is getting some “manscaping.”

I acquiesce.

Sitting in front of a lighted mirror, I remark on how hot it is. Sweat marks dot the front of my button-down shirt. I show these unsightly puddles to an extremely nice woman powdering my cheeks and forehead.

“Oh, honey,” she says, with sincere concern in her voice. “Are you okay?”

I’m fine, I tell her, just sweaty. I flash to a vision of Albert Brooks in Broadcast News. In the movie, Brooks gets his big shot to anchor the evening news. But he’s beset by an overwhelming case of flop sweat. Blow dryers and shirt changes can’t save him. During his telecast, viewers call the station to make sure he isn’t having a heart attack.

Would this be me?

Nah, I just button my suit coat to the top and sit down in the studio. Ominously, it’s even hotter here than backstage.

If you didn’t see KGTV’s debate, you’re in the majority. It was a Thursday night at 8. Up against the mighty Friends and Survivor: Allstars, we get a 1.6 rating. That means fewer than 20,000 people tuned in—which is, come to think of it, more than the number of votes cast for mayoral candidate Jim Bell.

Poor Jimbo. This is the third time he’s run for the office. The old-school Ocean Beacher is an intelligent man with a credible message about the environment. But his one-note platform doesn’t play well on television. Neither does perspiration. I was sweating like Albert Brooks. Candidates Ron Roberts and Peter Q. Davis, in turns, each had the Richard Nixon upper-lip bath going on. But Bell, by the end of the hour, looked like he’d just stepped out of a tribal sweat lodge.

Only Mayor Dick Murphy didn’t appear to glisten. Then again, you can’t work up a sweat if you never appear to engage in any activity. Maybe the mayor appointed a committee to sweat for him.

Anyway, back to moi. We media panelists—KGTV’s Hal Clement and Carol Le Beau, Farrar and I—are sandwiched between the candidates at their podiums and a studio audience at our backs. The candidates have no knowledge of what we will ask. We are to take turns with queries. Each candidate gets 90 seconds to answer every question. It’s not the best format for heated debate. This notion flits from my mind as I try to determine which camera will be best for my closeups.

So there’s about two minutes to go before we go live. I glance into the audience and wave to my intern and my magazine’s general manager. I look up at the candidates, who seem to be practicing for jobs at Madame Tussaud’s. Nobody talks. Hardly anybody moves. Bell seems to begin to notice the onset of perspiration.

During opening remarks by the candidates, Roberts mentions that this debate is preempting The Bachelorette. He jokingly apologizes to whatever viewing audience is left. Bell interrupts to plug his status as a single dude. Hey, how about Who Wants To Marry a Mayor? Or My Big, Sweaty Mayoral Fiancé? Call the network brass.

When it’s my turn to ask a question, it centers on city finances. I ask what each would have done differently over the past four years to stave off the city’s downgraded bond ratings. Specifically, I ask if each would have continued the practice of underfunding the pension system.

At this point, I imagine we lose the last of the would-be Bachelorette audience.

Disappointingly, each candidate drones on for 90 seconds about what should have been done with city finances, but nobody directly addresses the underfunded pension system. The format is not set up for follow-up questions. Maybe I need a gong. Or Survivor power to vote somebody off their podium.

When all is said—or not said—and done, I realize I’ve enjoyed the debate experience. On the surface, it’s a beneficial service to the public. All the local networks are to be commended for eating commercial time for these things.

But on a substantive level, the debate leaves me hungry. Politicians can be slippery enough in one-on-one interviews. In front of a mass audience, they ought to be easier to pin down. On this night, that isn’t the case.

As a media participant, I wasn’t out to play “gotcha.” Nor was I going to ask each if they’d wear boxers or briefs to city council meetings. What strikes me, however, is how easy it is to fill 90 seconds with words that talk around, but don’t address, problems.

Five days after the debate, the public picks Murphy and Roberts to advance to the November general election. While no candidate clearly “won” the KGTV debate, Bell was never really in the running.

The irony, I think, is that even though Bell bases his candidacy on a one-plank platform, he clearly could have had the most to say. But he’s less telegenic than Ozzy Osbourne, and barely as charismatic. It’s simplistic to say a Jim Bell could be elected mayor only after a weekend conversion by the Queer Eye Fab Five and a guest shot on Extreme Makeovers. Simplistic—but essentially true. Politics entered the TV era way back during the Nixon-Kennedy debates. There’s no turning back.

As for my future on TV panels, I’ll mull any offer. But station managers, be forewarned. I have to take some blame for KGTV’s abysmal rating. After Roberts brings up The Bachelorette, I see fit to include opening-remark references to Friends and Survivor. Click. Channel 10 news director Mike Stutz informs me of the general TV practice of not bringing up what’s playing on the other networks. No sweat.