In June 2002, Shaquille O’Neal ascended to the podium at the Los Angeles Lakers’ third consecutive victory parade. The Lakers’ 4-0 sweep of the New Jersey Nets had been a foregone conclusion, but the Western Conference Championship Series had stretched the team to its limits. The Lakers bested the Sacramento Kings in one of the most toughly contested and exciting series in recent memory, and the Los Angeles-Sacramento rivalry had become the fiercest in professional sports. So no Lakers fan was surprised or disappointed when, with typical boastfulness and humor, Shaq chose to taunt the Kings rather than the Nets in his opening remarks.
“Sacramento is no longer the capital of California,” he bellowed. “Los Angeles is the new capital of California!” Millions of Angelenos, who probably never understood why our capital was in Sacramento in the first place, hollered triumphantly.
Shaq never carried through on his proposed realignment of state government, and last season a resurgent Spurs squad knocked the Lakers from their throne. The governor’s mansion remained 350 miles north of Venice Beach, and this summer the capital of Lakerdom moved to Eagle County, Colo. in pursuit of this year’s trial of the century: Kobe Bryant’s alleged licentiousness. Yet this week Arnold Schwarzenegger and the team of Operation Total Recall accomplished what 330-pound Shaq could not: the political gravity of California has moved to Hollywood.
I was born and raised in Los Angeles, I attended college at the University of California at Berkeley, and I spent the last year in San Francisco. I consider myself a full-blooded Californian, and I always believed there was an appropriate balance between the entertaining- but-illusory glitz of Hollywood and the dull-but -necessary grind of Sacramento. As the nation (and, sadly, the world) belly-laughs at my state, in which the E! network has become the local news, I realize that this balance has lost all relevance.
Many journalists, political observers, Los Angeles socialites, and others who have spent time with the Governator have come away pleasantly surprised by his intelligence, his interpersonal skills, and his commitment to his core political beliefs. For the 34 million California residents who are now his subjects, such reports are reassuring. Yet, sadly, to those who mock the voters’ decision-a Washington Post headline smugly read “Californians Find Actor as Governor Believable”-this side of Arnold is irrelevant, and rightly so. Arnold’s campaign was never about the bright man behind the mono-syllabic actor. It was Terminator for Governor all the way, from his pledge to “pump up Sacramento,” to his nebulous debate quip to Arianna Huffington, “I have role for you in Terminator 4.” California is overwhelmed by a budget crisis, a deteriorated public education system, and burdensome federal homeland security directives. To solve these complex political challenges, my state just chose a man who has never had a job that requires a moment of analysis, or even the use of a pen. We deserve all the ridicule we get.
So, to those of you from those other states, whose names us exiled Californians will soon be learning, I offer the following:
It has happened elsewhere, and it could happen to you. Jesse “The Body” Ventura worked as an XFL announcer while serving as Minnesota’s governor. Congressman Tom Osborne of the third district of Nebraska prepared for his political career by coaching the Nebraska Cornhuskers football team for 25 years. (No right-minded third district Nebraskan risked his season tickets to run against him, and his campaign speeches quickly disintegrated into autograph signing sessions.) A congressional hearing on the esoteric environmental issue of mountaintop removal mining saw fit to hear testimony from that noted scientific expert Kevin Richardson of the Backstreet Boys. Americans nationwide have a frightening propensity to turn to pop celebrities for leadership.
Be like Arnold. None of us should ignore the lessons that Arnold teaches us. One, in the spirit of Yom Kippur, confess your sins. Arnold admitted he gang-banged, smoked dope, and groped women in elevators and on movie sets. With each confession came a commensurate rise in the polls.
Two, when in doubt, say that you like kids. Most men on the dating scene figure this out in their mid-twenties, when everything else has failed, and their dates’ clocks are increasingly ticking. Most politicians learn the lesson in their first campaign. Arnold’s discussions of the budget crisis in California never demonstrated any personal affinity for the “three Rs”, but he knew a popular soccer-mom issue when he saw it.
And three, it’s more important to be opportunistic than good. Observers agree that Arnold would have struggled in a typical election, but he recognized the unique opportunity presented by a recall-short campaign, no discriminating primary, rising public dissatisfaction-and he seized it with alacrity. As he once explained to a stunned witness after sticking his tongue down the throat of a woman he had just met, “he who hesitates, masturbates.”
Be very, very afraid. The governorship of California entails numerous responsibilities, and it offers a strong bully pulpit. Not only did Ronald Reagan ascend to the presidency from that very seat, but even the always flaccid and now-disgraced Gray Davis was once mentioned as a presidential possibility. Yet the office is limited as well; Schwarzenegger cannot raise a militia, dictate foreign policy, or supercede federal law. The great fear is that a populace that could elect a Schwarzenegger governor could follow suit in the presidential race. Perhaps Keanu Reeves, when Matrix 3 reveals that Neo really is “the one”? Maybe Bruce Willis, as Armageddon’s Harry Stamper, the brave oilman who, Arnold-like, would “drill anything”? Or Bruce Willis as Die Hard’s John McClane, whose credentials in the war on terrorism date back to 1988?
Be very, very afraid.
Jason Maurice is a first-year graduate student from California. He wished Phil Jackson would have entered the recall race, or at least re-signed Mitch Richmond.
