COLUMN ONE : GOP Youth Brigade Takes On Sacramento : Twentysomethings are enlisting as foot soldiers for conservative lawmakers. They are shaking things up in the Capitol, but some see them as a little green.

Chris Manson’s new Acura sports coupe has leather seats, power windows and a sunroof. It also has personalized plates. They read “RITEWNG,” as in politics, the conservative kind.

Manson is anti-abortion and anti-tax. He believes that most homeless people are lazy freeloaders and thinks that all law-abiding citizens have the right to carry a gun. In Manson’s world, there would be no “special breaks” for women or minorities. Kids would pray freely in public school and get whacked with a wooden paddle when they misbehave.

Just 23, Manson is the chief of staff for a California assemblyman, Orange County’s Mickey Conroy. Records can’t prove it, but he could be the youngest person to hold that job in the history of the state Legislature.

More important, Manson represents a cohort of young, ideological Republicans--men and women--who have populated the Capitol since the GOP surged to prominence in elections one year ago. Lured by the prospect of joining a political revolution, flocks of twentysomething conservatives have followed their hearts to Sacramento, enlisting as foot soldiers for Republican lawmakers seeking to propel California on a course to the right.

Many are breathlessly idealistic, possessed of an evangelical fervor that makes more seasoned legislative warriors scoff. Their zeal has enlivened the often cynical milieu of the Capitol, and their allegiance to the cause wins them high praise from those they serve.

“These are super kids,” Conroy says. “They’re loyal and they’ve got their heads screwed on straight.”

Democrats, meanwhile, have coined a name for the group--”the rule-of-25 kids.” “They’re all 25 years old, work 25 hours a day and make $25,000 a year,” says one veteran staffer. “I feel like a den mother--and I’m not even 40.”

If their more senior, more liberal colleagues poke fun, the young Republicans care not. They are here on a mission and waste no time worrying about what others think. Nor do they bear much resemblance to fellow members of Generation X, who may lean to the right on some issues but are, more than anything, considered politically lethargic, too disillusioned to rise up for social change.

For inspiration, the fledgling Republicans read journals published by Washington’s neoconservative intellectual elite. For entertainment, they gather at wine tastings and post-church football socials sponsored by Sacramento’s newly flourishing Young Republican club. They worship House Speaker Newt Gingrich, but their true hero is Ronald Reagan. It was his presidency that nurtured the beliefs many of them hold today.

There are, of course, shades to the intensity of their political views. But most are united by unbridled enthusiasm--and a common goal. Devin Brown, who quit law school last December to be “where the action is,” explains:

“This is our time,” says Brown, who manages Capitol operations for a freshman assemblyman. “Republican fever has spread all across the country, and now we finally have a chance to have influence--to get our ideas and our agenda through. Why would I want to miss out on that?”

I first noticed Brown, Manson and their youthful confederates early this year, shortly after becoming The Times Capitol bureau’s youngest member, at 33. The “junior Reeps,” as some call them, were hard to miss. Amid a sea of graying lobbyists and seen-it-all staffers, their baby faces, super-short hair and earnest expressions stood out like lighthouse beacons.

It is too early to make sweeping statements about their influence in Sacramento, but their presence is palpable--and their potential seemingly great. Intrigued, I decided to get to know some of California’s budding young conservatives.

‘It Builds Character’

Devin Brown greets me with a firm handshake and polite hello. He then ushers me into his office, a cramped space on the fifth floor of the state Capitol. A picture of his wife, Kathleen, sits on a shelf near his desk. Several nasty scratches--courtesy of his dog, Bailiff--run up his right arm.

I am more intrigued by Brown’s autographed copy of the GOP’s “contract with America.” “It’s signed by Mr. Gingrich himself,” he says reverently. “It cost me $75, but it’s worth it. It’s like my guiding light.”

Tall and bespectacled, Brown chooses his words carefully, initially treating our conversation like a job interview. He lists resume highlights--leadership in his fraternity, Model United Nations debate champion--before loosening up. Eventually, he will call me “buddy” and lapse into surf-speak. “No worries” and “cool deal” are among his favorite phrases, relics of a youth spent riding waves off Huntington Beach.

Brown’s boyhood home was a conservative one; there was Bible study on Sunday evenings, rules against swearing and penalties for not doing your chores. His father is an Orange County prosecutor, his mother a teacher.

I ask Brown, 27, to describe the dawn of his political philosophy, and he takes me back to the fifth grade:

“My Mom was driving me to school one day, and we had to sit in a gas line for three hours . Instead of eggs and bacon for breakfast, I got doughnuts and milk because we had to leave at 4 a.m. just to fill up our gas tank!”

Such are his memories of the Jimmy Carter Administration. Then came 1980, and President Reagan: “All of a sudden, America stood tall again. Other countries respected us, feared us. He was a true leader. My whole generation was inspired by him.”

Now, Brown believes, America is in trouble again. We have “thugs controlling our playgrounds and our parks,” and “know-nothing bureaucrats” making life miserable for businesses.

“Basically, there is too much government intruding into the daily lives of people. What we need is personal responsibility. Welfare? All these government handouts? They kill initiative, kill self-esteem.”

Brown is an up-by-the-bootstraps kind of guy, a subscriber to the theory that anyone--no matter their standing in life--can make it if they work hard enough. When he first arrived in Sacramento as an intern, he had $25 in his bank account. “Money for the meter was a problem. I got a night job waiting tables. It was hard,” Brown says, “but you find a way to cash in on your dream and run with it. It builds character. It really does.”

How about someone born into poverty, without a father, in a gang-infested neighborhood, as opposed to the relative prosperity of Huntington Beach?

“Hey,” says Brown, whose relatives paid for most of his UC Riverside education and gave him the down payment for his Sacramento home. “Help is out there if you really want it.”

Brown now works for Salinas Valley Assemblyman Peter Frusetta (R-Tres Pinos). Because Frusetta is a freshman with no political experience, Brown has considerable influence. He helps conceive, shape and move all of Frusetta’s legislation, wooing support and pressuring foes.

I tag along one day as Brown helps his boss present a bill before the Public Safety Committee. Roaming the packed committee room and the hallway outside, he slaps backs and confers, conspiratorially, with aides to other Assembly members. I hover close, listening in:

“Hey, bud, are you with us on this?” Brown asks one aide, who looks 10 years his senior. “It’s a good bill, a good bill.” The legislation, which sought to expand the death penalty to carjackers who kill, initially fails in committee, the victim of Democrats. “It’s sick,” Brown fumes, “the way these Democrats stand in the way of what the people of California want. It just makes me sick.”

Despite the defeat, Brown clearly enjoys the life, and he looks confident. But many Capitol rookies--Republicans and Democrats alike--suffer from a “very steep learning curve,” says Bob Connelly, chief administrative officer for the Assembly Rules Committee.

Connelly, a Democrat who helps teach newcomers from both parties the legislative process, says he has never seen such huge numbers of young, inexperienced staffers. The trend stems largely from term limits, which are pushing out career politicians and bringing in “citizen lawmakers” who tend to hire help from their hometowns.

“If you were a plumber, you’d have to serve as an apprentice for two years before they’d let you rip open a pipe,” Connelly says. “But around here, you’re a legislative aide before you can spell legislative aide .”

The result, Connelly says, are missed deadlines, poorly written bills, more work for committee consultants and an open field for lobbyists, “who are not above speaking with a forked tongue when they deal with these youngsters.”

One veteran lobbyist, who asked not to be identified, confirmed that green staffers are, naturally, more easily manipulated:

“Some of these kids are very sharp, others have no clue. They’re nervous, they need help. . . . It makes for a lot of work, but the payoff can be nice.”

‘If I Die Tomorrow, I Die Happy’

Leon Page waged his first campaign as a high school student in La Crescenta. He ran for senior class president and lost to someone who “had more friends.”

Defeat did not dim his lust for politics. Page was active in the campus Libertarian Club and was labeled “most likely to be president” by classmates. Later, in his “radical days” at UC Santa Barbara, he interned at the Cato Institute, an anti-big government think tank, and walked precincts for then-congressional candidate Mike Huffington.

Since then, his views have turned more moderate.

“When you’re young, you have these grand arguments, like, ‘Is the welfare state legitimate?’ But the reality is, you’re never in a position to make those calls. . . . We live in a world of givens, where you make piecemeal changes that hopefully do some good here and there.”

Page is 22, the sandy-haired son of a Santa Monica police sergeant and a homemaker who immigrated from England in 1981. Bright and funny, he spices his conversation with references to Aristotle, De Tocqueville and Locke. He attends night classes in California government and is studying for law school entrance exams. He sizzles with warp-speed energy that makes me feel like I’m 95.

When I telephone Page to inquire about an interview, he is excited, but wary. “What’s your angle?” he asks. “We’re not all cavemen, you know.”

The remark reveals his sensitivity to the image of young Republicans as bullheaded and dogmatic, with no grasp of nuance or sense of pragmatism. Although his allegiance to the GOP is strong--”It’s like the reason I’m a Dodger fan, total ideological commitment”--Page prefers to socialize with Democrats. Hanging with Republican youths, he says, can be stifling.

“It becomes a contest to outdo each other’s conservatism,” he complains. “Never is there a dissenting voice, never does anyone raise the possibility that they may be wrong. If I spend time with Democrats, at least I might learn something.”

That said, Page believes Republicans are the party of hope, the conceivers of today’s fresh ideas--from school vouchers to welfare reform to rolling back affirmative action. “What new thought is coming from the left? It’s all defensive, just trying to preserve the system they’ve created.”

Page is a legislative aide to Assemblyman Brooks Firestone, a Republican from Santa Barbara County. This year--his first in Sacramento--he handled two bills and the office clerical duties. Next year, he makes a considerable career leap; he will not answer phones, working exclusively on legislation.

Page views government service as a noble calling. There is nothing, he says, that he would rather do: “It’s honor, it’s virtue . . . If I die tomorrow, I die happy.”

But isn’t there a contradiction between his conservative views and his belief in the nobility and positive potential of government? Page agrees that it may seem odd. And offers this thought:

“All my life, people have felt this hostility toward their government, treating it like this bogyman. You have people joining militias, fearing the feds are going to line them up and spray them with machine-gun fire.

“I think if I can accomplish something here, I’d like to make people more comfortable with their representation. We’re not monsters here, we’re really not.”

‘I Want to Serve My Country’

I meet Donald Wilson for lunch at a Sacramento restaurant. He is wearing a black double-breasted suit with a white shirt and red tie. Before I can remark on his sharp threads, Wilson tells me his is the same suit Reagan wears on the cover of his autobiography, “An American Life.” Is this a happy coincidence, or did he choose his clothes because of the presidential parallel? I have a hunch but can’t be sure.

Wilson is single and 26, a son of blue-collar Democrats, raised in Ventura. He is an intense born-again Christian with perfect posture and an addiction to political debate. Friends call him “the dragon” because he tends to “breathe fire” on his political foes.

“I have strong beliefs, beliefs rooted in principle,” he says. “I’m not some lazy, country club Republican born with a silver spoon in his mouth.”

This is Wilson’s first year in the Capitol. After high school he served in the Navy before concluding that a life in politics was the life for him. So northward he went in the fall of 1994, landing a lowly but paying position with a freshman assemblyman--Republican Tom Bordonaro, California’s only quadriplegic lawmaker.

As office clerk, Wilson makes about $20,000 a year. His duties do not include true legislative work--not yet--but the job does have its challenges. In July, he had to push through a crowd of disabled protesters to deliver a letter from his boss to the governor. One protester claimed that Wilson knocked him into an elevator door. Assault charges were filed, but later dropped.

“The whole thing was pure nonsense,” Wilson says. “They were a bunch of activists blatantly trying to make a name for themselves.”

Bordonaro calls his aide “the type of guy who would take a bullet for you, incredibly loyal, to me and to the conservative cause.” Young idealists such as Wilson--”who go to the wall to defend their convictions”--are energizing the party and its elders, Bordonaro believes.

When he’s not at the office, Wilson is busy with night classes at Cal State Sacramento. He does not have much of a social life, living alone in a small suburban apartment and worshiping at the charismatic Trinity Church.

He also volunteers for the local Young Republican club. In the past year, the club’s membership has soared. Wilson writes for the club newsletter, The Righter Side, which provides, among other things, an inspirational quote of the month. October’s came from Reagan: “Government is not the solution to our problem. Government is the problem.”

Like other young conservatives, Wilson came to Sacramento energized by the November, 1994, election, which gave the GOP historic gains--including an Assembly majority for the first time in a quarter-century. But now, after a year “under the dome,” Wilson is fretful, his idealism stained by the leadership brawls that have stalled Republicans’ push for change.

“What I see are a lot of people putting their egos before our agenda,” he laments. “Republicans have this great chance to prove we have the answers and we can deliver, but we’re just not getting anywhere.”

Though a tad disillusioned, Wilson is also more determined than ever. Already, he is laying the foundation for his political future, running for the Sacramento County Republican Central Committee. Why a career in politics?

“I want to serve my country,” says this alumnus of Young Americans for Freedom. And, at age , “the bottom line is, I’m the only one I truly trust to put the public’s interest first.”

Later, I inquire about that handsome black suit. Did he actually buy it because of Reagan?

“Absolutely,” Wilson responds. “He’s my hero.”