Getting Out the Vote in the Valley of the Doll

Sunday morning had come, and with it the fat newspapers with their weighty op-ed sections. My ears were tuned to either “Face the Nation” or “Meet the Press” as my eyes read the commentaries and editorials. When I heard and read the name Webster Hubbell simultaneously, the effect was spine-tingling.

“Eeee-rowww-urrr.”

That wasn’t me. The low, threatening sound came from outside, from the front porch. I knew it was Killer, my cat. No doubt he was preparing to defend his turf against the big bad kitty from across the street.

“Hissss,” Killer added.

Mess with my cat, mess with me. I made my way toward the door, ready to kick some bad-kitty butt. I was reaching for the knob when I heard a horrifying, hideous, pathetic wail.

I yanked the door open. Killer was gone. I looked down and saw my diminutive friend, Deputy Mayor Barbie.

“Pepper spray,” she explained.

*

I caught a little whiff and retreated inside, eyes watering. Deputy Mayor Barbie never blinked her baby blues. “Guess I’m immune,” she shrugged, following me in.

Barbie is famous for being blond and beautiful, but she’s also one tough hunk of plastic. That, I’m sure, is one of the qualities that impressed Dick Riordan back when he bought a big stake in Mattel. When Riordan became mayor, he brought Barbie in as deputy mayor for damage control.

“Just happened to be in the neighborhood,” she said, handing me some campaign propaganda. “So, can we count on your vote again?”

And here I’d been thinking it was a social call. I told her that I might just keep my vote to myself this time.

“Look in my eyes and tell me that L.A. isn’t better off than it was four years ago,” the deputy mayor shot back.

Oh please, I thought. This sounded like a spin doctor crediting the rooster for the sunrise. L.A. bottomed out with the riots. Could the city really have gotten any worse?

“You aren’t seriously considering Hayden, are you?”

“Well, he’s right about some things. And I sort of feel sorry for him. The way I figure it, your boss will win going away, so it’s just a matter of how much. I mean, has he earned my vote? He said he was ‘Tough enough to turn L.A. around.’ But then he completely wimped out on Prop. 187 and flip-flopped all over Valley secession. And Metro Rail’s still a mess.”

“But Dick’s put 2,000 cops on the street!”

“A thousand less than he said he would. And for a while there he was ignoring attrition and pretending he’d fulfilled his campaign promise. That was weak.”

We went back and forth like that. Barbie got me thinking that maybe it’s too much to ask politicians to fulfill their most ambitious promises. On beefing up the LAPD, call it an A for effort, a B for results. And I had to admit that if not for Riordan--and his money--charter reform wouldn’t have become a serious issue, and that seems to be a good thing.

“So we can count on your vote?”

I told her I’d think about it.

“You’ll think about it? I can’t believe that anybody can feel sorry for Tom Hayden!” She was fuming. “He called Dick a racist!”

Actually, that was one of the reasons I sort of felt sorry for him. Hayden knows he’s losing and he says something he didn’t exactly mean and later regrets it. He apologizes, and he seems like the type who hates to ever say he’s sorry.

*

Deputy Mayor Barbie never moves her pouty lips when she speaks. Indeed, never changes expression. Yet somehow she seemed to be scowling as she moved on to other issues, such the school bond vote (her boss recommends a yes) and charter reform.

When she brought up the city attorney’s race, I suddenly found myself thinking about Webb Hubbell, President Clinton’s pal. City Atty. James K. Hahn is saying that Riordan’s man Ted Stein, as airport commissioner, made sure Hubbell got $49,500 worth of lobbying work that some people say smells like Whitewater hush money. Stein says Hahn is grasping at straws.

Suddenly I thought of something I never thought of before--about how some powerful Friends of Bill are also powerful Friends of Dick, and how friendship is a beautiful thing.

“Hey, you remember that night the mayor slept in the Lincoln Bedroom?” I asked.

“I wasn’t there,” Barbie said quickly.

“No, it’s just that I’m sure the mayor, being a good Republican, didn’t contribute to the DNC. So I was just wondering if there might have been any other kind of, um, consideration.”

With that, Barbie angrily headed for the door.

“I am not going to dignify that with a response. Now, goodbye.”

Touchy, touchy. Usually she lets me get the door for her. This time she leaped up, grabbed the knob and gave it a twist as she kicked at the doorjamb. She swung herself onto the porch.

The big bad kitty happened to be there, malevolently twitching his tail.

“Hissss,” he said.

Poor kitty.

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Readers may write to Harris at the Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth 91311, or via e-mail at scott.harris@latimes.com Please include a phone number.