The Body Politic - effectiveness of Minnesota governor Jesse Ventura

Washington Monthly, June, 2001 by Lynda Mcdonnell

Jesse Ventura sure can talk. If only he could govern.

WHAT'S NOT TO LIKE ABOUT JESSE Ventura's life? The former wrestler overcame a lack of money and party structure to snatch 37 percent of the vote and win a three-way race back in 1998. Now, Minnesota's big and blustery governor lives in a state-owned mansion with maid service and a good cook; is chauffeured and guarded at taxpayer expense; draws $120,000 a year at his day job; and earns multiples of that moonlighting as autobiographer, one-night wrestling referee, color commentator for the XFL, and national media darling.

Only last fall, America's foremost political mavericks, John McCain, Ralph Nader, and Pat Buchanan, came calling at the state capital to size up this phenomenon, perhaps hoping to absorb some of his magic or learn how to win voters with blunt talk. Even Al Gore cozied up to him. Ventura was the third-party candidate who won control of the ship of state and changed Minnesota's fortunes while handsomely boosting his own. Moreover, despite a softening economy and occasional bout of foot-in-mouth disease, Ventura is rich in popularity, the hard currency of democratic politics. Popularity can get a long shot elected, as with Ventura's upset victory in 1998, and it can also protect an embattled president, as with Bill Clinton. When asked a few months ago about his state approval rating, Ventura said "the number's 71 percent and I like it."

But having people like you isn't the same as being effective. Getting things done requires a vision, tenacity, and the ability to forge careful alliances, especially for a party of one, like Ventura. His record so far should give Jesse-wannabes pause and make the rest of us wonder whether a third-party politician, even one with Ventura's star power, can do much to move the electorate or the political status quo. Ventura may well run for reelection next year, but unless he learns to convert popularity into political muscle, he could be a political novelty item: the guy who discovered the value of public office for bolstering a waning entertainment career.

Playing Politics

Ventura isn't the first American celebrity to enter the ring of politics, of course. His career trajectory is faintly reminiscent of Ronald Reagan's. Like Reagan, the affable optimist, Ventura is an accomplished performer whose on-camera persona--the roughhousing truth-teller--engenders both bemusement and a deep trust among many voters. The difference is that Reagan came to the presidency with extensive political experience, a fully formed vision based on anti-communism and faith in free markets, and a sizeable party apparatus to help enact it. By contrast, Ventura's government experience was limited to a brief stint as mayor of a small Minneapolis suburb. He was elected on the slogans and cavils of a radio talk-show host--give back the surplus, don't tax my jet skis--and scant understanding of the nuances of government.

During his first legislative session in 1999, with the Republican House and Democratic Senate still stunned by his upset, Ventura pushed through a budget largely prepared by his predecessor, a moderate Republican who had not sought reelection. On his own initiative, Ventura focused attention on the need for improved mass transit in the sprawling, increasingly congested Twin Cities.

In the 2000 session, though, Ventura exposed his political inexperience by throwing his substantial political capital into a quixotic crusade for unicameralism, an issue that provoked about as much interest with voters as returning to the gold standard. Ventura traveled by bus in wide bops around the state, trying to incite the citizens to demand the chance to vote for a one-house legislature in place of the two-house arrangement that has prevailed since Minnesota earned statehood in 1858. The current arrangement struck him as redundant, and he hated conference committees between the two houses. Having small groups of legislators cut critical deals at late-night sessions struck him as suspicious, even anti-democratic.

Bands played in the small towns he visited. An admiring barber buffed his bald dome. Schoolchildren lined the streets, eager to see one of Minnesota's few true celebrities. But phones didn't ring back in the state capitol. The idea of a unicameral legislature was too obscure to capture public support; it couldn't even get a floor vote in the Senate. While the campaign for a single chamber didn't leave much of an impression on the voters, it had one significant result: It infuriated many of the legislators Ventura needed as allies to pass the rest of his agenda.

Rather than trade horses or make amends, Ventura blasted lawmakers as "gutless cowards" (unrepentant legislators had buttons made) and pledged to get even. His political bark proved more menacing than his bite, however, and cynics at the capitol speculated that Ventura didn't care about a unicameral legislature; he merely wanted some issue with which to flog the legislature. His attempts at party-building have been no more effective. He stumped for 28 legislative candidates of the Independence Party of Minnesota, so named when Ventura clashed with the Perot faction of the national Reform Party and seceded. A few of the fledgling party's candidates took second in their races, but overall they averaged only 8 percent of the vote.