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Now that we have our very own presidential primary, the
battle for the heart and soul
of the Republican
party has already started in Colorado.
The major-league pundits say Colorado mattered in the 1992 Democratic race because our primary derailed Paul Tsongas, clearing the way for Bill Clinton, even though Jerry Brown actually won here, much to the chagrin of respectable folks who want Colorado to present the proper image.
In their eyes, Colorado is supposed to show the world that it's a safe place for investment with a responsible voting public, that we've forgotten our political heritage of populism, free silver, greenbackers, grangers, women's suffrage and labor wars.
But in other respects, the '92 Colorado primary was a disappointment. On the tube for the past month, you see what you saw four years ago -- men who aspire to be commander in chief of the world's only superpower, standing on snow-covered dunghills in Iowa and New Hampshire.
These settings looked rather bucolic, as though the candidates had ventured beyond Des Moines and Manchester.
Thus I thought that a Colorado primary might inspire candidate visits to our remote hinterlands. When candidates come, so do the national media.
Granted, they might hang around a Springfield or a Salida for only an afternoon, but even that much should be beneficial for the town, the candidate and the media.
The town would alleviate cabin fever as the high school band turned out for a big welcome. We would feel more connected with the national government, which is often perceived as a remote colonial power.
The candidate would be force-fed local lore by his advance team, so that he'd avoid gaffes. But he'd also soak up some knowledge of this flyover America that lies outside the Beltway and between the coasts.
The national media would likewise acquire knowledge of a land where people worry more about the source of the next meal than whether some appointee's move to a corner office represents a power shift in the White House.
Back before jet transportation took over, that's pretty much how campaigns worked. But Harry Truman's whistle stop tour of 1948 was the last time any candidate dwelt in that part of American territory.
It certainly didn't work that way in 1992. I expected campaigns to set up scenic photo-ops in the Leadvilles and Lamars of our great state, to appear in Mosca and Mancos, Alamosa and Aguilar.
Alas, most candidates didn't venture more than a few miles from the Stapleton tarmac. Jerry Brown did penetrate the dark interior as far as Boulder, which may explain his victor.
Colorado is just another airport in the national campaign. By the time they get here, they're sick of photo-ops at feedlots. We can hope DIA functions properly for the duration, so as to avoid further embarrassment.
As for the Republican primary, if Dole doesn't win by a decent margin here, he's toast. He's from Kansas, our neighboring state. Even better, he's a decorated veteran of the 10th Mountain Division, which makes him practically a home-town boy -- the division trained at Camp Hale, which just returned to the news as the site of that acid-spill train wreck on Tennessee Pass.
He's also the sort of sensible mainstream Republican -- Hank Brown, Jim Johnson, John Love -- that Colorado elects and re-elects.
However, the heart and soul of the modern Colorado GOP is in El Paso County. Pat Buchanan ought to run well there since David Duke isn't on the ballot.
However, Buck just isn't sufficiently conservative to generate real excitement. He's sounding like a labor Democrat these days with real family values talk of decent wages and job security, rather than the usual fake family values prattle about prayer in schools, and that will hurt him in the Springs.
As for Lamar Alexander, he's got no organization in
Colorado. Even the local GOP ward-heelers respond with
Lamar who?
He's a centrist Southern governor with
some shady dealings on his resume, and he says he's the
only one who can beat Bill Clinton. Sure. Why would anybody
vote for a clone Clinton when the real one will be on the
ballot?
Besides, I've been wearing flannel shirts for about 45 years, and I got annoyed ten years ago when I was in Boulder and a woman asked me why I was wearing a flannel shirt. It seemed like a stupid question -- nobody was asking her why she was wearing whatever she had on -- but since I was on foreign territory, I politely explained that it was a cool spring day and so forth.
She interrupted. Don't you know that in Boulder, a
flannel shirt is a statement?
Then she walked away,
before I could find out what I was stating with the flannel
shirt.
Tattoos and nose rings and message T-shirts and imprinted gimme caps -- I can see how those would be statements. But a plain old checkered flannel shirt?
Thanks to Lamar Alexander, this Boulder lunacy of making-a-statement-with-a-flannel-shirt has gone national. Stop this before it gets worse. Anybody but Alexander.
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