When a problem comes along,
You must whip it…
When something’s going wrong,
You must whip it…
Now whip it into shape;
Shape it up, get it straight,
Go forward, move ahead…
It’s not too late
To whip it; whip it good.
When a good time turns around,
You must whip it…
‘Cause you will never live it down
Unless you whip it.
So crack that whip,
Give the past a slip.
I say whip it.
Whip it good.
– DEVO
Baxter’s a staffer with Democratic Representative Jim Clyburn, so when he walked into the Round Robin Bar last night around eight, I suspected something, since there are plenty of good watering holes down at the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue up on Capitol Hill. My intuition was immediately confirmed when he made a bee line for my table.
“Tom,” he effused as he extended his hand, “how good to see you. What a coincidence!”
Neither Baxter or his boss got where they are by coincidence and I figure plenty of people around here are aware of the half dozen places where I might usually be found after work, provided I don’t drive straight home. True, a couple of those places aren’t in the District, but I figure Baxter’s smart enough to figure out that if he checks the Round Robin Bar three or four nights in a row, he will catch me there at least once.
“Mind if I join you?” Baxter inquired, seating himself next to me before I could reply one way or the other.
“Not at all,” I conceded. Who gets a job in Congress, elected or otherwise, by being shy? I thought to myself as Baxter sat down and signaled for a waiter.
“It’s really… appropriate that I’d run into you tonight,” Baxter effused, “like it’s… fate or something.”
If by “fate,” Baxter meant pure, intentional, calculated actions on his part, then by all means, yes, it was fate. “Sure looks like it,” I lied. “What can I do for you?”
“Do for you?” Baxter made his best effort to appear surprised. “Why, now, Tom,” he offered in a South Carolina drawl suddenly thickened for charming effect, “I don’t rightly believe that even occurred to me.”
“Oh, certainly not,” I pretended. “Just kidding. After all, how could it? We met here by accident.”
“As I was saying,” Baxter nodded as a waiter approached. “I’ll have a branch water mint julep,” he requested with a wily smile. “But now that you mention it…”
“Let me guess,” I interjected. “Your boss, the Democratic Whip, is about to drop from exhaustion trying to get enough House Democrat votes to pass health care reform over the kicking, screaming, howling, biting and spitting opposition of a bunch of Republicans who are convinced that if they can just defeat it, the Obama Administration will be a lame duck until 2012.”
“Pretty much,” Baxter acknowledged. “And let me tell you, Tom, it ain’t been the least bit easy convincing Democrats to vote for health care reform, no sir, not like you’d think it would be, nice and easy, not at all. It’s like pulling teeth, I tell you. Nobody wants to do their duty like a good Democrat should.”
“Maybe,” I suggested, “they have problems with certain… issues concerning how health care law is being made.”
“Oh, that,” Baxter muttered, obviously vexed. “Yeah, well, all I can say is, old Teddy Kennedy picked one hell of a time to kick the bucket. Plus, I don’t know what-all got into those folks up there in Massachusetts, replacing Ted with a Republican. I mean, really, Tom, given the circumstances, what else can the Democrats do? We set up a budget reconciliation process in the House, consolidate our proposed changes to the Senate version of the bill, and organize a vote on that, which, according to accepted Congressional parliamentary procedure, automatically passes the Senate measure.”
“It seems to me,” I observed, “that it might be the… technique involved that’s giving some Democrats pause. First of all, while it’s true that Republicans and Democrats alike have used the budget reconciliation mechanism to accomplish end-runs around Senate filibusters, this has got to be the largest piece of legislation that either party has ever attempted to pass that way. Then, there’s this auto-execution maneuver for the Senate bill. Think about it, Baxter – it’s so transparent! The Democrats are invoking auto-execution so that during the elections next November, Democratic House members can say ‘Oh, no, I didn’t vote for the health care bill, I voted to change it, that’s all I did, and here are the changes I voted for, all of which reflect what the dear, cherished, beloved voters in my district want.’ Really now, how cynical can you guys and gals up on Capitol Hill get?”
“I’m not exactly sure about that,” Baxter grinned as the waiter handed him his mint julep, “but something tells me we ain’t touched the bottom of that particular well yet, and maybe the rope on the bucket ain’t never going to be long enough to do it, neither.”
“But no matter how the House Democratic leadership rigs it,” I pointed out as I sipped my Knob Creek Manhattan, “the rank-and-file Democratic Representatives still have to vote on something Sunday. So – what have the whips been up to?”
Baxter prefaced his response with a deep draught of mint julep that would have done any true South Carolinian proud. “Ah, yes, well…” he began, clearing his throat ostentatiously, then continuing in a tone that, probably by virtue of all that fine bourbon, had transformed into something bearing a striking resemblance to the rhetorical oeuvre of Foghorn Leghorn. “Fortunately, the President has taken the Republicans’ attempts to tie the success of his health care reform campaign to the legitimacy of his office quite seriously. So, by now, we have arranged for him to call every Democratic member of the House whom we have designated as not thoroughly in the Obama column at least once; and, I might add, to personally meet with quite a few of them, too, and furthermore…”
“So,” I politely interrupted, “loyal Democrat Representatives from, say, Baltimore or New York get ignored, while the ones from places like New Hampshire or Texas get telephone calls and personal visits with the President of the United States?”
“Uh… well, yes,” Baxter confessed. “That’s how the system works, I guess. The President’s time is a scarce resource, you know. We can’t afford to expend it on House members whom we know are sure to vote for the legislation he wants passed.”
“I suppose not,” I responded dryly. “What else have you done?”
“Added a little molasses to the pie,” Baxter winked. “A few… adjustments to immigration policy, for example, went a long way to get Luis Gutierrez, and the whole Democratic Hispanic Caucus, actually, on board to vote the President’s way.”
“You mean,” I asked by way of clarification, “that Obama has agreed to allow illegal immigrants to participate in the new American health care program?”
“We prefer,” Baxter declared, “to call them ‘undocumented workers,’ but yeah, now that you mention it, we did.”
“Look, Baxter,” I shot back, “if somebody has no problem ignoring a sign that says ‘United States Border,’ why should we be surprised if they ignore another one that says ‘Employees Must Wash Hands After Using Toilet?’ If the ‘undocumented workers’ want to participate in the new health care system, wouldn’t it be nice if they at least stopped spreading pork tape worm encephalitis to the rest of us?”
“As a matter of fact,” Baxter assured me, “we did exactly that – every member of the Democratic Hispanic Caucus now agrees that having worms living inside your brain is un-American, that it’s a genuine public health concern and furthermore, it’s preventable. So they’re all on board to spread the word that undocumented workers from Mexico and Central America, where pork tape worm is endemic, should definitely do everything they can to keep their feces out of the gringos’ food, no matter how angry they get about the way undocumented workers are treated here. This is no giveaway, Tom – Obama and the Democratic leadership, particularly my boss, Jim Clyburn, are all very tough negotiators. There isn’t a single Democratic health care vote that wasn’t bought with similar hard, reciprocal negotiations. The problem is,” he sighed, “we’re just about out of ammunition, and there’s still plenty of Democratic Representatives sitting on the fence. The problem is, a lot of them aren’t really motivated by political issues. I mean, their seats are solidly Democratic, and they’re safe from any serious challenges in the next election…”
“So why,” I suggested, “don’t you use the stick instead of the carrot? In Congressional districts like the ones you just described, the election that counts isn’t the one where they run against the Republican, it’s the Democratic primary! Threaten to back somebody else, somebody who’s more in line with Obama’s agenda, and…”
“Yeah,” Baxter broke in, “that’s possible, Tom, but consider the ramifications. Number One,” he gestured, ticking off points on his fingers, “if we replace somebody who’s been in Congress for ten terms with another Democrat who’s new, we lose that ten-term representative’s seniority. Number Two, while maybe nearly everybody in America hates Congress, by the same token, the typical American voter loves their own Representative and figures it’s the other guys and gals who are the cause of all those problems in Washington. So what happens if a Representative’s reaction to the DNC backing an opponent in the Democratic primary is them switching parties? They stand a pretty good chance of winning anyway, that’s what, and the last thing we need is more Republicans in the House! And Number Three, even if we do manage to knock an uncooperative Democratic House member out of the box in the primary, how do we know, given the current unpredictable mood of the American public, that the voters in that district won’t pull a stunt like all those supposedly solid Democrats in Massachusetts did when they elected Scott Brown? No, no…” he concluded with an air of certainty. “We’ve thought about pressuring Democratic members to vote our way, and the consensus is, it’s not politically feasible. Which,” he remarked, leaning across the table toward me with a smile, “is where I think you can help us. Got any ideas as to how we can deliver those votes on the floor the day after tomorrow?”
“The Republicans,” I opined, “would make an appointment and pay my consultation fee.”
“No problem,” Baxter grinned, producing a fat envelope from inside his exquisitely tailored suit jacket. “This should cover it. It’s just that the Democratic leadership would like to avoid any… official record of a visit to your offices with regard to this… particular issue, you see.” With that, flashing me a knowing wink, he handed over the envelope.
It was stuffed full of grinning Benjamins. Don’t let anybody tell you the Democrats are cheap. Placing the envelop in the breast pocket of my equally exquisite suit jacket, I flashed Baxter back a knowing wink of my own. “Tell me,” I inquired, “aren’t you Democrats just a little bit worried about the public backlash from all these parliamentary shenanigans you’re pulling to get your health care program turned into law?”
“Nah,” Baxter shrugged, “not really. Six weeks from now, people like you and me, we’ll remember what happened – hell, we’ll be jawing about it six years from now, I reckon. But ordinary folks outside the Beltway? Like you Italians say, Tom, ‘forget about it!’ Those folks, all they care about is whether the sausage is good; they don’t contribute an aerial fornication one way or the other about how it was made. The plain fact is, the American electorate simply doesn’t know or care about what kind of flapdoodle happens up on Capitol Hill.”
“Okay,” I told him, “let’s assume you’re correct.” Taking long draught of my cocktail, I cast my eyes toward the ceiling and made a great show of thinking, very, very hard, about Baxter’s request for about ninety seconds, after which I looked him in the eye and slowly proclaimed, “Offer the holdouts committee chairs and seats.”
“But all the Congressional committee chairs and seats,” Baxter fretted, “are already taken! And besides, if we did that, what would the public think?”
“Look Baxter,” I pressed on, “you guys just create some more committees, that’s all! Special committees, select sub-committees, joint committees, special select sub-committees, joint select special sub-committees, whatever. Filibuster-proof majority or not, the plain fact is, the Democrats control both houses of Congress, and you can create as many committees as you want. And what’s more, you just got through telling me that the public doesn’t give a rat’s patoot what you folks in Congress do on Capitol Hill.”
“Ah, uh, well,” Baxter stammered, “yes, I suppose we could create a bunch of new committees. But for the love of God, Tom, create committees on what?”
“Offer to create committees,” I advised, “that would appeal to the Democratic Representatives whose votes you need to pass the health care bill. Got any one of those who wants to line their campaign chest with so much gold, nobody will be able to take their Congressional seat until they keel over dead?”
“Actually,” Baxter allowed, “I think we have several like that. Moderates, mostly.”
“There you have it then,” I chuckled. “Create a Congressional committee on electronic gaming – which, by the way, includes slot machines.”
“Christ Almighty!” Baxter whispered. “Right, I get it. Business interests from all over the casino industry…”
“And the Internet,” I added.
“… yeah,” Baxter crooned, “and all those whatchamacallit – X-Box companies like Nintendo and such. Every blessed one of them pouring money into the committee members’ re-election campaigns!”
“Not to mention,” I pointed out, “that you’ll need to put some… ahem… Republicans on that new Congressional committee.”
“And wrap them right around our little fingers!” Baxter exulted. “Damn, it Collins, this idea of yours absolutely rocks!”
“And that was just the tip of the iceberg, old boy,” I vouched. “Got any hold-outs with a penchant for upscale wine or expensive micro-brewed boutique beers? How about a Select Commerce Sub-Committee on Oenology and Eumycetic Organoleptics?”
“Holy Hanna,” Baxter exclaimed, “that’s the fanciest damn way I’ve ever heard anyone say ‘wine and beer tasting!’”
“I do my best,” I modestly declared. “And how about an Agriculture and Fisheries Sub-Committee Special Committee for Gustatory Affairs?”
“A committee on gourmet food?” Baxter smiled broadly as he downed another quaff of his mint julep. “Excuses to travel anywhere, plus all the five-star cuisine you can eat? No shortage of Democratic members of Congress who’d jump at the chance for that!”
“Then there’s the House Committee on Ways and Means Special Sub-Committee for Maritime Tourist Revenue.”
“A tax committee for luxury cruise ships!” Baxter enthused. “That’s bound to be a hot one, for sure! Anybody on that sub-committee can count on plenty of fact-finding trips with the best accommodations.”
“No doubt,” I agreed. “And why make the taxpayers foot the bill if the industry is willing? Now, if you’ve got any Democratic members of Congress with children who aren’t, shall we say, the sharpest tools in the shed, but who they still want to get into Harvard, Yale, Cornell, Princeton and so forth, how about a seat on the Special Joint Committee for Private College Excellence?”
“Collins,” Baxter snickered, “I can think of about half a dozen votes we can snag with that gimmick, right there!”
“How about this:” I ventured, “the House Transportation Committee Sub-Committee for High Performance Vehicles.”
“Sports cars,” Baxter murmured in awe, “racing boats, cabin cruisers… private jets! Lordy, Tom, that’s going to be awesome, no doubt about it!”
“And for the ladies who are proving hard to convince,” I added, “there will be the House Commerce Committee Select Committee on Millinery, Couture and Textile Trade.”
“Trips to Paris, Milan and Tokyo,” Baxter panted. “Free tickets to view all the seasonal collections. Personal contact with world-famous designers! Tom, this is pure genius, that’s what it is!”
“God bless the interstate commerce clause, then,” I elaborated, “because I say Congress needs to expand its oversight of professional and collegiate sports with special select sub-committees dedicated to specific areas of athletics – one for football, one for baseball, one for basketball, one for golf…”
“All chaired and dominated by loyal Democrats who voted for the Obama health bill,” Baxter cheered.
“And,” I smirked, “there’s the one you can save to hook the very last hold-outs who don’t go for anything else.”
“Which is?” Baxter held his breath in anticipation.
“Why, the House Select Committee on Erotica, of course. Membership on that would, of course, require review of all the various… ah, apparatus, costumes, paraphernalia and… um, toys… involved, plus, of course, taking testimony from erotic performers and, needless to say, spending hour upon hour reviewing allegedly pornographic books, magazines, videos and movies; because, as everyone is aware, it’s impossible to define pornography – you can only know it when you see it.”
Baxter drained his mint julep and set the empty glass down on the table with satisfied thump. “Thanks to you, Tom Collins,” he effused as he rose to shake my hand, “there are millions of unemployed, unwed mothers on welfare, living in federally-funded housing projects, caring for huge broods of sickly children with numerous pre-existing conditions, all of whom are going to have affordable, comprehensive health care. Tonight, you have done your duty as a true, patriotic American!”
“The pleasure, sir,” I assured him as my right hand let go of his and settled reverently over the envelope in my jacket, “was all mine.”