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One of my smartest friends spoke up this morning in defense of County Supervisor Yvonne Brathwaite Burke, the queen of useless and absentee politicians in Los Angeles — although Mayor I Love Me runs a darned close second.
My friend contended that it was perfectly appropriate for Ms. Brathwaite Burke to dispatch staff in her stead to last Saturday’s crackerjack oil drilling meeting at West L.A. College that turned into a bomb.
“This is why you hire staff,” he said, “to be your eyes and ears.”
I would accept that argument if she had minimally participated in the summer-long process.
“Maybe she is a delegator,” my friend countered, logically. In delegating is what she does best, Mike Bohlke, her prime deputy, should be cashing her paychecks because he is doing the work.
With hundreds, perhaps thousands, of adjacent residents wringing their hands over the final form of the rules document that allegedly will influence the conduct of the oil drilling company for the next 20 years, the vain Ms. Brathwaite Burke is off getting her elbows powdered and her heels polished.
The Princess of Poof
As far as I can tell, the equally arrogant and aging Ms. Brathwaite Burke has thumbed her nose at every single small-time and big-time community meeting on oil drilling since the environmental impact report on the Baldwin Hills oil field was released on June 20.
With exasperating consistency, she has gotten away with this serial cynical conduct, at least in the latter half of her career, for two reasons:
• She is a black liberal, which safeguards her from criticism by the media, meaning the Los Angeles Times.
• Most of the newspapers not named Times in Los Angeles are jokes when it comes to taking a critical look at elected officials.
When I came to Culver City, I was told that it was the custom to restrict comments to “Yes, m’am,” whenever Ms. Brathwaite Burke spoke.
The Times touched the phony old girl once, nailing her several years ago when it found she was playing games with where she lived, a traditional vulnerability among regional politicians. A closer inspection might reveal more serious cracks in her wrinkled skin.
These are her stripes. This is her history. Weeks away from retirement — not that anyone in her life will be able to discern the difference — she is not going to suddenly morph into a conscientious politician.
Has Anyone Seen Her?
On some weekends when I listen to the old KFI disk jockey Chuck Cecil and his longest-running program in radio, “The Swingin’ Years,” I wonder, since he is in his md-80s, whether he is alive or we are listening to old tapes. In fact, he is very much alive.
Similar thoughts about Ms. Brathwaite Burke periodically enter my mind. Is she still an Angeleno? Or has she permanently shifted her base of curious operations to Cabo, maybe, or the South Seas? Since no one I know knows where she lives, the question will continue to dangle.
The pity is that this tremendously important verdict, the rooted concerns of thousands of residents around the oil field, rest in the lap of Ms. Brathwaite Burke, which, today, looks as helpful as handing off to Sam Yorty.
I was not at last Saturday’s West L.A. College meeting. I was in synagogue. If Ms. Brathwaite Burke had been at the college, she would be prepared today to respond to the campaign that Mike Bauer, president of the Culver Crest Neighborhood Assn., is steering to lengthen the comment period on oil drilling. She would have had a feel for the rhythms of the day at the college instead of being reduced to head-scratching.
At bottom, though, it is the County’s fault Ms. Brathwaite Burke did not grace the meeting with her presence. If they had just promised to give her an award, even from the 99-Cent Store, she would have run through a series of closed doors to make sure she was on time.
