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Pardon me while I stifle a yawn during this week’s version of the Holy Hour, the disgustingly fawning coronation of Karen (I Hope Not Everybody Thinks I Am a Crock of Baloney) Bass as the Speaker of the Assembly.
Her ascension into Baloney Politics Heaven is the equivalent of being named the hardest worker between the ages of 34 and 36, of the female persuasion, in the 4900 block of Overland Avenue.
This is the most overblown ceremony since a girl I know was chosen Queen of the Senior Prom, not such a heady honor since there were only 2 girls in the class.
When she addressed the City Council of Culver City a few weeks ago, Ms. Bass gave a hollow talk that would have embarrassed a boob. Sami, my 2-month-old grandson, has uttered more meaningful words.
Where Is the Beef?
After inspecting her pre-Sacramento and Assembly records, I fail to see how the vacuous Ms. Bass deserves even as much as an aptly named Snickers bar for lunch.
She might be voted the Best Dressed Woman Over 53 and Under 55 on her block, but I cannot think of another prize she has earned.
Patiently, I have been waiting for years for one serious person to make even a weak case for honoring Ms. Bass.
Time Out
For the unspeakable family tragedy thrust upon her a year and a half ago, she merits a lifetime of personalized support and sympathy from every one of her constituents.
As I Was Saying
But let’s talk objective standards.
Professional merit is the subject. The Los Angeles Times’ reporter Nancy Vogel was foaming all over the floor yesterday when she wrote this morning’s unenlightening, kissy-kissy piece.
Through no fault and no achievement of her own, liberal journalists up and down the state are drooling about Ms. Bass being the First Black Woman to become Speaker of the Assembly. This is like being the tallest girl or the dumbest girl in her class. She had nothing to do with it.
Purely an accident of timing. She got lucky. That is crucial to understand.
She did not ascend to the (formerly prestigious) Assembly Speaker’s position after years in the trenches. I recall she was named deputy speaker just after she was elected to the Assembly. Another goofy, merit-free honor.
Ms. Bass strikes me as a possibly well-intentioned housewife now well out of her depth. She either was moved along by certain sponsors or got caught in a draft and couldn’t escape.
Her best claim to neighborhood recognition seems to be organizing another one of those lofty-sounding but empty icons that liberals worship, a cigar-store Indian. Ms. Bass organized the “Community Coalition,” it says here. Whoopee. Nearly two decades later, even her best friends are trying to think up something it accomplished.
Used to be Important
In long ago days of the early ‘80s, when the Speaker’s role connoted power, when it was more serious than being a Toys ‘R Us salesman, Willie Brown was the celebrated Speaker, a dashing figure in and out of the limelight. Nobody I know noticed that Mr. Brown was black, just that he was the best dresser and people-person in Cowtown.
Meanwhile down in Southern California, Ms. Bass reportedly was running a corner lemonade stand with a classmate, 5 cents a glass, two for 7 cents., and only Republican customers would be taxed 20 cents a serving.
During every recent interview I have read, Ms. Bass has sounded as if she is auditioning to be Jay Leno’s successor. When asked about her agenda, Ms. Bass, who appears more badly overmatched every morning, pounds away at her two favorite nails:
Welcome to the State of Taxes
Close the tax loopholes on corporations who, by golly, make more money than any of her liberal pals, and do whatever is necessary to find $300 to $500 million to pour into her longstanding per interest, the state’s foster children program.
She has made raising taxes on all persons wealthier than she is her main goal. In the next breath, Ms. Bass confesses, “I am not a tax person.”
Thank you for elevating my confidence in you even higher.
