October 2004

From this week's Alibi:

Flashback to 1998. Heather Wilson had been in Congress for only a few months—she was in fact the lowest ranked person in the 435-member House—when she earned her 15-minutes of national fame by standing up before the body and railing like a banshee against Bill Clinton's private sex life. It was hard to forget, unfortunately, because the tirade was such an embarrassment, worse than Wilson's Janet Jackson meltdown even. But at the time, the congresswoman's episode sent a clear signal to Newt Gingrich and Tom Delay that she was there to be a loyal party follower. And she has been a loyal party follower ever since.

From today's Tribune. Emphasis mine.

On Thursday, the chairman of the New Mexico Democratic Party jumped into the mix. John Wertheim seized on a 6-year-old matter that stems from Wilson's tenure as Cabinet secretary of the state Children, Youth and Families Department.

Recycling a videotape prepared by a previous Wilson challenger, Democrat Phil Maloof, Wertheim brought up the question of what happened with a personal file on Wilson's husband, Jay Hone, that was kept by her old agency.

The videotape Wertheim was showing reporters is an edited broadcast of a KOAT-TV Channel 7 report, which details how Wilson, in her first week on the job in 1996, ordered a file regarding Hone's role as a foster parent be moved from an Albuquerque warehouse to department headquarters in Santa Fe.

Wilson has said she didn't want a file containing personal information available to department employees. She has produced an affidavit signed by the agency's former counsel, that states the documents were sealed and locked away. Wilson was not allowed access to the files, the affidavit states, and the files remained intact through Wilson's tenure at the agency, which lasted until 1998, when she was elected to her current office.

I wonder what's in the file. Probably nothing. She moved it because there was nothing. Move along. These aren't the droids you're looking for.

Richard Romero didn't fare too well in the debate, did he? In fact, he did so poorly that it causes one to wonder if he'd ever participated in a debate before. And the only way Heather Wilson could have done any better is if she had pulled the anti-matter pistol from the secret compartment in her neck and reduced Romero to a quivering puddle of plasm.

Wilson answered nearly every question with what could be characterized as a self-satisfied smile on her face. She looked directly into the camera, brimming with confidence. Romero fumbled and futzed, meandered and noodled. He looked everywhere but at the camera or at his opponent. The issue of a donut hole was debated, but I never got a clear idea of whether the donut hole in question was the delicious bite-sized pastry or the melancholy empty space so often used to describe gravitational anomalies in the space-time continuum. And a guy from the AARP asked a question about something that had to do with something that wasn't a donut. After 15 minutes, it was apparent that Wilson was going to win this debate, and if this was any indication of how the election was going to go, she was going to win that, too.

After the debate, I took a long walk and pondered the question of Wilson's continued stewardship of our republic. It was a breezy fall day. Crisp. Lovely. Maybe, I mused, hands clasped behind my back, brow furrowed in thought, maybe I'd been too hard on Heather Wilson. After all, we're all God's children, even if some of us are from distant galaxies. Maybe if we were nicer to Wilson, she'd give us some useful tips, such as how to breathe under water, or how to sound like we're answering questions even if we're not. Maybe the problem wasn't Heather Wilson so much as it was my inability to accept this strange visitor who obviously had what it takes in the debating department.

The future, I concluded, belongs to the aliens, and to some small degree those who will serve them. Perhaps it was time to take a more pragmatic approach — you know, get in on the ground floor while the getting was good. Perhaps it was time to accept the "facts on the ground," as pundits are so fond of saying these days. Maybe doing the bidding of our Republican masters won't be so bad. I hear they throw good parties.

Get out your guitars — the Poet of Budaghers' Space Port has branched out into campfire songs with a third poem about Heather Wilson's extraterrestrial adventures. Thanks Poet of Budaghers' Space Port!