But as he thumped his broad chest and strutted past his foes, “The Body” nearly ran his government aground. Ventura’s mix of street theater and political brinkmanship ultimately won the day, but the crisis sheds light on both the best and worst of independent politics. The roller-coaster process, and the angst it provoked, halted some services late last week as the state prepared to go out of business, at least temporarily. When voters talk about a break from the old ways, this is not what they have in mind. “This is like a bad episode of ‘The Simpsons’,” said Tim Pawlenty, the Republican House majority leader, who is mulling his own bid for governor next year. “It’s just dysfunctional.”
But Jesse’s madness turned out to have a method. By shrewdly playing both sides against each other, he manages to keep alliances shifting, spooking his enemies (and they are legion) and claiming conquest when the parties meet in the middle. Even his critics say he came away with some major triumphs, especially on property-tax reduction. By changing the formula for spending on schools–more money for education will come directly from the state–property taxes will fall about 25 percent. Says John Brandl, a dean at the University of Minnesota: “Neither the Democrats nor the Republicans have been able to pull that off in the past.”
It’s unclear what’s next for Jesse. He says people all over the country want him to run for president, and that he could win. But he doesn’t want the bother. “You live in a bubble.” Instead, he talks about selling all of his possessions and retiring as a beach bum in Hawaii’s Kona. “I’m serious about this,” he says. “I wouldn’t even own a wristwatch.” Until then, he says, he’ll use the bully pulpit to push for “the common-sense middle” unhappy with the Democrats and the Republicans.
But if it amounts to a movement, nobody has quite figured out how to harness the independent zeal. So far, the success of independents has derived largely from cults of personality, like Ventura’s and Ross Perot’s. Perot’s Reform Party, meanwhile, seems headed for oblivion these days. Even Ventura, despite his popularity in Minnesota, can’t seem to lure people to his Independence Party. He has convinced only a single lawmaker to carry his Independence banner. So the trick, as the governor has learned, is trying to govern without a party. With no mechanism to enforce loyalty, Ventura can bark, but he can’t bite. So he hammers at both Democrats and Republicans, drawing on his lofty approval ratings. His poll numbers have never dipped below 54 percent–a big number in a three-way race. His hardball moves seem to pay off with voters, even if it rubs lawmakers a bit raw. “One day Ventura is your partner,” says Pawlenty, “but then he’s putting a dagger in your back.”
That suits Ventura. He says he kept lawmakers on their toes during the impasse by reminding them that Newt Gingrich, the speaker of the U.S. House, took more blame for the federal shutdown than Bill Clinton. “You’re going to take the heat for a shutdown,” he told them, “not me.” In the budget, Ventura got his 25 percent reduction in property taxes and rebates of the state surplus, known in Minnesota as “Jesse checks.” He also beat back a Republican move to cut funds to agencies that counsel women on abortion, even Lutheran Social Service.
The governor’s detractors also say Ventura goes for image, but lacks any real concept of the mechanics of government. “No governor has been as disengaged as this governor,” said Brandl. “In this state we expect the governor to be involved in making deals. But he’s not there at 2 in the morning with the rest of them.” Ventura doesn’t contest the charge. “Details are not my thing,” he said. “I’m looking at the big picture. You wouldn’t expect the captain of the ship to go down and fix the boiler, would you?”
Up for re-election next year, Ventura demurs about his plans. He insists he’s still having fun in office. It seems so, as the governor sits on a sofa in the mahogany-paneled drawing room of the executive mansion–a red carpet leads from the iron gates to the front door–and calls for a tuxedoed staff member to light his Dominican stogie. He’s taken some guff in print for his cigars, setting a bad example as a smoker. He groans. “It’s legal and I’m gonna be 50 years old. Come on, it’s a choice.” His voice grows louder as he rails against the bane of self-righteousness in the land. Everyone within 75 feet can hear the governor rant, except for his slobbery bulldog, Franklin, who is dozing and snoring loudly. The old pup is the exception. Love Ventura or loathe him, he’s not going to stop speaking his mind. And he’s not likely to put anyone else to sleep.
