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I am the last person who should be surprised or dismayed by odd behavior from our elected leaders. (If you are worried that this is going to turn into a “look what those knuckleheads in Congress did today!” screed, fear not. I would like to think that I have more going on than that automated dj machine on The Simpsons, the one with which KBBL station management keeps threatening to replace Bill and Marty. But maybe I don’t, and of course you are invited to tell me if I am indeed mistaken.) Because I literally cut my teeth on one of the more sordid chapters in American history—when my kindergarten teacher asked me what my mommy’s favorite television show was, I answered “the Senate Watergate hearings”—I should not be surprised by bizarre, labyrinthine, paranoid or just plain loony efforts to rationalize it. I remember my mom hooting at Ron Ziegler’s comment, after Richard Nixon had made a statement that contradicted a statement he had made a week earlier, that the previous statement was “inoperative.” Years later, as a teenager, I remember the woman who Ronald Reagan had tapped to run one of Health & Human Service’s family planning divisions, the mission statement of which was “no premarital sex, ever!”, trying to explain why she was traveling on the government’s dime to watch her son play pro football, in the company of a man who was not her husband. (Yes, she had a husband, too.) I can’t remember what the actual explanation was, but whatever it was, the White House was not impressed and she resigned. And I was actually home from college on a break, visiting relatives in Philadelphia, when we watched a live press conference called by our recently-convicted-and-about-to-be-sentenced state treasurer R. Budd Dwyer. He read a long, paranoid, multi-paged statement before killing himself on live television.

I mention all of this to remind myself that there is no room for surprise or naivete in me anymore. It sounds terrible, the laziest form of cynicism, to say “nothing the bums do surprises me,” but I cannot lie. Nothing the bums do surprises me. Or didn’t, anyway. Then I read how the governor of Connecticut and his wife spent their day yesterday.

Those of you from Connecticut and surrounding states—you know who you are—please bear with me, because I know you already know all of this. For those who don’t, the governor of Connecticut, John G. Rowland, is in hot water lately. Having previously denied that he had accepted favors from state contractors and potential bidders on state business, last week he admitted that he accepted free work on his lakeside cottage, a hot tub and a heating system from businesses, aides and friends who are now at the center of a federal investigation into state contract awards. His friends are being subpoenaed. Congressmen (and fellow Republicans) Christopher Shays and Rob Simmons are urging him toward full disclosure. His constituents, in rising numbers, are finding him untrustworthy. A Quinnipiac College poll shows his approval rating at 30%.

It is under this unhappy cloud that Gov. Rowland gave a speech yesterday before the Middlesex County Chamber of Commerce. His friends and aides, including those being investigated by the feds, were in attendance. So was his wife, Patricia. So were several soldiers, recently returned from Iraq. So were members of the press, who were not allowed to ask questions of the governor.

I will not dwell on Governor Rowland’s repeated references to his own Christianity. I will mention only in passing his quoting of C.S. Lewis, pointedly identified by the governor as a Christian: “In our adversity, God shouts to us.” I will not begin to enumerate my feelings on his introduction of the newly-returned soldiers from Iraq, and his attempts to glom onto the capture of Saddam Hussein (”...it was the Fourth Infantry Division...but it could have been any one of our Connecticut servicemen or women."), as well as his attempt to downplay the relative importance of the federal investigation compared to events overseas. It would be easy to rant about any of these, but then we wouldn’t have room for Mrs. Rowland’s poem.

The short version is that Mrs. Rowland wrote a parody of Clement C. Moore’s “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” a/k/a “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas,” in which she lays the blame for the year’s tribulations at the feet of the Hartford Courant. About a third of the way into the poem, the crowd began to gasp, and she turned to her husband to see if he wanted her to continue. “Go for it, hon,” he said to her. “What can they do to us?” She replied, “They can’t make it worse,” which to me sounds like a double-dog-dare challenge to the Fates to cook up something really good for the Rowlands.

Oh, hell, why rant about it anymore? Why not read the poem for yourself (which I got from the good folks at Newsday)?

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except me the first spouse.
I was waiting for Santa, that jolly old elf, to give him the list I had drawn up myself.
For I had hung all the garland and tinseled the trees and festooned the house for the public to see.
I’d sent all the cards to our friends far and near, and thanked all our staff for their hard work this year.
I’d shopped and I wrapped all my gifts full of love for our five picky teens, the black Lab and the guv.
I kept quiet and calm through December’s dark storm, protecting my family from those who wish harm.
So now it was my turn to get Santa’s ear, to tell him what I wanted for Christmas this year.
When out on my yard there arose such a hubbub, I thought maybe (Hartford Courant reporter) Jon Lender had jumped in the hot tub.
Now surely that man needs to go soak his head, but there on the lawn stood Santa instead.
“Come in, dear Santa, and rest for a while. I’ve got cookies and milk,” I said with a smile.
“I am late,” said Santa. “My last stop took hours, all that coal I delivered down The Courant’s tall towers.
“They used to be good girls and boys,” Santa said. “But the poison pen’s power has gone to their head.
“And I have the same problem at the media stations, they’ve just simply forgotten good human relations.
“Their thirst and hunger for the day’s biggest story has earned them black coal for their ill-gotten glory.”
“Oh Santa,” I said, “that is sad, I agree. They’ve acted like Grinches who have stolen our tree.
“They whipped themselves into a mad feeding frenzy. They’ve embarrassed our children and our Mama McKenzie.
“But this is the season of joy, peace and love, and forgiveness which comes from our Lord above.
“A time for compassion to give what we can, to lift up the spirits of our dear fellow man.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” went Santa. “I say that’s the gist. Now why don’t you tell me what is there on your list.”
“Dear Santa, this year bring warmth to those cold, and safety each day to the young and the old.
“Bring our soldiers home safely without any hitches, and give evildoers a kick in the britches.
“Help the lonely find love, and the lost find their faith, take the drugs off our streets so our children can play.
“Give our teenagers wisdom and courage and health. Show them family and friends are the best kind of wealth.
“And last, but not least, for the man next to me, a new year that is peaceful and refreshingly free of rumors and hearsay that do nothing but smother the positive works we should do for each other.
“This man who has given you many years of his life, who has stood tall and strong throughout good times and strife.
“He has championed our cities, our schools, and our arts. He’s made sure our children are ready and smart.
“He doesn’t get bullied by big union bosses who picket and whine and dwell on their losses.
“He’s the man with the plan for the good of our state and he won’t let the press twist and turn our state’s fate.
“So please, Mr. Santa, won’t you grant me this plea, and tackle this list that I have drawn up for me?”
Santa stood up and gave me his hand. “That’s quite a tall order, but I’ll do what I can. I’ll spread Christmas cheer to each city and town, to each man, woman and child, and I won’t let you down.”
He jumped in his sleigh, and then flew out of sight. He said, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

I know that this is supposed to be the season for peace and goodwill.  I know that I try to live by the Buddhist ideals of compassion and kindness, even though I am not a Buddhist.  I know that I have no quarter for pointing fingers at Connecticut’s dirty politics, considering that I have lived in New York and Philadelphia, no slouches themselves, government-venality-wise.  I know that there are bigger fish to fry in the world, and that children are starving in North Korea.  I am still pissed off by this, this whining, this craven invocation of God and country, this shitty, shitty poem.

Not that she has asked for my advice, but if she did, I’d give two pieces of advice to Mrs. Rowland. Piece the first is that you may want to be careful talking about the Courant‘s “ill-gotten glory” when your husband just admitted to getting a free hot tub. Piece the second is that you may want to be careful about getting cute in public. One of the other things I remember from my teenaged years is Imelda Marcos getting cute on camera, zinging her husband’s political opponents in song, and I remember how well that turned out for them.