Political Stories: Serenading Jim Hunt
The night after the debate Jesse figured there was no one to blame but himself but, by the next morning, he’d figured out that was wrong. He’d lost, he told me, because of the format (which, he added pointedly, was my and Tom Ellis’s doing). Then, having straightened out who was to blame he rolled up his sleeves and went to work to whip Hunt in the next debate and his solution was pretty odd.
A week before the debate he called us over to his house, led us down into the basement and stopped by an old derelict pool table covered with a mass of file folders – each labeled with an issue and each containing two statements: One thirty seconds and one sixty seconds long.
Jesse walked into the next debate holding the folders under his arm, glanced at the tiny table with a pitcher of water on it sitting by his podium, said, I’m going to need a bigger table, and the station manager rolled a table the size of a small barn into the studio; then Gary Pearce and Stephanie Bass walked into the room and Stephanie took one look at the tiny table sitting by Hunt’s podium and the huge table by Jesse’s and her antenna began to twitch – she let the manager know (in no uncertain terms) she wanted two tables the same size.
When the debate started Hunt asked the first question and the moment Jesse heard the words ‘tobacco tax’ he leaned over the table and began shuffling through file folders. He lifted out two statements and when the camera turned on him he was ready: He read his answer. But it still didn’t match Hunt. Then, after twenty minutes of Hunt snipping, Jesse started getting rattled and Hunt handed him a gift from the gods – leaning across the podium, lecturing Jesse, Hunt said, Senator, you’re getting flustered and rattled and you’re breathing hard – just take a deep breath and calm down.
Jesse rocked back on his heels, looked at Hunt, nodded, and did just what Hunt said.
The next thing I knew – while Hunt was giving a long-winded epistle oozing sincerity talking about all the plant ribbons he’d cut and the hundreds of thousands of jobs he’d brought to North Carolina – Jesse, watching, slowly lifted his arms and began moving his hands back and forth like he was playing the violin – serenading Hunt.
To be continued… Ivory Towers.
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Political Stories: Serenading Jim Hunt
The night after the debate Jesse figured there was no one to blame but himself but, by the next morning, he’d figured out that was wrong. He’d lost, he told me, because of the format (which, he added pointedly, was my and Tom Ellis’s doing). Then, having straightened out who was to blame he rolled up his sleeves and went to work to whip Hunt in the next debate and his solution was pretty odd.
A week before the debate he called us over to his house, led us down into the basement and stopped by an old derelict pool table covered with a mass of file folders – each labeled with an issue and each containing two statements: One thirty seconds and one sixty seconds long.
Jesse walked into the next debate holding the folders under his arm, glanced at the tiny table with a pitcher of water on it sitting by his podium, said, I’m going to need a bigger table, and the station manager rolled a table the size of a small barn into the studio; then Gary Pearce and Stephanie Bass walked into the room and Stephanie took one look at the tiny table sitting by Hunt’s podium and the huge table by Jesse’s and her antenna began to twitch – she let the manager know (in no uncertain terms) she wanted two tables the same size.
When the debate started Hunt asked the first question and the moment Jesse heard the words ‘tobacco tax’ he leaned over the table and began shuffling through file folders. He lifted out two statements and when the camera turned on him he was ready: He read his answer. But it still didn’t match Hunt. Then, after twenty minutes of Hunt snipping, Jesse started getting rattled and Hunt handed him a gift from the gods – leaning across the podium, lecturing Jesse, Hunt said, Senator, you’re getting flustered and rattled and you’re breathing hard – just take a deep breath and calm down.
Jesse rocked back on his heels, looked at Hunt, nodded, and did just what Hunt said.
The next thing I knew – while Hunt was giving a long-winded epistle oozing sincerity talking about all the plant ribbons he’d cut and the hundreds of thousands of jobs he’d brought to North Carolina – Jesse, watching, slowly lifted his arms and began moving his hands back and forth like he was playing the violin – serenading Hunt.
To be continued… Ivory Towers.
Click Here to discuss and comment on this and other articles.