The song remains the sameDec 17, 2017 By Randy Tucker, Staff Writer
During the 1979 and 1980 legislative sessions in Cheyenne, a group of students of traveled over the hill from Laramie periodically, hoping to garner support for prospective bills of interest to students at the University of Wyoming.
In those days there were county coalitions. Fremont County had its own group of senators and representatives, as did the other 22 to greater or lesser degrees. As a kid from Pavillion I got to work with the best group in Cheyenne in, my opinion. I didn't know everyone well but I did know Roy Peck and Gary Jennings.They didn't always agree with me, but they always listened.
That wasn't true with a couple of bigger delegations. The guys from Natrona and Sweetwater Counties were tough nuts to crack. They partied hard, didn't listen much, and ,in a foreshadowing of what representative government has become, they most often followed the dollars.
The triad of politics, whether it be big city, state or national has always been money, power and sex - not always in the same order with every politician but with enough of them to make this a game plan followed by tens of thousands of professional lobbyists.
We were far from professionals. I had a brand new 1978 Ford Fairmont, and early in the morning Wendy, Bill, Linda and sometimes Scott would hop in with me for the 44-mile trek over the summit. On Fridays we left a little later and never went to the Capitol. The Hitching Post Inn was the place to be.
"The Hitch" was in its heyday then, and the bar was where to go if you really wanted to get your point across to a few of the legislators.We were all knowledgeable to a point on our preferred legislation, but Linda had tools the rest of us didn't. Think of a 21-year old Goldie Hawn, with a touch of Meg Ryan, in the clunky high heels the girls wore in the late 1970s. Add a plaid mini-skirt and a white turtleneck and she was the perfect bait for the more-lecherous elected leaders.
Linda got the boys' attention, and we'd hang close enough to catch their ears when we could - and to make sure she got out alive. At the end of these sessions Wendy would go into one of the restrooms with her while she changed into sweats for the trip back to campus.
"They're pigs. I need a shower," was her usual comment, followed by a mischievous grin and "but think I got our point across if they can remember it in the morning."
From Warren G. Harding, to JFK and his brothers, Nelson Rockefeller, Gary Hart, Bill Clinton and perhaps the greatest womanizer to ever hold national office, Trump, sex and politics are intertwined in our nation's history.
Prior to Hart losing the democratic nomination for photographs showing Hart and Donna Rice on a supporter's yacht called "Monkey Business" (you just can't make up stuff this good), the news media largely kept silent about the dalliances of our public figures.
Not anymore. It's high time these lecherous creeps were exposed. But it does take two to tango, and that's part of this equation that our politically correct press is leaving out.
The fall after graduation I had a 4:30 a.m. phone call at my apartment in Lusk. A friend was working for Sen. Al Simpson and sharing an apartment with another young woman working for Sen. Bob Packwood of Oregon. As MJ went into their shared bathroom that morning, there was Sen. Packwood. She didn't know what to do. I said "you can make a little money if you play it right," but she didn't.In 1996 Packwood resigned after admitting to at least 23 affairs with young aides.
My friend Brent was a very serious student. A communications major, he was planning to go to a prestigious law school and had a 4.0 GPA, save one professor who harassed him, gave him an unwarranted C, and told him he'd never make it as an attorney.
One night after an intramural basketball game we parted company. Brent lived off 9th street, and I walked back to the dorms. As he walked by the A&S building he noticed this professor's office light was on. He decided to have it out with him at that point.
As he walked up to the office, the door was ajar. Inside was the good doctor and a co-ed in Brent's class in a compromising position. He made sure the professor saw him, then quietly walked away.
Brent took four more classes from that guy, never went to class, and got an A in every one of them. Magically, that C changed to an A on his transcripts as well.
Phyllis took the same classes in history and literature that I did. She was an attractive brunette from Casper and very smart, but she like to play professors when she could.
The guy teaching literature of the South was flamboyantly gay. Fascinated by necrophilia, he thought he was Truman Capote and dressed the part. Phyllis often sat in the front row in a silk blouse and mini-skirt. Weeks went by and not a single indication came that he even knew she was there. One day she put an apple on his desk as we walked in. He didn't even look up.
My friend Jon succinctly said to her, "Yo, Phy, he's gay, give it up."
Class resumed two days later and there was Phyllis, in jeans and a sweatshirt, sitting in our row where we read the student newspaper each day before class started. "Hey, pass me a Branding Iron," she said.
Playing the game is one thing. When the game is played on you, and it's the only way you can advance or stay employed it's not a game anymore. It's an attack.Finally, the eternal triad is being exposed.
Editor's note: Staff writer Randy Tucker is a retired public school educator.