Writing Boots

On communication, professional and otherwise.

I know where Mitt Romney is coming from

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I was born in Detroit, to a father who wrote ads for Chevrolet in the 1950s and 1960s. Mitt Romney was born in Detroit, to a father who ran American Motors in the 1950s and 1960s. Figuring I knew some things about Romney that not everyone else did, I pitched a piece to Automobile Magazine.

In reporting "I love cars, American cars. I was born in Detroit," I learned that Romney and I have even more in common than I'd thought: Namely, loving fathers whose class and charisma we spend much of our lives trying, and inevitably failing, to live up to, even though they are dead. George-and-mitt-romney

But at some point, you do have to find your own natural way in the world. And as we've seen, Mitt Romney does not seem to enjoy running for office, and he doesn't seem particularly suited for it.

So why does he keep trying to square the wheel? His boyhood friend Phillip Maxwell told me he is still trying to honor his father's memory—and his father's religion—by becoming president of the United States.

I'd asked how, despite the claims of Maxwell and other loving childhood friends that Romney was the most principled man they knew, had Romney gotten such a reputation as a political changeling? 

"Well, you've got to separate his principles from this incredible drive," said Maxwell matter-of-factly. "He's determined to claim the highest office in the land—to be the first Mormon to do it. He keeps that undercover because he doesn't want to frighten people." Gokart-large

There's a lot I would do to impress my own dad, even now that he's gone, especially now that he's gone. (Like writing a magazine story about 1950s and 1960s car culture in Detroit. During my reporting, I visited the old GM building where Dad worked, and had to hide a tear from the security guards.)

But running for president, even though my talents and instincts suggest I'm much happier and more useful doing something else?

Sorry, Dad.

You're welcome, America.

Get me out of the ballgame

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From my Facebook friend, Mitt Romney:

Mitt has traveled thousands of miles on the road the last six months, visiting with Americans across the country. And now you have the chance to join him for Patriots’ Day in Boston.

Two lucky supporters will get to join Mitt in Boston to attend an opening homestand baseball game.

Now, far too much is made of the presidential test, "Is he someone you want to have a beer with?"

First of all, I always wonder if they really mean a beer, or do they mean—as I usually mean when I say a beer—six beers? It matters, because the guy with whom I want to have a beer with is not the same guy with whom I want to have six. And the guy who would pound six beers with me probably isn't presidential material, whereas the one-beer guy … anyway, the whole thing is very confusing for me.

But here you have Mitt Romney, who doesn't drink beer at all, and yet expects us to vie for a chance to go to a baseball game with him. Can you imagine? You'd be doing real good through the fourth or fifth inning—maybe you're only on your third Budweiser tall boy. But then the conversation hits another lull and, nervously, you reach between your legs for your sack of peanuts and you pour half your beer into the Mormon's lap, soaking his magic underpants on national TV.

At least, that's what would happen to me. Exactly what would happen to me.

Thanks, Governor, but I'll take a raincheck.

Why Mitt Romney keeps screwing up with this “wealth” thing

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To the extent that life is a never-ending poker game with everyone you know, your bank account is your poker hand, and you should never show it, whether it's good, bad or mediocre.

But, like you perhaps, I have more money than some people I know—a financial cushion to in case I get myself shitcanned someday, the beginnings of a college fund for Scout, a prayer for a graceful conclusion to this frenzied life of mine.

You could argue that there's as big a psychological disparity between someone who has a little safety net and someone who has none, and someone who has a vast financial empire, and me.

And you'd be right.

So why don't I keep making preposterous verbal gaffes about my "wealth" (a term, like "slather," that makes me queasy)?

Why don't I say to my truck driver friend, "Why don't you get those teeth fixed?"

Because I hang around the truck driver enough to realize he doesn't have any dental insurance!

Why don't I tell my nurse neighbor that she should encourage her teenager to major in English instead of business?

Because I know the nurse well, and have figured out that she's sending her kid not to a four-year intellectual dreaming range (as my privileged parents did), but to get a degree that's going to secure the kid's financial future.

Why don't I act uncomfortable and weird when someone suggests that, despite my heart-of-gold empathy and general salt-of-the-earthedness, I probably do see things a little differently than someone who has less financial security?

Because I know they're right—because I know people who have tons more financial security than I do, and I know they perceive the world differently than me.

Mitt Romney keeps making these gaffes because he doesn't have real, detailed relationships with people less well off than he is … and none with anyone significantly more well off (because no people exist).

So he's just disoriented in this area and can't figure out what sounds right to regular people, and what sounds like a couple of Cadillacs.

It's that simple.

Now: Does this particular disorientation mean that Mitt Romney shouldn't be president of the United States?

Well, far be it from a rich guy like me to tell you. Or a poor guy ike me to tell Mitt Romney.

But I'll tell you this: The more deeply you understand the people you're communicating with, the better the chance that you might say things that mean something to them.