The Ten Best and The Ten Worst Legislators
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Innocent of skills, Eikenburg was nevertheless quick to blame others for his misfortunes. Accused Kneeland of having been put up to that embarrassing news film by the horse-racing lobby. Accused trial lawyers of killing one of his four paltry bills; they hadn’t even known it was on the calendar. Had the temerity to complain to colleagues about how hard it was to be rich.
Wants to be a state senator. But perhaps his true calling was apprehended by the lobbyist who, seeing Eikenburg leaning over the rotunda railing and pointing downward, said, “That’s what he’s suited for! A tour guide!”
Bill Hollowell, Democrat, Grand Saline
The most misunderstood member of the Legislature—and that is not a compliment. Yes, he accepts no campaign contributions and always speaks and votes his mind. Unfortunately, that is the locus of all the trouble. Blustery, parochial, obstreperous, and uninformed; a reincarnation of the worst qualities of William Jennings Bryan, of whom Woodrow Wilson said, in words that apply equally well to Hollowell, “He is absolutely sincere. That is what makes him so dangerous.”
At his worst on the powerful appropriations conference committee, where he was one of ten legislators with the final say on the state budget. This should have been his hour to shine: the treasury is short of money, the conferees have to cut the budget to the bone, and Hollowell postures as a guardian of the public purse. The committee rose to the occasion, all right, but Hollowell was a Lilliputian among Gullivers.
A know-nothing and proud of it; made no effort to see beyond his multitudinous prejudices and repeatedly had to be set straight by senators and staff. Griped that too much of the state’s money went to Houston; fought urban appropriations without regard to merit. His resistance to a vocational education program caused a rural senator to make a speech—something that never happens in conference committees—directed at Hollowell, on the importance of vocational education in general and the high success rate of the program in particular.
A total stranger to rational argument. When Jay Gibson tried to preserve a Chihuahuan Desert study at Sul Ross State because the low-enrollment college needed special programs to attract students, Hollowell retorted, “Let them study something worthwhile. That desert will be there awhile.”
Ignored the significant for the trivial. Reserved his greatest wrath for an obscure segment of the educational bureaucracy known as regional service centers; carried around a file folder stuffed with audit reports documenting misuse of state funds at one center. Threatened to unleash the General Investigating Committee, which he chairs, to hound the centers. It was vintage Hollowell: uninformed (the offending employee was fired as soon as his indiscretions were uncovered) and misdirected (the committee ignored indiscretions much closer to home, namely, the exorbitant expense reports filed last year by Houston legislator Ron Wilson).
Hollowell did leave one legacy for the session: a proposal that if adopted by the voters will become the silliest amendment ever added to the Texas constitution. In the case of nuclear attack, the Legislature would be authorized to fill sudden vacancies from the ranks of former members. Poor Texas. It is not enough to bear the tragedy of nuclear war; we must then suffer the indignity of entrusting our survival to the likes of Bill Heatly and Bill Moore. Thanks, Mr. Hollowell, but it was hard enough the first time.
Sam Hudson, Democrat, Dallas
Stop. Consider this a warning. What follows is not for the skeptical. They will never believe a word of it. But we’re not making it up.
Poor Sam Hudson doesn’t have any more idea of what is happening on the floor than the schoolchildren who file into the gallery, sit for five minutes, and leave. It took him—no kidding—two sessions to figure out that the phone on his desk on the House floor was a direct line to his office. One day this year he saluted colleague Tom DeLay with “Hi there, Ron,” which might be dismissed under the heading of “accidents can happen” if the incident had not occurred (a) during the last week of the session after (b) DeLay and Hudson had shared an office suite for four months.
Still not convinced? Try this one. Hudson introduced a bill calling for the reorganization of the Texas Indian Commission. At a committee hearing on the bill, he called, with great flourish and fanfare, his first and only supporting witness—who proceeded to tear his bill apart.
More? No problem. Hudson actually got a bill up for debate this year without going on a hunger strike, no small feat considering that in 1977 he had to resort to a 68-day fast. The current bill was aimed at preventing voter intimidation by banning all signs at polling places except those prescribed by the Secretary of State’s office; not a bad idea, only—oops—the bill read, “proscribed.” House members had hardly stopped yukking over that one when here came another Hudson bill, this one making it a felony to wear masks at Ku Klux Klan rallies. Oops again: it also made felons out of kids on Halloween.
Despite five terms in the House, remains oblivious to basics. Even the teenage pages know the procedure for debate—bills are voted on twice, but the second time is usually a formality and amendments then are discouraged both by rule and by custom—but not Sam. Dormant while the House gave preliminary approval to a dogfighting bill, then erupted with ten amendments during the ritual of final passage. Mercifully, Speaker Lewis shut him off after four had failed by overwhelming margins, less in the interest of saving time than of quieting the dozens of members who had seized the opportunity to practice yelping and howling.
None of these shenanigans came as any shock to Hudson’s colleagues; what did shock them, however, was Lewis’ decision to reward Hudson with a committee chairmanship. Lewis tried to minimize the damage by giving him the committee with jurisdiction over ceremonial resolutions, but even that turned to disaster. Like a wayward blade of grass on a putting green, it introduced a fatal eccentricity into the rolling course of events. On the day the horse-racing bill finally came up for debate, 75 members voted to kill the bill, 74 wanted to keep it alive … and Sam was missing. Supporters scoured the Capitol and nearby eateries while tension filled the chamber and metallic voices boomed out: “Is Mr. Hudson on the floor of the House? Is Mr. Hudson on the floor of the House?” It was no use. Sam was presenting one of his resolutions to a political friend—back in Dallas.
Glenn Kothmann, Democrat, San Antonio
Hilariously inept. Enjoyed, if that is the word for it, what everyone agrees was his best session, yet it wasn’t close to keeping him off the Ten Worst list.
Kothmann’s problem: hubris. He actually tried to be a player this session. The Valero bill pretty much sums up the results. Valero, a gas pipeline company headquartered in Kothmann’s district, needed a Senate sponsor for a bill to solve a local problem. But the company had a problem of its own. Kothmann, you see, is not very good at passing bills. So the company bypassed him, choosing instead John Traeger of neighboring Seguin. The slight infuriated Kothmann, and he vowed to kill the bill. As fate would have it, his was the swing vote in committee. Only he voted for the bill by mistake.
May be the only senator in Texas history to climb as high as fourth in seniority without being named a committee chairman. Thank God. Doesn’t have the foggiest understanding of substance; during the hearing on the intricate issue of trucking deregulation, resorted in desperation to letting lobbyists in the gallery signal him how to vote. Doesn’t have the foggiest understanding of procedure, either. Momentarily took over the gavel in State Affairs one day, only to be baffled by a routine motion (to substitute a House bill for a Senate bill) that is used dozens of times each session to speed bills through the process.
Only person to assess Kothmann’s performance as outstanding was Kothmann himself, in response to a question from a local reporter. At Kothmann’s insistence, both the question and the answer were in writing; verbal interviews are just too tricky. But the reporter didn’t mind; “even when he’s talking to you, he’s inaccessible,” says she.
Gets no sympathy for his bumbling, unlike most sad sack legislators, because, in the words of one lobbyist, “I’ve never met a man in politics who’s so petty.” Won his last primary by only 99 votes, a calamity for San Antonio on the scale of the great flood of 1921; spent this session poring over his opponent’s contribution list and swearing vengeance against anyone whose name appeared.
Seeks the spotlight as often as water runs uphill. Even has other senators introduce guests from his district and explain his bills in committee. Couldn’t avoid taking the floor to debate his bill requiring voter registrants to reveal felony convictions; it was a fiasco. Had to be coached through procedural motions by the chair, then looked pleadingly around the floor for help when other senators started asking questions that couldn’t be answered by “yes” or “no.” Silence reigned until someone took pity and spoon-fed him the answers. Senators mercifully called a halt after a series of pointed questions (later described by a colleague as “target practice on a whale tied to a tree”) ended with, “I think you have a bad bill, Senator.” Kothmann responded, “Thank you, Senator.”
Jan McKenna, Republican, Arlington
Every legislator has his element: Jan McKenna’s first session proved hers was hot water. A world-class waffler, developed an abiding fondness for the little white “present” light that lets members off the hook from voting yes or no. “I’ll vote ‘present’ unless you need me,” she assured one lobbyist sincerely. Flaked early on the horse-racing issue, first telling lobbyists she’d vote for it, then changing her mind on the nonsensical grounds that it was local option.
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