Back in the early ’90s, I was chasing California politics the way a hungry dog chases a meat truck—press pass in one pocket, notebook in the other, and always with a half-empty tank of gas and a deadline that didn’t care about traffic on the 5.
One particular night in San Diego still sticks like gum to the bottom of my reporter shoes. The setting: a Chinese restaurant run by dyed-in-the-wool Democrats who knew the difference between sweet and sour pork and sweet and sour politics. The occasion: a ffundraiser for Denise Moreno Ducheny, who was trying to get elected to the Assembly and not get steamrolled by the usual suspects.
And then Willie Brown showed up.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a room when Willie Brown arrives, but “showed up” doesn’t quite cut it. Willie didn’t enter. He materialized. Like a magician in a tailored suit, or a jazz solo made flesh. He had more charisma than a Pentecostal preacher and more power than a bulldozer with the brakes cut.
At that time, he was the Speaker of the California Assembly and had been since the Pleistocene—or at least it felt that way. Willie had the rare gift of being both the smartest man in the room and the best dressed, and he made damn sure everyone knew it. He smiled like a movie star, moved like a card shark, and could outmaneuver a swarm of lobbyists before dessert hit the table.
I managed to snag him for an interview after the fundraiser. He smiled that Willie smile—half kind uncle, half poker player—and answered my questions with the smooth assurance of a man who’s never met a camera he didn’t like.
Then I asked about moderate Republicans.
Now, let’s be clear: I didn’t expect him to break into song and praise the GOP for its legislative genius. But something in his jaw twitched just slightly—like I’d asked him whether houseflies had a right to speak at budget hearings.
Still smiling, he said, “Their voices are always considered.”
Translation: We let them talk, sure. Then we do what we were gonna do anyway.
See, Willie played politics like Miles Davis played trumpet—cool, complex, and completely in control. And while the rest of the state was still trying to figure out what the hell term limits meant, Willie was already halfway through his third contingency plan and had a fresh pair of cufflinks to match.
That night at the restaurant wasn’t about campaign cash. It was about power—and everyone in that room knew it. Local pols were lined up like kids at a photo op with Santa Claus, except this Santa handed out committee assignments and highway funds. The donors smiled like folks who knew their checks just bought them a seat at the grown-ups’ table. And Ducheny? She held her own, but make no mistake: this was a Willie Brown production, and everyone else was working off his script.
I came across the photo recently—me, looking like a young reporter trying not to look too impressed. Him, looking like he just closed a billion-dollar deal and remembered all your names while doing it.
And wouldn’t you know it—today, some fool had the gall to say I “don’t know California politics.”
Son, I had egg rolls with Willie Brown while he was still running the state like a Vegas pit boss with a backroom full of favors. I’ve watched real power up close—and heard it order dinner.
Decades later, they still talk about Willie like he’s a myth. But I was there. I saw it. He was real. He was brilliant. He was maddening. And he ran California like it was a high-stakes poker game and he’d memorized the deck.
They don’t make them like Willie anymore.
Hell, they never could.