But the moment passed quickly. Valdes took the microphone and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Good government was safe again.

OB should fence off VIP seating

August 10, 1988

You often hear people asking why anybody in their right mind would run for public office in South Florida.

Finally we've got an answer: They get swell seats for the Orange Bowl game.

It turns out that the organizers of the annual Orange Bowl Classic make tons of good tickets available for sale as early as August, four months before the big game. The only hitch is, you've got to be a local politician to get dibs.

This interesting arrangement came to light during a Miami Commission meeting in June, when Commissioner Miller Dawkins complained about the location of his seats for last year's game. Dawkins began whining just as the city was debating whether to spend $16 million to refurbish the old stadium.

"How come I got such bad seats for the Orange Bowl game?" Dawkins asked Orange Bowl Committee President Jim Barker.

Barker replied, "I will be more than happy to sit down and work something out … "

Dawkins cut in: "No. If you want my vote, you will work it out now." Lo and behold, two weeks later the commissioner was offered 34 seats on the 50-yard line. So what's a little extortion among friends?

True, every bowl game in the country offers VIP seating. It would be naive to imagine that UM President Tad Foote, or TV star Don Johnson, or the publisher of this newspaper couldn't scare up decent seats to the Orange Bowl game. This might not be fair, but it happens.

When it comes to politicians, we're not talking about a few measly seats under the press box. Last year the Orange Bowl offered 519 seats for sale to Miami city commissioners and the mayor. The big winner was City Manager Cesar Odio, who was allotted 270 seats worth $8,185. With that many he could bring the entire Miami Rowing Club.

The Orange Bowl's generosity spills beyond Miami's city limits. Last year each of the Metro commissioners was allocated 24 tickets, while Mayor Steve Clark got 64. For reasons equally mysterious, 48 seats were set aside for the Coral Gables commission and another 138 for its city manager, who must have a very large family.

Even the Miami Beach city commissioners, whose importance in the Orange Bowl festivities remains unclear, were allowed to buy 30 seats (one of the commissioners, Stanley Arkin, griped that the best he could do was the 30-yard line).

All tickets must be purchased at face value and are not to be resold for a profit. This is called scalping, and it is against the law. I can't imagine any of our loyal public servants stooping to such a thing.

The chairman of the Orange Bowl ticket committee, Bill Cullom, said there's nothing wrong with offering primo seats to politicians. "Professional courtesy," he calls it.

There's another name for it, Bill, and I think we all know what it is.

Why should some meathead commissioner be entitled to better seats than a loyal UM fan who stands three hours in line in the hot sun? No less disturbing is the manner in which these seats are distributed in blocks throughout the stands, with no warning to regular Orange Bowl spectators.

Say you and the family drive all the way from Nebraska just to see the Cornhuskers play on New Year's Day. Upon arrival, you discover that your seats are located in section T of the south stands—a teeming nest of local commissioners and their chums. Talk about a vacation nightmare.

If the Orange Bowl feels obliged to suck up to officeholders, then at least it should take precautions to protect the general public.

One idea is to seat all politicians in the same section of the stadium. The end-zone bleachers might be an appropriate place. Rope it off and mark it clearly, so the rest of the fans know to stay away.

Then again, maybe that's not such a great plan. You let that many politicians sit together (even at a football game), bad things are bound to happen.

The whole county could be rezoned commercial by halftime.

Lobbyists could try semaphore

May 15, 1989

A grave new crisis awaits the Metro Commission when it meets Tuesday.

Telephones.

Specifically: Should private lobbyists be allowed to call commissioners during the meeting and instruct them how to vote?

You remember four weeks ago when poor Mayor Steve Clark screwed up and voted the wrong way on a big airport construction project. No sooner had the mayor opened his mouth than his phone started to beep.

On the other end was lobbyist Eston "Dusty" Melton, the mayor's chum, ghostwriter and moral compass. Melton is to Steve Clark what Edgar Bergen was to Charlie McCarthy.

It just so happened that Melton was also a paid operative for the construction firm that stood to gain an extra $220,000 from a favorable vote on the airport project.

Apparently the mayor was reminded of this connection during the frantic phone call. He immediately arranged a new vote, absented himself (as originally planned), and the airport funding squeaked through.

Unfortunately, the mayor forgot to turn off his microphone when he took Melton's call. To complete the spectacle, a video monitor captured every moment of Clark's chagrined retreat ("Yes … No … I can't change now!")

Later the mayor said he didn't recall any of this. Then he remembered the phone call, but not who made it. Melton wisely refused to confirm or deny his half of the conversation, which probably went something like this:

"You !&*%! bozo, can't you get anything right!"

In the ensuing furor, Commissioners Joe Gersten and Larry Hawkins said lobbyists should be barred from calling during the commission meetings. Barbara Carey even ordered her phone disconnected.

And, just last week, the mayor's telephone suddenly vanished from his desk on the dais. Clark probably feared that some wise guy would publish the number (375-2400), thus inviting input from hundreds of lowly, garden-variety voters.

You might wonder why a developer's lobbyist should be able to call the mayor (375-2400) in the middle of a commission meeting, when that same privilege is not extended to the people who elected him. This is an excellent question, and the source of the commission's current agony.

To deprive lobbyists of their private touch-tone tickler is to invite mayhem. Without a phone, you can't be sure the commissioners will stick to the script. Mayor Clark is simply not as adept at memorizing his instructions as some of the others.

Tuesday's meeting requires special orchestration. On the agenda is a fancy condo project planned for smack dab in the middle of the Oleta River State Recreational Area.

The condo developers want to put in a marina. Environmental groups, joined by some county staffers, say a marina would threaten the river's population of manatees.

It promises to be a tense battle, and a controversial vote. Guess which lobbyist is pushing hard for the developers: Dusty Melton.

Now, what's Mayor Clark to do without a phone? What if he gets flustered again? What if he just plain forgets what to do? DUSTY! HELP!

The options are limited. Melton could scribble his orders on the cuffs of the mayor's shirt sleeves (a technique favored by many actors who can't remember their lines). Or maybe he could train a little parakeet to land on the mayor's shoulder and squawk in his ear before every vote.

Commissioner Charles Dusseau jokingly suggests that lobbyists bring megaphones to the meetings and holler their advice. Actually, semaphore flags would be less disruptive, or signal lights mounted in the rear of the chamber—one blink means vote "yes," two blinks mean "no," and three blinks mean, "Go home sick, we've got our quorum."