Yesterday afternoon, my Twitter stream filled with 140-character paeans to the 92-year-old senator from West Virginia. I was sad, not because I admired the politics of Senator Byrd, but because his death signaled the end of a certain prototypical senatorial figure in my mind.
Fifty years is enough time to sin and repent, for blatant racism, misguided legislation and general hackery. The Byrd I saw was just an understuffed antique arm chair that sat in the middle of the Senate and looked uncomfortable. No one wants to sit in it and no one wants to move it.
When I think of the Senate, I think of out-of-touch, pork-hoarding sticklers for protocol, universally white and nearly all old. In other words, Robert Byrd. When I go to Washington in a few months, I’m sorry I won’t get the chance to sit through a wandering speech delivered with shaky hands or a committee hearing brought to a halt by senatorial deference to age. Here are some of the best:
Byrd and his si-tu: This one I can’t take credit for. A friend sat in on this hearing on pet food contamination where Byrd took over, regaling the crowd with stories about his pet si-tu, Trouble. (After inquiry, it was determined that the dog was a shitzu, but Byrd couldn’t bring himself to use a bad word for his baby.) In 6 minutes, he manages to introduce his dog three times, deny Tibet its autonomy and lionize Chicago’s mayor, all while going off the record in an obviously on-the-record hearing.
