But these are not tough times for a lot of Romney boosters, judging by the look of things.
Romney made this stand for the little guy in the heart of Fairfax County, which has the second-highest household income in the nation (neighboring Loudoun County is No. 1). Seemingly everyone in the 200-strong crowd was fingering a smartphone, with the exception of the guy in the polo shirt in the second row reading the Wall Street Journal, and the linen-blazer-clad guy in the eighth row checking the Drudge Report on his iPad.
To get a better sense of the economic status of the invitation-only crowd, I strolled the parking lot — and found a fleet of BMW, Mercedes, Volvo and Cadillac SUVs, as well as Jaguar, Audi, Lexus and BMW sports cars. Parked near the entrance: a black Rolls-Royce Silver Spur III with vanity plates saying “MY ROLLS” — and a Romney bumper sticker.
When it comes to speaking up for the downtrodden, Romney isn’t just another man of the people. He is the Rolls-Royce of populists.
With evidence building that his prospects have been hurt by his dismissal of nearly half the country as moochers, Romney has been making it his job to worry about the 47 percent of Americans he famously said it wasn’t his job to worry about.
But when such an appeal is attempted by a man who has painstakingly crafted for himself a public image combining Scrooge McDuck and Thurston Howell III, there is bound to be a certain amount of awkwardness and inconsistency.
Consider, for example, his new ads showing him speaking in front of a sooty group of coal miners, as various miners in their Appalachian accents criticize President Obama’s coal policy. The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch reported that the miners who appeared behind Romney in the ad had had their shifts ended early — and they weren’t paid for the lost time while they stood on the stage behind Romney.
There was also Romney’s unexpected response when NBC’s Ron Allen asked him about his difficulty connecting with middle-class Americans. “One hundred percent of the kids in our state had health insurance,” Romney boasted. “I don’t think there’s anything that shows more empathy and care about the people of this country than that kind of record.” But the next morning, he took the stage in Springfield and announced: “I got to get rid of Obamacare” — the nationwide program based on his own empathetic program in Massachusetts.
Finally, there was this I-feel-your-pain moment in Ohio on Wednesday: “I’ve been across this country; my heart aches for the people I’ve seen,” Romney proclaimed in a high school gymnasium. Inconveniently, a 1985 video surfaced the next day in which Romney explained that Bain Capital’s goal with the companies it invested in was “to harvest them at a significant profit” — as if they were organs being removed from an accident victim.
Why the Baron of Bain would be making a late appeal to the downtrodden is obvious. The latest Washington Post-ABC News poll finds that Americans regard Romney’s “47 percent” remarks negatively, 54 percent to 32 percent. Respondents who self-describe as independent, the all-important demographic, regarded the comments even more negatively.
But the outreach to the 47 percent he privately regarded as parasites furthers the impression that Romney is inauthentic — an impression encouraged by the candidate’s contrived delivery. In Springfield, Romney at one point recited a verse from “America the Beautiful” (though he has stopped singing the tune) and later held his left arm aloft, pretending to be the Statue of Liberty lifting her torch.
The event was at an American Legion hall, so Romney, who didn’t mention veterans affairs in his acceptance address at the Republican convention, built up the part of his usual stump speech where he promises to increase Pentagon spending while cutting taxes and the deficit. He thanked the “heroes” in the hall — and then Romney, champion of the little guy, took his motorcade to downtown Washington for a $50,000-a-plate fundraising dinner at the Renaissance Hotel.
Even a man of the people needs to eat.