Russ Feingold is not from the real world

The maverick senator, subject of a new biography, is the latest embodiment of a long and unique Wisconsin tradition.

By Edward McClelland

Read more: Books, Hillary Rodham Clinton, John McCain, Russ Feingold, Joseph McCarthy, Books Features, 2008 election

July 24, 2007 | The year: 2002.

The setting: a closed-door strategy session in the Senate's LBJ Room.

The antagonists: Sens. Hillary Clinton and Russell Feingold.

The issue: Feingold's recently signed campaign finance reform bill. Clinton, whose husband's leasing of the Lincoln Bedroom had helped inspire the new law, was accompanied by an attorney. The attorney's job: Look for loopholes, loopholes that would allow the Democrats to keep raking in soft money -- unregulated, unlimited contributions to the party coffers. When Feingold objected, Clinton scolded him like Empress Livia dressing down a courtier.

"You're not living in the real world," she shouted.

"Senator," Feingold responded coolly, "I do live in the real world, and I'm doing just fine in it."

As a matter of fact, Clinton was right. Feingold does not live in the real world. He lives in Middleton, Wis., the Madison suburb that was just named the best place to live in America by Money magazine. And he represents a state whose residents seem to appreciate it when their senators don't spend gross sums of money to win their votes. William Proxmire, who was famous for exposing foolish government spending with his "Golden Fleece Awards," ran his last two campaigns for less than $200 apiece -- much of it spent on postage for returning unwanted contributions. Feingold won his first Senate primary after his wealthy opponents eviscerated each other with negative ads.

The upper Midwest -- specifically Wisconsin and its sister state, Minnesota -- has long seen itself as the conscience of America. Both states have a tradition of clean government and social reform, imported by German and Scandinavian immigrants. And both elect senators who, depending on your point of view, are either champions of progress or annoying liberal pains in the ass. Minnesota gave us Hubert Humphrey, Eugene McCarthy and Paul Wellstone. Wisconsin produced Gaylord Nelson, the founder of Earth Day, and Robert M. La Follette, one of the leading figures of the early 20th century progressive movement. La Follette steamed into Washington with a platform he called the Wisconsin Idea. Its planks included direct election of senators, state control of railroads, workmen's compensation, primary elections and a graduated income tax. Those were long-haired ideas in 1906, but thanks to Wisconsin, we now take them for granted.

La Follette was resented by his colleagues for "calling the roll" -- reading embarrassing votes to a senator's constituents -- and for casting one of six votes against World War I. Yet in 1957, the Senate named this virtuous crusader one of the five greatest solons in its history. La Follette is also Feingold's idol, we learn in "Feingold: A New Democratic Party," a scrupulously admiring but shallow biography. Author Sanford D. Horwitt spent five years following Feingold to North Woods town meetings and interviewing family members, teachers, debate coaches and political allies. Horwitt, who grew up in Milwaukee, began this project as a Feingold booster, and can't seem to comprehend why anyone would dislike or disagree with the senator. Feingold's controversial style must have made him some enemies, but you won't find them interviewed here. Particularly in the chapters on Feingold's boyhood in Janesville, Horwitt makes young Rusty sound like another Wisconsin character from the 1950s -- Richie Cunningham of "Happy Days." Rusty loved his mother's lemon meringue pie, and H-O-R-S-E in the driveway with his brother. In high school, where he was this "skinny dude everybody liked," he cruised the strip in Camaros and Chevelles, stopping for late-night burgers at the Oasis.

As a young man, Feingold accumulated a clean-cut résumé -- state championship debater, straight-A student at the University of Wisconsin, Rhodes scholar, Harvard Law, elected to the state Senate at 29 -- but nonetheless, he likes to claim, "I'm a renegade by nature." Growing up, Feingold was schooled in the La Follette legacy by his father, a small-town lawyer who once ran for district attorney on the Wisconsin Progressive Party ticket. "Fighting Bob" had been a Republican, but the Feingolds migrated to the Democratic Party after Wisconsin elected Joseph McCarthy to the Senate.

In Feingold's first Senate campaign in 1992, he was a renegade. Outspent by his primary opponents, he ran ads comparing his ranch house with his rivals' mansions and vacation homes. Against incumbent Republican Sen. Robert Kasten in the general election, he cheekily claimed he'd been endorsed by Elvis. The Almanac of American Politics called the ads "cutie-pie liberalism," comparing them to Paul Wellstone's stunt of driving a green bus across Minnesota two years earlier. Feingold won easily. As Horwitt puts it, Feingold's campaign was in the tradition of La Follette's "progressives, who "mostly thought of themselves as perpetual underdogs against the big-money interests."

Once Feingold got to the U.S. Senate, he prohibited his staff from allowing lobbyists to pay for lunch, or even from taking refreshments at Capitol Hill receptions. For that, he was treated like Frank Serpico on the NYPD. Sen. John Breaux of Louisiana wondered if Wisconsinites ever had "a little fun."

"Oh, we do," Feingold assured him. "But we pay for it."

Milwaukee will never be as much of a party town as New Orleans, even if bowling is your favorite sport. Feingold's first stab at reform was a gift ban, aimed at stopping senators from accepting free junkets and tickets to black-tie balls. These were cherished perks, so it took Feingold two years to push a bill through Congress that capped gifts at $50.

Feingold's party could tolerate his financial temperance as long as it was a personal habit. But in 1998, it almost cost him reelection. That year, Feingold made a pledge to spend no more than $1 per voter, a total of $3.8 million. He also refused to raise soft money and asked the national Democratic Party not to run ads on his behalf. Feingold's opponent made no such promises. The National Republican Senatorial Committee ran an ad calling Feingold "slippery" for supporting "wasteful government programs" while presenting himself as a budget hawk. The senator's 19-point lead shriveled to a two-point deficit. Panicked Washington Democrats produced attack ads. Feingold denounced them -- "I called [Senate Minority Leader Tom] Daschle and I called up [Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee chairman Bob] Kerrey and I said, 'Get those things off!'" -- but they ran for five days. Feingold won, by 35,000 votes. Did the negative ads make the difference? Feingold was too pure to walk the low road, but his seat may have been saved because someone else got down in the mud for him. The author doesn't ask that question. Instead, he writes, "On election night ... Feingold's big gamble was vindicated." Once again, Horwitt's reverence robs his subject of depth.

Next page: "Is it reasonable to despise this partisan impeachment process and yet to admire Feingold?"