On the first Monday of January, 1967, the California State
     Legislature convened at noon. Janet and I drove our new 
     Dodge Dart into the garage under the Capitol reserved for
     Legislators. I remember the garage man taping a little tag on
     the windshield which said "A-5", the number of my assembly
     district. He said I'd get a parking space with the district
     number painted on it, and I knew I'd soon be getting special
     licence plates labelled A-5.  


                  


      As we entered my office, Dorothy Loviach, my secretary,
 dropped her telephone conversation to bow and scrape before 
 "Assemblyman Dunlap! --and this must be Mrs. Dunlap. I'm so
 glad to meet you. Mr. Dunlap says you have four children, I
 hope I'll meet them soon!" Dorothy had on her best Capitol
 manners. She was a little bit patronizing and saccharin but I
 can't say we didn't like it. She had been around up there a lot
 longer than we had and handled us well.

      Around noon we somehow found our way to the Legislative
 Chamber, which was in the original half of the Capitol

 structure built in the 19th century. The new section (where
 the offices were, built in the 1950s) and the old section                 
 of the entire Capitol building, were joined directly

 together, but the levels and floor numbers didn't match, so
 you could suddenly find yourself on the third floor, having set
 out from the second without passing down any stairs or

 elevators. In some places, inclining hallways contributed to
 the confusion--and there were no hall windows through which to
 get a fix from the redwoods in the Capitol grounds (all of them
 being off in the offices behind closed doors).

      The Assembly chamber was carpeted in red and blue. It was
 a little like a theatre, with its high high ceilngs, and a

 balcony in back which served as a public gallery. The first

 floor area is taken up by rows of tilttop desks and swivel

 chairs, eighty altogether, one for each represented district.
 The 'stage' area is occupied by a huge, high wooden desk, at
 which the Speaker stands, surrounded by functionaries.

      The chamber is also a little like an oversize school

 classroom, except that the occupants are less well-behaved. The
 impression many people get, first witnessing the Assembly in
 session, is of a bunch of rude men and women in business suits
 milling around and paying very little close attention to the

 business at hand. But despite apparent chaos, there is some
 order; there is a functioning system. During sessions, when you
 want to be recognized you stand up at your desk and say in a
 fairly loud voice, "Mr. Speaker." This might be an improvement
 over raising your hand and waiting for the teacher to call on
 you. The Speaker, when he feels your turn has come, recognizes
 you and turns on the microphone which permits you to speak on
 the public address system. Since only one mike is operative or
 "open" at one time the members are effectively discouraged from
 all talking at once. Your desk is also equipped with a voting
 switch controlling little red and green lights next to your

 name on a board at the head of the room; your votes are visible
 and recorded. When your microphone's turned on, you can address
 the other legislators, who are, despite their milling about,

 paying some attention to the proceedings.

      Janet was allowed to stand at my side for the swearing-in
 ceremony. Other Assemblymen had also brought their wives, some
 stood next to their mothers or a favored child. The swearing-in
 officer led us through a rote repetition of The Oath of

 Office,* which we all repeated like good little children. It

 was over in a couple of minutes. I suppose swearing-in

 ceremonies are simple rituals and nothing more. The

 justification for them is not just the literal promise that you
 make ("I promise to obey all the laws and carry out the duties
 of the office I'm about to undertake; to be good to Mother and
 Daddy and obey the constitution and not beat my grandmother")
 ______________
 *A copy of the actual oath is located in Appendix 1A. 4

 --it's to impress you with the formality of the occasion and
 your responsibility. But being one of eighty mumbling a

 paragraph of prepared words was not to me too impressive, of 
 either my importance or responsibility. Although the ceremony
 itself was not too impressive I don't mean to say that I didn't
 personally feel important because I did. Also, the event was
 accompanied with good natured jesting by those in charge and
 there was a feeling of comradeship among the members, returning
 members greeting each other with handshakes and backslapping,
 and welcoming the newcomers. 

      The swearing-in ceremony did give me the opportunity of
 seeing all of my colleagues in one place. I knew a few already
 and others by reputation--John Burton, Willie Brown, John

 Vasconcellos. It's interesting that we were all assigned

 particular seats. I was located pretty much in the center. The
 seats were in rows two desks wide (so you had a "desk-mate")
 with aisles in between each two rows. My seatmate was Ernie
 Mobley, a Republican from Sanger, a small city near Fresno. In
 back of us sat John Miller, a black Democrat from Berkeley, and
 Pete Wilson, as of this writing Governor of California--a

 Republican. The seating was all prearranged by the Speaker, who
 I'm sure accomodated requests of his favorites. Miller, Wilson,
 Mobley, and I were all new members, and as I think of it there
 were many paired-off new arrivals. It's strange that they put
 us all together, although maybe there wasn't much else they
 could do. Election year 1966 was a big turnover year. Of the 80
 members, 34 of us were just elected.

      The first week there was a rash of parties. Some were for
 members only: others were more big social events, spouses
 invited. Janet and I went to the Governor's Ball, which was

 supposed to be a prime event. I rented a tux and Janet wore a
 special dress. She looked beautiful. Right from the start,

 though, we began to feel out of place. Drinks cost a dollar 
 apiece, which was as much as we'd ever paid then. This was not
 a privilege--it didn't make me feel very special.

 
      
When the band started up, we tried to dance 
        
 to 'Winchester Cathedral', a name I remember because

 it seemed so ridiculous. And, I've always been curious

 as to what the words mean. To me the song was mostly rhythm,
 but then I don't have much tune perception. Anyway, it was hard
 to dance to. I was always awkward dancing, and I felt even more
 so now. Not that it mattered--nobody was watching. Still, we
 did feel out of place in general. We knew practically nobody,
 and, being staunch Democrats, we weren't too likely to rejoice
 at a party calculated to celebrate the incoming of the

 Republican Party's bright new star, Governor Ronald Reagan. If
 it had been our candidate's official inaugural ball, we

 would've had something to crow about. As it was, the most
 interesting happening at the ball was seeing former child

 moviestar Shirley Temple.*

      We were there pretty much like smalltown citizens at the
 county fair--we assumed it was the place to be. As the evening
 wore on, I didn't see very many people I knew, but I was happy
 finally to meet one Democratic Assemblyman from Richmond. 
 I introduced Janet and he mumbled something about not having
 been able to talk his wife into coming with him. After a minute
 he excused himself, saying he had to get around and make sure
 he showed his face sufficiently to some of his Republican

 friends. We felt a little more alone as he left, and wished

 we'd gone to the movies instead of coming here--it was getting
 harder to make believe we were having fun. We weren't cynical
 by nature--maybe we were learning to be cynical, or learning
 that you didn't have to do everything. I guess we had to go to
 the ball in order to discover we didn't have to go to the ball.
 ____________________________
   *Shirley Temple was too much younger than I was for me to be 
   attracted to her. Still, you couldn't grow up being just a few
   years older than her and not have paid some attention to her
   and if you went to the movies at all you would have seen some 
   of her movies. They were the kind of movies I guess adults
   thought children ought to go to and I liked them well enough.
  
   
        When the speeches started, Reagan came out looking like a
   shit-eating fatuous son of a bitch.*  He probably really looked
   just the same as he did introducing Anna Marie Alberghetti on
   G.E. Theatre (a smiling, mouthy, relatively handsome Mr. Nice
   Guy) but I wasn't 100 percent objective in January, 1967, and
   as time went on I'd have more reasons to cultivate my intuitive
   dislike of the new Governor.
 
        A day or so after the '66 election I had received a

   congratulatory telegram from Reagan, saying 
   
             "My door will always be open
             to you and your ideas"

   a message doubtless sent to all freshman legislators. During my
   time in the legislature I seldom had direct contact with him. I
   was too pure or 'holier than thou' to take him up on his invit-
   ____________________
   *This inflammatory profane phrase just popped out of my mouth
   when my son David insisted on a 'better' description of what
   Governor Reagan looked like at the ball, as we were preparing
   the first draft of this manuscript. I have left it in because
   it is more descriptive of me than Reagan. Translating it into
   more polite terms would have eliminated some of the picture of
   the total emotional world of California politics in January
   1967. I had learned to hate the enemy and He was It. Although
   use of these words is not descriptive of the thoughtful, usually
   careful, John Dunlap, this exuberant profanity is typical of me
   in the 'progressive daring sense' of my capacity to go overboard,
   and of the youthful macho heritage shown as an undergraduate college
   fraternity man (this capacity also to be seen during my three years in the service 
   as an enlisted man in the Army Air Corps). Originally, I just described Reagan as 
  "looking dapper".

   ation by wire. Besides, I sort of knew he really wouldn't be
   very interested in my ideas. 

        I had first met him on a "Freshman Legislator's" tour of
   Southern California, between the election and taking office. I
   was very unimpressed. A few of us were in a hotel room in San
   Diego. He was nattily dressed, almost 60 years old at this
   time, hair in the big Brylcream wave. The Republican

   Assemblymen were trying to draw him out saying Ron such and
   such Ron, what do you think of this Ron, and he wasn't

   responding. I remember him sitting down and complaining because
   he was tired and was going to have to fly to Nevada. I thought,
   Jesus Christ, this guy's Governor of California...what it

   amounts to is that he wasn't putting on the act right then. We
   weren't worth it.

        Another time, at a party a week or so into the start of
   the '67 legislative session, he had occasion to respond to
   remarks of Unruh and other members of the legislature. He was
   cool and articulate, and demonstrated that he could think on
   his feet, not just read a script. I remember thinking, 'This is
   not just an empty fat-headed actor--this guy is going to be
   hard to handle.'

        There were bigscale cocktail parties in the Senator Hotel
   Ballroom, with heavy hors d'ouevres so you could get all you
   wanted to eat, and in the years '66--'70 I used to go to more
   of them than I did later. Reagan was probably at some of these 
   in and out the same way I was. In 1968 there was a party at the
   Governor's mansion, a relatively small group of both Democrats
   and Republicans, with no political agenda that was apparent. It
   was a so-called 'fun evening'. I liken it to the Governor's

   Ball a little--but by this time I knew most of the legislators
   there and it was less boring. Women or wives (there were no
   women legislators at this event) were invited and Janet and I,
   more out of curiosity than anything else, attended, and, I
   guess I also had the thought that the Republican legislators
   might be easier to handle if they'd seen me at the Guv's house.
   By then I had learned some of the tricks of my friend from
   Richmond. 

        Somebody parked our car for us and another attendant let
   us in. The governor was on hand with us for a minute or two,
   introduced himself, told us where we could get a drink, and
   told us to wander around as we saw fit. There were maybe three
   other couples there ahead of us, not particularly friends, and
   we killed a little time looking around, and somewhere along the
   line Nancy flitted through and we met her.
 
        It was not much of an event, but, maybe I should've tried
   harder to make it one for myself. If I'd been sharp I'd have
   had something to say to make them remember me--as long as
   you're there you might as well extend yourself and make your
   mark. But I didn't, at that time, have the guts, or the

   forethought, or the polish to do this.

 
        My son David, interviewing me regarding this lost opportunity, 
   asked what I might have said.
 
   ME: What would I have said to the Governor?
   DAVID: Right.
   ME: I don't know.
   DAVID: If he had a dog you could've thrown it in the
   swimming pool. That'd make an impression.
   ME: Mommy and I could've talked about our two St.
   Bernards. Better to talk about St. Bernards than my 
   political views about how rank I thought the Governor's 
   program was on higher education. 
   DAVID: So how would you have brought up the dogs. 
   ME: I don't know. 
   DAVID: Try.
   ME: Oh something like "it's a pleasure to see you here in 
   your own home, governor, I've often wondered how the Chief
   Executive lives--do you and Nancy have any pets?"
   "We just picked up a wirehair at the Upper Crust Kennel 
   Club," says the Governor, then he shows us his current 
   little cur.
   DAVID: And what do you say?
   ME: "We don't let our dogs in the house, Governor--we keep 
   them in the carport where we have the ping pong table and 
   the dartboard with your picture on it.
   DAVID: He'd remember you.

    


        One time in 1967, some constituents from Rio Vista, a town
   in my district along the Sacramento River, wanted to give
   Reagan a fish to advertise their annual Bass Derby. They came
   to me as a legislator to set it up. As a new member I had no
   idea this was part of my job and I didn't like the idea.

        Dorothy Loviach set it up for me and the presentation was
   planned for the governor's office with local Solano County and
   wire service photographers to be present. It was a cinch for
   the front page at least of the weekly River News Herald. I was
   not Expected to be there but I certainly could have been, just

   for publicity's sake. I felt at the time that posing in the

   same photo with him was giving him my approval and I couldn't
   do that. I also refused all bill signing photos with him--over
   the next eight years he did sign between one and two hundred of
   my bills and some were important enough to have signing
   ceremonies. As I think about this now, I was pretty naive, a
   practical politician would have been in the fish

   picture, and wouldn't have shirked the bill signing opportunities.
   But maybe my naivety was really an innocence, albeit a haughty 
   innocence which most politicians have lost today. 
   
        I should've gotten my picture taken with Reagan and the
   fish. Any smart politician would've done this, but I refused.
   My 12 years as a Democratic party worker and leader made being 
   a good Democrat vital and important, and part of being a good
   Democrat was hating Republicans--and if you hate them, you 
   can't pose with them, even if it might be politically

   beneficial. For me it would've been personally embarrassing. I
   didn't want to risk the razzing of my Democratic drinking

   buddies. 

   . . . . 

        My initial elation on arrival at the Capitol, that first

   evening of the "Governor's Ball", got another kick in the pants
   later the same night. A crusty old Democratic Senator came up
   to me and said, almost out of a clear sky, "John, you must
   remember one thing; you're expendable." I allowed as how this
   was probably correct--but he appeared to want to press the
   issue, as if I'd disagreed. Not wanting to carry the

   conversation further, I ducked him.

        I still don't know why he said it to me at that time. He
   hadn't seemed drunk, and he wasn't the type to be mean, or
   particuarly philosophical. Maybe I looked like I was trying to
   be big stuff, and he felt that too many newcomers too often
   thought too much of themselves, and his job was to set things
   straight.
 
        When I thought about the day's events later, I

   realized I'd felt spasmodically many ups and downs; from a very
   high point, driving into my special parking place and having
   the elevator operator know my name and being treated like a
   bigshot by my secretary, to later feeling like I was just one of 
   the herd during the swearing-in, and just one of the crowd ball.
        Anyhow, as Janet and I left the hall and headed

   for our hotel room, I knew I wasn't King Shit, and I was

   already wondering, "Where do I go from here?"


    
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