At the little restaurant, it was clear that the speech was to be directed to women. Lovely women—my high school yellow-dog-Democrat/devout Baptist English teacher was there and others of her ilk. Great folks. But note: I hate to attend events styled “just for women.” On the other hand, being a journalist-turned-so-many things in my work life, I was intensely interested in what Warner would say to these yellow dog ladies.

Warner was running very late and the women got squirmy-- crowded together as we were like a bunch of sardines in the back of the restaurant. Lunch was finished and the teen-age wait-people were as annoyed with our still being there as we were to still be sardined up together… waiting.

When we weren’t looking, the pot finally boiled and Warner, with twenty-somethings entourage in tow—poof!--appeared. 

As if on a protracted adrenaline rush, he enthusiastically enumerated glittering generalities about how Southwest Virginia would be a high priority for him were he to be nominated and elected.

This was one unimpressive speaker. I knew Warner was a self-made millionaire not familiar with Southwest Virginia; he seemed to be making up his love-for-the region monologue as he stood there. 

I was relatively sure someone in his big, expensive but properly filthy-from-the-coalfields SUV (wired with radios and phones) had reminded him that they were in Abingdon, and he would be talking to Appalachian white ladies, already in the choir.

The candidate’s physical appearance was trim with a flawless finish. But his persona was awkward-- tight-jawed and cold in spite of his good looks and words tripping flawlessly from his silver tongue. 

When Warner later relaxed into individual meet-and-greets, the mouth was working, but the eyes were wandering elsewhere for a more important hand to shake.

Cell-phone magnate. Very Northern Virginian.

I imagined his thinking… hmmmm, what do I say to those Emory & Henry College Democrats as soon as I escape this place? Do we have demographics on those kids?

Can their parents contribute? Mental note to Mark: Tell Alan Howse to get on that before we get to Emory.

On the next occasion Warner came to Abingdon’s Southwest Virginia Higher Education Center. This time he was candidate Warner and was cheered down a plastic-lined lane to the big podium, wife and daughters in tow. Yellow dogs howled. Advance people piped up music. Signs were teetering back and forth: This is Mark Warner Country. 

At the rally, the Democrats’ choice was introduced by Southwest Virginia legislators Del. Joseph P. Johnson, Jr. and the way-back-then gubernatorial starlit-eyed Sen. Philip Puckett.

The candidate introduced Lisa and the two daughters. Hmmmm. Something was different. 

Warner was saying more relevant stuff. He was connecting with the Ninth District. He was talking about jobs and better water. Yessiree. And bringing in seed money for new businesses for the region. Yessiree. And keeping the best and brightest college graduates in the region in spite of its poverty and lack of jobs. Yelps of approval.  GO GO GO GO Mark!

As the cheering continued, I noticed that Mark Warner was not only talking different, but looking different.

It was his hair. 

Warner had lightened his hair, which had softened his entire countenance. It was highlighted with red—and gold. Nice. And the body language was way different from the Allison’s flop. He was punctuating his points with his left fist, showing the gold wedding ring (family values) to the crowd. It was the candidate Bill Clinton fist pump. No finger jabbing. The left-fist was going to town and the words were resonating and the crowd was howling approval.

And his face looked different. Something had been done to his teeth. Whatever it was, the smile was more engaging—and prettier to watch from a distance. 

Add Warner’s sweeter image to the intimate revelation that he cleaned up bedpans in a hospital while he worked his way through Harvard Law School—what a heart-stopping candidate. He lived in his car, but he made it big, just like we all can, even if we are jobless in Southwest Virginia. The message was on point with the right demographic.  Mark Warner was finally groovin’ in the Ninth.

The remaking of the Warner image was partially accomplished by Richmond adman Kelly O’Keefe, who by the way, landed a center seat in the crowd at the Warner inauguration. 

But that’s not the point. Kelly shared with me that he personally spent top-quality time on the Warner make-over. 

Candidates have to be close-up and camera-ready good looking, charming but not artificially so, guileless in appearance, sharp but not condescending, listener-friendly and able to connect with six different demographics in a day.

But the clincher—the clincher for the special poor country/urban demographic is some kind of story about poor-boy-or-girl made good. Or a close family tie to a grassroots/hard times/impoverished labor-oriented background.

That little particular was a large problem for someone like former governor and U.S. Senator Charles Robb. But in his time, creating the image of a milk-drinking Marine was about as grass-rootsy as anybody would believe about him. The fibers of a flannel shirt collar would have choked him to death.

Then there is former governor and now Richmond mayor L. Douglas Wilder, the grandson of slaves.  Grandson of slaves. Let’s make that one really simple word for television anchor people: Wilderthegrandsonofslaves.

U.S. Senator George Allen looks darn good in the cowboy get-up. Running for the U.S. Senate, he got up one day and put on a camera-friendly flannel shirt and stood in front of Barter Theatre and held a news conference, declaring that Abingdon had a “special place” in his heart. On to Marion, which also held a special place in his heart. Sen. Allen also scored mega-points by hinting that the Robb brigade intended to march out to Southwest Virginia and take away everybody’s Second Amendment right to have a gun. That was on message with the flannel.

Voter research shows that the people often vote for the candidate who looks and sounds the best, issues be damned. Few women could deny the sexiness of John F. Kennedy with his Bostonian lilt. And that was more than 40 years ago.

Now GOTV must consist of making the candidate seem accessible, earthy just like you and me and good-lookin’.

The heavy make-up artists arrive when it's time to create the paid television messages to the people, i.e. campaign ads. Candidates’ hairstylists are required to be scissor magicians. One of those scissor magicians had the good sense to lop off about two inches of Democrat John Kerry’s extra tall hair before he accepted the nomination on nationwide television.

Make up artists work wonders for crow’s feet, bags under the eyes and those do-I-have-enough- credibility/money/votes worry lines.

After the facepaint is in place, it’s all about stumping the state and keeping myriad Kelly O’Keefes busy providing feedback on video appearances—sound bites, looks, body language, voice tenor, message—message—message.

The new image factor in the gubernatorial campaign of 2005 is how to posture for the Christian vote.  Traditional smoke and mirrors might not be enough to rock and lock down the religious faithful.