"What is the one thing that every politician in this room has in common? It's Buddy Cianfrani—because he takes more credit at getting us elected than anyone else." former Phila Mayor John Street, currently under indictment

This election is supposed to be about change from old style politics, but the reality of getting there isn't always pretty. We know that too well in Pennsylvania, a pivotal state in every national election. Though our populace contains a wide variety of voters, it's usually true that as Philadelphia goes, so goes PA.

And Philly has a longtime rep for its crooked politics, politicians and election day hanky-panky. The old ways were often messy, but they got the job done. Our new mayor, a man much like Barack Obama, is cleaning up the mess while getting the job done better.

If we're going to embrace real change, we have to understand what we're leaving behind. Not theoretically. On. The. Ground. So here's a story from another time and another election.

A Morality Tale About Politics, Old and New
This connects to my Walter Cronkite story from the 1976 presidential primary. It happened during the general election that year. And it involves the political stylings of one of the most colorful local politicians in the country -- the late PA State Senator Buddy Cianfrani, Philly's premier political boss for over 30 years.

Buddy Cianfrani was the essence of an old time backroom pol. Big, bald, ham-fisted, cigar-chomping, gravel-voiced, steely-eyed. A true kingpin ... and king maker. A Paisan from da neighborhood. Sout Philly. Since I worked for PA's governor, I knew The Senator. Nobody called him Buddy, at least not to his face.

The Senator was a pretty scary guy. You didn't want to get on his bad side. Ever. Now that I think about it, in his younger days he looked like Tony Soprano. (In the photo above, taken not long before his death, he looks more like Uncle Junior. Still, check out those eyes.)

No matter his tough guy rep, to da goils, Buddy Cianfrani was a gentleman. Courtly. Charming even. An old-fashioned Democratic machine politician, he called me and every other female 'Doll'. Not quite the caché of being "That gal in PA" to Walter Cronkite.

But. I became, very briefly, Buddy's 'Doll'. Based on nothing more than political expediency and--really--Doing the Right Thing. I worked for the Governor, who was a Democrat. I was in trouble. So of course, The Senator came to my rescue.

Presidential Election Day, 1976, My Arrest
As PA's Commissioner of Elections--yes, really, it's in the Cronkite story--it was my responsibility to serve as a Judge of Elections, reviewing claims of improprieties at city polling places. In Philly, a full time job. And not the best venue for someone so young and green.

I had a cadre of lawyers to advise me, but still, I was positioned as The Boss. Needless to say, I made a few enemies. Mid afternoon I went home to take a short break. A friend and I were drinking coffee when a knock came at the door. A policeman and a Traffic Court officer. WTF?

They informed me I was under arrest. As a "scofflaw." Because I had amassed over $500 in unpaid parking tickets. They had a bench warrant to bring me in. Now I was really in WTF-land. I lived primarily in Harrisburg. And garaged my car when in Philly. So their claim was impossible.

It was a set up. A ploy to keep me and my team away from the polls.

I showed them my Judge of Elections badge and asked to make a phone call. They grudgingly agreed. Frantically I dialed the emergency number given to me by Philly's Deputy Mayor. "Sit tight," he told me, "We'll get right back to you."

I waited. The officers waited. Impatiently. I was sweating bullets. No Sopranos joke intended.

I jumped when the phone rang. A familiar gruff voice said, "Hey, Doll, you okay?" The Senator. I said I was fine, just worried. "Lemme talk to da cop. And don't say nuttin."

Wordlessly I proffered the phone to the patrolman. "I don't want to talk to nobody," he said.

"This isn't nobody," I whispered. "Please, just take the phone."

He rolled his eyes at the Traffic Court officer and grabbed the receiver. "Yeah?" he barked.

There are the moments you dream about. Delivering the perfect exit line. Making your boss laugh. Getting back at an old boyfriend. This was way better.

"Senator!" the cop gulped, suddenly standing at attention. We couldn't hear Buddy's words, but the tone came through loud and clear. "Yessir, Senator! I'm sorry, Senator! A mistake. Yes, Senator. Whatever you say, sir!"

My friend smiled at me. "Buddy?" he mouthed. I nodded. Watching us, the Traffic Court officer snapped to attention too. Looked at me with incredulity. Respect. And--I'm not so crazy about this part--a little fear. But when your adrenaline is pumping from your own fear, you let that slide.

The officer handed me the phone as if it were a live bomb. I grabbed it like the lifeline it was.

"It's all taken care of, Doll," Buddy said. "Doze guys won't bodder you no more."

"Thank you, Senator." I squeaked. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"S'okay, Doll. Dat's what I'm here for. Just keep doin yer job."

Buddy Cianfrani did his job for a lot of people. His people. Not always on the side of the angels, but loyal to the end. I learned a lot from him and his ilk. Play fair when you can. Take care of your own. And do what's needed to get the job done.

I also learned the penalty for real illegal wheeling and dealing. Buddy ultimately went to jail, but hardly from this incident, for racketeering, what else. And shortly after he got out, became as stong a force as ever.

The most important lesson I learned was about power. It's incredibly seductive. Especially when it's on your side.

It seduced George W. Bush and all his dastardly cronies. I want to believe Barack Obama will be much more immune. When Pennsylvania delivers him to the White House. Legally.

[Rating appreciated by the Doll. One thumb per voter, please.]