A politician's dream come true

WASHINGTON - "Hello, this is your congressman ..."

That's the call thousands of residents in Scott and Carver counties got just after suppertime last Wednesday as they settled in for the evening.

Not a robo-call. Not a recorded politician. It was their real congressman, John Kline, live and in person. Totally unannounced.

Welcome to tele-town hall meetings, the latest in modern political communication.

"It's just like standing on a stage," says Kline, a third-term Minnesota Republican. Except that he's actually sitting at his desk in the Longworth House Office Building -- miles inside the Beltway -- looking at a laptop computer screen that tells him who he's talking to.

And right now, at 8:15 p.m. Washington time -- 7:15 p.m. in his south suburban district -- there are 952 people on the line, with 18 in the electronic queue waiting to ask a question.

By the top of the hour, 13,297 people will have listened to at least part of the call, a multitude any politician would envy in physical space, especially on a chilly April weeknight in Minnesota.

Then there's 61-year-old Joy Lano of Carver, who says that her family's top tax bracket chews up about half of what they earn. "I know a lot of people in Washington think we ought to be paying more," she says. "I think we ought to be keeping the tax burden low."

Impressed with the ease and efficiency of these mass chats, nearly 150 members of Congress have now turned to voice-over Internet technology to engage with voters. And unlike traditional public meetings -- which sometimes get hijacked by protesters, counter-protesters and other types with agendas -- pols like Kline find that cold random calls give them a truer cross-section of voters. And the occasional pre-teen who would rather be talking to friends.

"Every time I try to hang up, it doesn't work!" says an exasperated 12-year-old girl from Shakopee.

"You need to hang up and count to 30," advises Kline, wise to the 30-second accidental-hang-up delay. "We'll be gone."

The tele-town hall craze is not universally accepted. Some Washington pundits have dubbed them "faux" meetings and decry any interaction that allows lawmakers to hide from constituents behind a digital screen.

Among the critics is Kline's last DFL opponent, Coleen Rowley, who penned a piece on the Huffington Post website lamenting the lack of "real flesh to press," or, for that matter, any local press to document what gets said. "This kind of voice-over Internet is voice under the radar as well," she said.

But for politicians, the lure of an instant personal connection with large numbers of voters back home is irresistible. And, at $2,500 for up to 25,000 phone calls, it's about half the cost of a four-page mailer. As a form of office communication, it is publicly funded.

"It's a good investment for the outreach you get," says Kay Wolsborn, a political scientist at the College of St. Benedict in St. Joseph, Minn. If it sounds cold and impersonal, and less likely to produce conflict, it also provides a rare form of direct contact with your representative in Washington.

The tele-town hall was born in late 2005 through a collaboration between Washington entrepreneur Rodney Smith and Rep. Daniel Lungren, R-Calif. According to Smith, who produced Kline's Wednesday night call, the practice has grown steadily since then, mostly among Lungren's GOP colleagues, including Rep. Michele Bachmann, the only other Minnesotan in Congress who holds regular tele-town hall meetings.

But some Democrats are starting to embrace the technology, as well, Smith said. He hopes that by engaging people who normally wouldn't go to a political meeting, the practice could lessen popular skepticism about politics.

Night of 50,000 numbers

Depending on the region, Smith's company can spray out more than 40 randomly selected numbers a second. On this Wednesday night, his computer is calling nearly 50,000 numbers in Scott and Carver counties, in the heart of Kline's Second District. By 8:45 p.m., he's gotten 13,297 people to pick up and stay on the line. Another 5,602 don't. Messages are left on 16,240 answering machines. The rest either don't answer, or they're bad numbers.

A total of 114 listeners press "0" to ask a question. About a dozen actually get to.

Among the interlocutors is Kjellesvig, who is cooking dinner for her grandchildren when the phone rings. "I had the phone under my chin," she said the next day. "I was choppin' and cookin'."

Despite her "wild, liberal" tendencies, Kjellesvig said, she appreciated the call, even if Kline is on the opposite side of the political spectrum: "If it's political, I want to listen."

For nearly an hour, Kline fields a dozen questions on the economy, the housing crisis, taxes and the war in Iraq. Most questioners are sympathetic to him, but not all. Nobody is rude; but just in case, Kline has a cut-off button.

Kline criticizes the Democrats' budget, but he knows he has to tone down the partisanship. Tele-town hall meetings are covered by the same franking rules that apply to other forms of taxpayer-funded office communication.

The call ends with Kline inviting those who still want to ask a question to leave a voicemail. He and his staff will get back to them the next day.

And then he's off the line with a cheerful, "Good night, everybody."