SINS OF THE FATHER: Maybe I’ve come to the point where I can’t take any more change. Or perhaps I’m only reeling from the phenomenon known as “Daylight Savings Creep.” It’s three days after the time change — moved up a month by the Bush administration — and I feel like I have a serious case of jetlag without having set foot on a plane. I know I’m not the only one. Hundreds of public school students were late getting to school this week. For some, the one extra tardy slip they accumulated will prove the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Sometime next week, their parents will get nasty letters from the District Attorney’s office. Don’t they know tardiness is a crime, a “gateway” transgression that leads to more serious offenses, like absenteeism? And no, these are not “victimless” crimes, either. The school district, already $2.7 million in the hole, loses essential state funding based on unexcused tardiness and absences. This week, the school district will notify 190 teachers they may not have a job next fall; do you really want to make it 191?

Daylight Saving Time was moved up a month two years ago, as part of the now-infamous Energy Policy Act of 2005, concocted by the Republican majorities then dominating all three branches of government. The energy bill had something for everyone to hate, but was bulging with enough pork to sail through. Sure it had $500 million for clean energy bonds, but that was chicken feed compared to the $4.3 billion in tax breaks it gave the nuclear power industry. Or the $2.8 billion break it donated to fossil fuel producers, then about to reap profit margins never before seen in the history of the species.

Buried into the not-so-fine print was the expansion of Daylight Saving Time on the grounds that it would save energy. Lobbyists for the Sporting Goods Manufacturers Association joined forces with the National Association of Convenience Stores to form a political juggernaut that squashed objections raised by God — at least as represented by the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops and the United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism. They argued that time was the domain of the Almighty, not Congress. This corporate-sponsored assault upon our collective biorhythms — designed to increase demand on softball equipment and Gatorade — was sold on the premise that it would conserve energy, thus reducing our dependence upon foreign oil, not to mention Middle Eastern despots who want to blow us up while torturing their own people.

This turned out to be a lot of hooey. The recent release of legal documents by the Bush administration clearly shows that if any torturing was to be done, Bush wanted the U.S. to be doing it. As for the alleged energy savings, the California Energy Commission concluded — after carefully studying the matter — there was none.

That’s how politics actually works, as opposed to what’s taught in high school civics. Closer to home, S.B.’s mayoral race shows promise of flowering into a full-fledged demolition derby. Initially, it appeared to be a grim affair, pitting Councilmember Iya Falcone — the tough, no-nonsense, little-bit-scary centrist who’s backed by city cops and firefighters — against Helene Schneider, darling of progressive Democrats, enviros, and affordable housing advocates.

Initially, it seemed to be Falcone’s race to lose, but she can’t afford to take chances. Chamber of Commerce honcho Steve Cushman has been wondering out loud — in his customary stage whisper — whether he might make a fine mayor. No doubt Cushman has his detractors, but he has the makings of a formidable candidate. He radiates a robust cheerful blarney that neither Falcone nor Schneider can touch. He would campaign as a business leader in this time of recession; a big macho man — endowed with a moustache many cops would die for — during a resurgence of gang violence.

Naturally, Schneider’s camp is thrilled because Cushman, should he decide to run, would siphon conservative votes from Falcone. Were Cushman actually to win — an unlikely prospect — he would be the first testicularly endowed politico to hold the post since Hal Conklin ever-so-briefly occupied the throne in 1993. Conklin lasted only a year, sued out of office on the grounds that his mayoral candidacy violated the term-limits ordinance city voters had approved. Prior to Conklin, the last male to be elected mayor, and actually serve out his term, was David Shiffman. A quiet man who banged his gavel to no avail against a council dominated by fumers, ranters, and chest beaters, Shiffman served from 1973 to 1981. Since his day, a succession of matriarchs — all Unitarians, by the way — have held a virtual lock on the position: Sheila Lodge, Harriet Miller, and Marty Blum.

As Cushman ponders, promoter Justin Michael has already jumped in. A man with two first names, Michael represents himself as an intriguing blend of matriarchy and patriarchy. He lays claim to the title “Mr. Santa Barbara Junior,” in dubious homage to his alleged mentor, Larry Crandell, the one and only “Mr. Santa Barbara.” But Michael also claims to be running as an agent of the matriarchy, explaining that he was encouraged by the “Earth Mother of Santa Ynez,” Karen Jones.

Michael’s real father, however, is none other than Reed Slatkin, world-famous Ponzi schemer and con artist who bilked investors out of $578 million from his offices in Hope Ranch. Until recently, Slatkin — who preyed on Scientologists — held the world scam record. Michael, whose political experience includes a stint in the role of mayor while performing Bye Bye Birdie in a junior high musical, claims his familiarity with white-collar crime makes him uniquely sensitive to the challenges posed by the impending budget crisis confronting City Hall. If that’s the case, I’m hoping Bernard Madoff — who conned his investors out of $50 billion — has some politically ambitious kids living here. But Justin Michael has also proposed turning the mayoral showdown into a reality TV show, no doubt on the grounds that the ensuing publicity — no matter how degrading — would stimulate the tourist trade. It probably would work.

The mayoral race is just getting started, but to me, it already feels two years old. But maybe I’m just jetlagged from having flown nowhere. Damn that Daylight Saving Time.

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