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Al Franken isn't used to holding his tongue. Knowing that, one might expect the froggy, horn-rimmed comedian to punctuate a recent lunch at his offices in St. Paul, Minn., with the sort of anti-right barbs that launched him on "Saturday Night Live" in 1975, propelled his books to the top of the best-seller lists and resurfaced on gleeful GOP fliers after he announced in February that he was running for U.S. Senate from Minnesota. (REPUBLICAN POLITICIANS ARE SHAMELESS D––KS, read one.) Except that Franken actually wants to be a senator. Which means that when he's asked about gay rights, he says, "I am pro—" and then, watching his words, "—I am for legalizing gay marriage." When asked what he dislikes about campaigning, he admits, "as far as reading the news, I'm unhappy with falling be—of not being ahead of the curve." And when asked about his favorite recent "SNL" sketch—House Speaker Nancy Pelosi emphasizing Democratic priorities like health care, Iraq and, ahem, "rough sex"—he cuts himself off as the phrase "leather S&M outfit" leaves his lips. "I'm off message," he says. In showbiz, maybe not. On Capitol Hill? Um, just a little.
Franken is hardly guarded. But the balancing act of running for office as a celebrity—don't change what appeals to fans, but become enough of a politician to win—is tricky work. On the plus side, Minnesotans have a soft spot for iconoclasts: Jesse Ventura, a former pro wrestler, crashed in the governor's mansion from 1999 to 2003; recent senators include plywood magnate Rudy Boschwitz and Prof. Paul Wellstone (a friend whose 2002 death, followed by the Iraq War, spurred Franken to return to his home state and run). Last cycle, Dems picked up a House seat and sent Amy Klobuchar to the Senate. Now they're eager to build on those gains by sinking incumbent GOP Sen. (and Iraq War supporter) Norm Coleman, whose approval rating hovers in the mid-40s. "Coleman is easily one of the most vulnerable senators," says Matthew Miller, spokesman for the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee. "We're confident a Democrat will defeat him next November." If Franken can earn the nod over trial lawyer Mike Ciresi—polls show both within seven points of Coleman—he could be that Dem.
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That's a big "if." After lunch, Franken heads to the Minnesota State Fair, where he weaves past walleye-on-a-stick kiosks and poses for pics. "Oh my God," cries a teen boy. "My hero!" Franken staffers say his name recognition—80 percent, according to a recent poll—makes him the "most electable" Dem. They may be right. In the first half of '07, Franken outraised Ciresi $3.3 million to $746,000 (topping Coleman, too); he's won the endorsements of 40 state legislators and two major unions. "Celebrity makes a difference," says state Rep. Tim Faust, a Franken booster. "People won't vote for him because of 'SNL.' But they will listen."
Still, Franken's high-profile past poses some serious challenges. A third of the Minnesotans who recognize Franken's name also have a negative opinion of him. During a fairground interview with Christian radio, Franken is flustered by one such critic, who shouts "Woo!" when he mentions the GOP, "Boo!" when he mentions the NAACP and "Franken blows!" when he mentions anything else. "You're being rude," Franken says, but the commentary keeps coming. As the campaign heats up, the attacks will only get louder—and most will harp on his Hollywood ties (donors include Rosie O'Donnell and Tom Hanks) and bawdy paper trail. "He has to defend the things he's said," says Ciresi. "Ann Coulter writes best sellers, too." The state GOP, meanwhile, has hired a "tracker" to videotape Franken's public appearances. "He is the most mean-spirited, over-the-top candidate we've ever seen," says spokesman Mark Drake. Even supporters worry Franken isn't cut out for Senate life. "Being one vote out of 100 is hard and tedious," says state Rep. Nora Slawik, an endorser. "He won't be the center of attention anymore."
By the time Franken arrives at his booth, he's starting to sweat. This, aides say, is where Franken thrives; over the course of six days, he'll spend 50 hours wooing fairgoers. "The more people who meet me, it puts a lie to the 'He's from Hollywood!' shtik," says Franken. After waiting his turn, Jeff Hill, 55, places a hand on the candidate's shoulder. "You've spent your life as a comedian," says Hill. "Now that you're running for office, how will you keep from crossing the line?" Franken looks him in the eye. "I'll tell you what a satirist does," he says. "A satirist sees the hypocrisies and absurdities in the world and cuts through the baloney to get to the truth. I think that's good training for the U.S. Senate. Don't you?" Hill nods. It doesn't matter that Franken has already used the line twice today, or that he will use it twice more. That's what a politician does.
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