It's no surprise that his three-minute speeches and private meetings with politicos haven't gotten him very far - local government bodies would sooner deal with potholes - but it's not for lack of trying. The quixotic crusader says he's spent $300,000 of his own money, nearly all of his early retirement package, on pushing his model. "I have to pay to work," he says with a laugh.
Wirengard says he also formed a one-man, Internet-based conglomerate that included a university, a church, a bank (he says he actually issued some "micro-loans") and a health care plan. The operation is dormant, he says, because the IRS nixed his tax-exempt status.
Wirengard is relatively new to political activism. His parents were circus entertainers in Sweden who moved their family to the States in 1959. He attended Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland and earned a masters in finance at the University of Chicago. He watched his mother die of pancreatic cancer, and blamed it on bad health care. After retiring from a job as a corporate financial director in St. Louis, he moved to Hillsborough County in the late '90s.
The former bean counter now wears his hair in a long, grayish ponytail and sports an unruly goatee. Jeans and T-shirts are his attire of choice when he petitions his local elected officials.
If the commissioners don't view him as a quack, it's clear that they see his plan as a major reach. "Bob is very intelligent, very degreed," says fellow activist Marilyn Smith. "But Bob needs to focus. It's not what you say, it's how you say it."
There's no telling how long Wirengard will continue to peddle his plan - his fiancée is getting a little tired of his dogged pursuit. "I don't really enjoy the process," he says. "But it's unconscionable not to pursue what's right when the wrong has created so many struggles for people."
Doesn't sound like a guy apt to walk away from the podium any time soon.
-E.S.
The Grandmother with the Hat: Marilyn SmithAge: 64Main issue: Good governmentStomping ground: Hillsborough County Commission"I'll be the good-looking grandmother with the hat," Marilyn Smith says in a raspy chirp, as we finalize our appointment on the phone. The next day, the petite woman strolls into Pane Rustica on MacDill Avenue, her signature straw hat perched on her head. She wears a big, bright green ring that matches her shawl.
Her voice is faint, mostly because she has to cover the tracheotomy hole in her throat every time she talks. But that doesn't slow her down. For an hour, she lets loose with a torrent of words, some of them pointed, some clever, accented with frequent laughter.
This plucky straight shooter has been Hillsborough County's most effective watchdog and critic over the last three decades. Rather than just take to the podium and spew, or bludgeon a single issue, Smith is well versed on the entire Commission agenda. She is prepared, eloquent and persuasive. And also connected.
"I've got a colony of Deep Throats," she says. "If you've been around long enough, you reach a level where - there are people who work in that [county] building who want good government, and they will come to you." Then with a cocked eyebrow and a grin, she adds, "And I will never tell you who they are."
She has managed to put the kibosh on a few of the county's proposed land acquisitions.
In the early '90s, Smith's opposition to a land deal on Falkenberg Road convinced commissioner Phyllis Busansky to withdraw her approval and the measure was defeated. "Marilyn generally understands the issues; she's researched them," Busansky says. "Her real strength is that she's incredibly persistent. As a commissioner, when you see Marilyn on your case, you have to make some decisions. Do you disagree with her so strongly that you're going to continue with this, or do you drop it? You make a big mistake dismissing her without listening."
Smith was raised in San Diego, where her father, a naturalized citizen, encouraged her to vote. She got involved in government as a single mom living near Dallas. After discovering that her daughter had to share a math book with another student, she took on the local school board.
Smith worked her way through the ranks of the insurance business and moved to the Tampa area in '82. It was around 1985 that she first stepped to the podium. Her initial concern was land use in the county's comprehensive plan. She then formed a group called Yard Guard and worked closely with code enforcement.
