- State & Local
- California
How best to summarize a curious year in California politics?
Let’s do so four ways.
The Alpha Governor. Dating back to Ronald Reagan, four of California’s last seven governors have either sought the presidency or flirted with the idea while in office.
That includes Reagan running a shadow campaign in 1968, Jerry Brown twice giving it a go in 1976 and 1980, plus Pete Wilson mounting a brief bid in 1995. (As for the other three: George Deukmejian, who served two terms between Brown and Wilson, never ran; Gray Davis, who succeeded Wilson, was recalled from office in 2003—otherwise, he might have tried in 2004; Arnold Schwarzenegger’s presidential aspirations were terminated by that pesky Constitution and the matter of natural-born citizens.)
In this regard, Newsom’s presidential fan dance in 2025—he’s never said he’ll run in 2028, but admits he’s entertaining the idea—is no different. But there’s one big exception: Whereas governors ordinarily base a national campaign on their state records, Newsom’s path to the Democratic nomination seems based on a simple concept: fight fire with fire—i.e., be equally as juvenile and bombastic on social media, if not more so, than the current Oval Office occupant.
Is Newsom’s strategy working? Yes. Look no further than way-too-early 2028 polls, plus fawning coverage courtesy of national media outlets and prominent progressive influencers.
But as is true in many walks of life, Newsom’s success has come at a cost. For California, it’s meant a combination of lack of civility—you might recall the non-stop insults sent Trump’s way during the campaign to secure voter-approval of the congressional gerrymandering Proposition 50—and the governor’s constant references to “knee pads” (suggesting either submission to Trump or something more pornographic).
Add to that: gubernatorial neglect. Whereas California governors traditionally start the year with a “state of the state” address, Newsom literally mailed it in 2025—instead of appearing before the Legislature earlier in the year, he waited until September to send a letter to legislators, coinciding with the 175th anniversary of California statehood.
To fully fathom Gavin Newsom in 2025 is to understand that’s he not so much a governor as he is a current iteration of opportunism depending on the political moment. In 2025, it was the tough guy not afraid to punch back at Trump and the governor’s critics on the right.
By contrast, the 2023 version of Gavin Newsom was that of an outraged progressive determined to pass a gun-control constitutional amendment. Two years later, after a mass shooting at a toddler’s birthday party in Stockton, the best the governor’s office could muster was this press release … and no mention of his proposed 28th Amendment, much less a visit to Stockton to act as consoler-in-chief.
Does this suggest Newsom will find a new hobbyhorse in 2026? Don’t bet on it—certainly not when what he’s doing is working. But it does expose a Newsom tic that his critics likely will bring up if a presidential campaign is in the offing: a track record of big promises (does anyone remember “the Marshall Plan for affordable housing” from Newsom’s first inaugural address?), then a lack of follow-through and closure before moving on to the next big idea.
The Beta Legislature. One reason why Newsom can snub the Legislature—at least, not doing it the courtesy of addressing a joint session—is that the other branch of government offers little in the way of defiance.
Case in point: this month’s controversy involving Newsom, the actress Halle Berry, and his veto of a bill pertaining to menopause and health services (a personal matter for Berry, who’s said her menopausal symptoms were misdiagnosed as an STD).
After Newsom, in mid-October and for a second time, vetoed legislation making it easier for women to obtain menopause-related treatment in the Golden State, Berry took to the stage at the same New York event where Newsom was about to appear to offer this unexpected salvo:
“Back in my great state of California, my very own governor, Gavin Newsom, has vetoed our menopause bill, not one, but two years in a row. But that’s okay, because he’s not going to be governor forever, and the way he has overlooked women, half the population, by devaluing us, he probably should not be our next president either. Just saying.”
The Oscar-winning actress added:
“At this stage in my life, I have zero f---s left to give.”
So how does this speak poorly of the Legislature, when it’s an Oscar-winning actress flaming the governor?
The same institution that showed it can be the governor’s willing partner—in August, it took all of a week to get Proposition 50 and a new congressional map of the Golden State through the Legislature and to the governor’s desk (in doing so, playing fast and loose with the legislative 30-day bill review period)—could have stood up to Newsom and given Berry her wish by overriding his veto of AB 432 (it passed in the state Assembly and Senate, respectively, on votes of 77–1 and 39–0).
Then again, California’s Legislature hasn’t overridden a gubernatorial veto since 1979 and the lull between Jerry Brown’s first two presidential runs. So much for profiles in courage.
One other concern about the Legislature: Does it act with common sense or instead have a Sisyphean knack for futility? Newsom’s first veto of a menopause bill cited cost concerns and a request for a more “tailored” solution. His second veto message cited a lack of balance “between expanding access to this essential treatment and the affordability of care.” Which raises a question: Do legislators work with the governor before sending him measures destined to fail, or are they satisfied with legislative wheel-spinning?
Big Field, Poor Crop. The hours may be long and there’s always the fear of the unexpected (last January’s Los Angeles wildfires, for example), but the pay is decent (an annual salary of $242,900) and, as Newsom showed this year, it may offer political upward mobility.
So who wouldn’t want to be governor of California? For starters, former Vice President Kamala Harris (she said no, in June) and Alex Padilla, who replaced her in the US Senate (he ended any and all gubernatorial speculation four days into November).
In 2025, California saw two narratives regarding the race to replace Newsom: those who said no, and a field of wannabes sorely lacking a frontrunner—in this December PPIC survey, “other candidates” co-leading the way.
Granted, the field still has nearly three more months to take shape before the early March filing deadline, but this much we know: Unlike the last two times a term-limited governor stepped down, there is no heir apparent as was the case when Brown and Newsom sailed to victory, respectively, in 2010 and 2018.
As California headed into the holidays, ordinarily a time for peace on earth and good will to men, the Golden State’s airways were anything but pacific thanks to an ad blitz courtesy of a recent entry to the gubernatorial sweepstakes: billionaire investor Tom Steyer, now a gubernatorial candidate.
Steyer, who also ran ads during the Proposition 50 special election (in doing so, taking way too much credit for the outcome), wants voters to believe the wealthiest Americans traffic in “bull----“, corporations can expect to pay more in taxes under his watch, and he’ll somehow lower energy prices, build scads of affordable homes, and restore California’s public schools to their storied past—all the while running a government that’s been “bought by corporations” (maybe that’ll prompt a veto override).
Steyer’s last run for public office—a failed presidential bid back in 2020—was an exercise in profligate spending: nearly $48 million in his first 84 days as an announced candidate. In all, he spent nearly $345 million of his money and netted zero delegates.
If elected, maybe he’ll make good on his housing promises. But at a minimum, Steyer will spend buckets of money and achieve one California housing goal: vacation homes for political consultants.
The “Condor” GOP. Consider the plight of California’s endangered condor—notable for its stature (the largest flying bird in North America) and its self-destructive tendencies (not the brightest of birds as they tend to get electrocuted by power lines).
The good news: Condors are back from the brink of extinction.
If only the same could be said about another troubled species: California Republicans.
Once upon a time, California’s GOP dominated the political landscape—two presidencies (Richard Nixon and Reagan), plus GOP governors who dominated the office for a majority of the 20th century.
But in 2025, California’s Republican existence lines up as follows: no statewide officeholders; super minorities in both chambers of the Legislature; and, thanks to Proposition 50, perhaps as few as only four members in California’s 52-member congressional caucus beginning in 2027.
As for the condor population, its nadir was only 22 surviving in the wild back in the 1980s. Time will tell if it takes California’s GOP a similar timeline to bounce back.
Say goodbye to 2025: a good year for political bullying and bluster in California … with more in store for 2026, one fears.
