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John Wodele believes that Ventura learned a lot during his governorship. "He is much more aware these days," Wodele says, "and much more capable." Even today, though, there is something childlike about Ventura, an artlessness that one cannot help but be charmed by. When asked about a motto that found its way onto T-shirts and bumper stickers after he was elected — MY GOVERNOR CAN BEAT UP YOUR GOVERNOR — he adopts a serious, thoughtful expression, nods a couple of times, and says, "Well, it wasn’t the message I wanted out there. I had no part in that. I didn’t want the message that ‘my governor can beat up your governor,’ because that isn’t what this level of politics is about." Quite.

It would be unfair, however, to portray Ventura as a mere clown. "His most substantial contribution to American politics is that he showed that in the right conditions and with the right strategy, you can drive an independent populist truck straight through the Potemkin village that is the party system," says political writer Micah Sifry, whose book Spoiling for a Fight: Third-Party Politics in America featured a chapter on Ventura. "His legacy is that he showed that a centrist candidate with a healthy disrespect for big everything — corporations, government, media — can rally the unhappy, inchoate middle and ride that into office."

It is this disdain for the political status quo — a much-used phrase in his lexicon — that Ventura says he wants to impart to his Harvard students. He goes on to add that his invitation to be a fellow here met with resistance from some of the faculty, who had doubts about his academic credentials. "There’s book smart and there’s street smart," he says. "The one thing I can bring these students is the fact that what they read in books may not be reality. I can offer them the perspective of having won without being a part of this huge mechanism of corporate politics. I didn’t come up through the ranks of ass-kissing and, you know, the stuff that goes on in these parties."

In his home state, Ventura’s reluctance to kiss ass not only got him elected, it allowed him, at one point, to enjoy a 70-plus percent approval rating. As one observer puts it, Ventura "gave the state the middle finger and said, ‘Fuck you!’ " And the people of Minnesota were more than happy to raise a finger alongside him. But there was more to Ventura’s popularity than iconoclasm alone. "He selected excellent people to run the government," says Jim Ragsdale. "He deferred to their expertise, and they often made defendable, credible decisions."

In terms of policy, Ventura’s administration had a good record on the environment, was pro-choice, stood firmly in the gay-rights corner, reorganized the way education was financed in the state, and pushed for improved mass transit. Most important, perhaps, Ventura also doled out billions of dollars in tax rebates. "The people in Minnesota loved the governor because the Jesse checks kept rolling out every August," says David Schultz, a professor of government ethics at Saint Paul’s Hamline University who does not count himself among Ventura’s admirers. "He described me as his most vocal critic," Schultz says. "He called me Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes. I don’t know why. It was like a little kid calling another kid some stupid name."

Schultz may have been a vocal critic, but he was far from the only one. The thing that most troubled Ventura’s detractors during his governorship was his tireless pursuit of lucrative outside interests: writing a memoir, providing commentary for televised football games, refereeing wrestling matches, going on speaking tours. By the midpoint of his term, Ventura’s approach to running the government had gotten a little too hands-off for some. As one Republican put it, "He’s a lame duck."

To this day, Ventura bristles at such criticism. "When I did the XFL, the press ripped me apart because I was traveling every Saturday for seven or eight weeks to broadcast football games," he says, looking as though he would really like to body slam someone right about now. "Well, the [state] Capitol, for the whole four years I was there, was never open on the weekend. And yet the press didn’t say a word when I would go home on the weekend to bale hay. Well, ex-cuse me. I’m working for my own self on the weekends when I go to my farm and bale hay. I’m a farmer then, that’s okay. But because I came from the entertainment world ... I’m the only person in the world who got criticized for holding down two jobs."

Trying to get a word in edgewise with Ventura is a losing proposition at the best of times, but when he’s railing against the media, he’s absolutely unstoppable — you may as well step in front of a runaway train as try to interject something into his basso fulminating. It’s at times like this that something in Ventura’s mind seems to disengage a little, when the non sequiturs and the solecisms flow most freely. "The day my portrait was unveiled I didn’t talk to the press," he says, "and that pissed them off, you know, that pissed them off to no avail." He continues, "I’m a Navy SEAL. My problem is, I like to get even, and I realize that’s just been bored into me from my days as a SEAL, getting even. You know, somebody kills a SEAL, guess what, we’re gonna wreak havoc and get revenge, there’s no question about it."

Hearing him talk like this, it comes as no surprise that Ventura’s biggest problems as a politician stemmed from issues of style rather than substance — his tendency to seek revenge, to wreak havoc on those he believed had slighted him. "People were tired of him blaming everyone else," says the Pioneer’s Jim Ragsdale. "He could never accept responsibility for his own weaknesses. It was always the legislature’s fault or the federal government’s fault or the media’s fault, and after a while that got old. He was very sensitive, he was very easily hurt, and he would often lash out at whoever happened to be nearest, which was often me and my colleagues. It was just a question of when the next eruption would be."

When pushed, even Ventura, who doesn’t appear to be the most introspective of people, will concede that many of his crises were caused, at least in part, by his own character flaws. "I have weaknesses, who doesn’t?" he says. "I’m pumped up with a lot of testosterone and I’m not afraid to say what I feel. You know, I’m too thin-skinned. People wouldn’t realize that I’m way more sensitive than they think." A few moments later, after the mention of a personality profile of him, written by a Minnesota-based psychologist, Ventura reverts to his defensive mode. "How the hell would they know what’s going on in my mind?" he says. "Was it accurate? Was it tearing me apart?"

Aubrey Immelman, a psychology professor at New York’s St. John’s University, specializes in profiling political figures. Immelman’s study of Ventura characterizes the governor as having a "dauntless" or "adventurous" personality. In lay terms, Ventura is a risk-taker, an attention-seeker, impulsive, anti-authority, dominant, suspicious, and easily bored. "I wasn’t surprised he didn’t run [for governor] again," Immelman says. "Adventurous personalities are always looking for the next big thing."

Arguably, you don’t need a PhD in psychology to peg Ventura as an adventurous, restless type. His very presence screams restiveness. In his office, Ventura rocks back and forth in his chair, jiggles his knees, and bobs his head. His speaking style, likewise, reflects a tendency to fidget. Each sentence is a cat’s cradle of clauses — he can pack 10 topics into a single breath. Even more telling is Ventura’s curriculum vitae: Navy SEAL, wrestler, radio-talk-show host, mayor, governor, TV commentator, actor, author, teacher.

"I haven’t fully embraced the concept of reincarnation yet," Ventura says, sounding like he’s used this line before. "So I’m gonna do everything I possibly can in this life, because I don’t believe you get a second chance. I’ve got 34 parachute jumps, I’ve dove 212 feet under the water, I’ve rappelled out of helicopters. And I ain’t slowing down. I am contemplating, after being a Harvard fellow, to see if they would accept me as an undergraduate student. Maybe at the age of 60 I can get a diploma here. I think that would be a real trip, to stand out there with these 20-year-old kids and throw your hat in the air. Plus, one of my favorite movies is Rodney Dangerfield’s Back to School." He adds, "I don’t know if the school will have me. I certainly don’t have the SAT scores and all that."

With a single year of community college under his belt, the odds are indeed pretty slim that Ventura will manage to land a student spot at Harvard. Then again, he’s overcome more daunting obstacles. Anyone who has seen his performance in the Arnold Schwarzenegger film Predator will surely marvel that Ventura made it onto the big screen. Moreover, few people could have possibly predicted that this roughneck from South Minneapolis would take the helm of his home state. When asked if the result of the election surprised him, Ventura says, "No," then adds, "Well, I suppose it did, to be honest."

Self-doubt and Jesse Ventura, though, are not particularly comfortable bedfellows, and before long his dauntless side is back. "I think in some ways some people are gifted," he says. "There’s a charisma thing that I learned at an early age — I had it, to where I could excite people, I could motivate them. I used to go watch wrestling. I’d be in the crowd, and I’d have 20 people ready to beat me up. My friends would say, ‘Look, the whole crowd’s mad at you, and you’re not even a wrestler.’ I don’t know what it is. It’s nothing that I actually strived and studied for. I think you’ll find that’s true for a lot of people like me."

THESE DAYS, Ventura says he is not so interested in flexing his charisma. Despite the fact that he misses his family — he has a wife of 29 years and two children in their 20s — Ventura’s enjoying his time in Cambridge. For one thing, he can go for a slice of pizza or a burger without a hundred people clamoring for his autograph. "I like it here," he says. "I wear my stocking hat and I’ve grown the beard, so I hardly get recognized. I love it. I feel like Dr. King: ‘Free at last!’"

And yet to watch Ventura welcoming students into his office and then holding them with his nonstop barrage of anecdotes and opinions, to see how he dominates the room during his study groups, with his quips and barbs and angry self-justifications, it seems clear that America’s first true showbiz politician is still very much in the business of putting on a show. Then there’s the fact that, despite no longer making the six-o’clock news every night, Ventura still draws controversy. There are people at Harvard who don’t want him there.

But then Ventura — a villain in his wrestling career — will likely not be cowed by a few pointy-nosed academics. Halfway through his second study group, standing before a roomful of students, many of them the same age as his own kids, he starts to tell a well-worn story, the one where the prostitute in Nevada offers him "a trick and 10 bucks" for a gun belt he’s wearing. "I was the only one," Ventura says triumphantly, "to have gone in [the brothel] and got paid." The kids laugh, but there seems little doubt that Ventura’s anecdote will send shivers through those who preside over Harvard’s ivy-draped halls.

When asked if he is concerned about this, Jesse Ventura lets out a rumbling noise that sounds a lot like laughter and recalls, yet again, his six years as a Navy SEAL. "I look back on that," he says, "and I think, ‘God, this ain’t shit.’ "

Chris Wright can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com