I'm Here. I'm Drunk. Get Over It: Sunday dispatch from the NH primaries

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Sometimes the only way to really dive into an early morning presidential debate is with a little cough syrup. Or actually a lot of cough syrup. And so I swallowed a gallon and went to check the happenings in Concord. This is not a metaphor.

The Occupy posse was there. In full effect. And so were Ron Paul's homeys. And so were the Hasidic Jews who I thought I was imagining but who were actually there in full garb protesting - get this - against Israel.

I don't know much about conservative Jews. But I am from Queens, I did once bribe a rabbi on behalf of a Brooklyn politician (long story), and I did once do Special K with a Hasid (longer story). With that said, I'm pretty sure that - much like their 99 Percent protester counterparts - they don't represent everyone who looks like them.

It goes without saying that I showed up at this morning's NBC debate with no intent of actually covering it. After all, I was drinking cough syrup. Still at one point early on I had a dream of going into the press room across the street - maybe biting on a complimentary crumpet. Those dreams were however crushed by a very angry woman who closed the door in my face before I could explain to her how I'd rather vote for Mitt Romney than file for press credentials.

Owly Images

So I was left out in the cold, among the scumbags, Ron Paul supporters, and Vermin Supremes, the latter of whom were commencing marital ceremonies without permission from Rick Santorum. People were wedded - to corporations - and it was beautiful. I'm still wiping all of the Santorum off my notebook (sorry - can't resist - and pun always intended).

The mild cold got almost legitimately cold though, and me and my crew wound up at the Holiday Inn in downtown Concord. More cough syrup. Delicious. And then I met more Jon Huntsman supporters. They were at the bar, just like us, eating eggs and toast.

Which reminds me. Since I started coming up here last week, I've only met four kinds of New Hampshire voters:

1 - The ones who love Ron Paul. Oh boy do they adore him

2 - Sign-holders for other candidates. They're the insane ones who have dedicated the last few weeks of their lives to pimping for someone who they don't even really like but who got their sister-in-laws jobs in some way or another 20 fucking years ago.

3 - Huntsman supporters. There are lots of them. That's why I'm reminding everyone right now that I'm the only person up here - who's not a product of Huntsman's Santorum - who thinks he's gonna win. Huntsman's normalcy is to New Hampshire what Santorum's crazy was to Iowa. Watch and either mock or salute me later.

4 - The morons who know nothing, but who love giving interviews - no matter how stupid they sound. I wrote about them yesterday.

So I'm slugging syrup like a southern rapper with a CVS gift card, and suddenly I find myself sitting at a bar at a Mexican restaurant, waiting for Newt Gingrich. Yes - that's the first, last, and only time that any of those words will be used in the same sentence.

Newt had this big event at a place called Don Quixote's, where more syrup and some other shit was poured. Over spills, I got tight with an incredibly intelligent and politically independent white male in his early 40s - the kind of voter who the press loves to pretend represents the entire demo up here, but who in fact is one in a (please have Boston Phoenix statistician insert geographically appropriate riff on "a million").

I'm proud to say that I convinced that voter to reject all interview requests - especially from the assholes who were across the bar from us, sipping all up on some salty margaritas like some first-time Cancun-goers. I don't hate the mainstream media for their salaries, or for their hair. I hate them because they order a second round before the rest of us trolls get a chance to meet the fucking bartender.

Blah blah and blah blah and whatever the fuck Gingrich said, and I ordered 10 beers for my crew. And then blah blah and blah blah, and Vermin Supreme joined me for a pop without actually sitting at the bar. The windows rattled, Occupiers howled, and Newt couldn't remember if he was talking about how much he loved Mexicans or how much he hated them, plus something about Swedish electricity.

So I'm writing up this sloppy-ass article - while my photographer is uploading pics of Newt's henchmen uploading minorities into limousines - and I walk outside to smoke a cigarette. But I'd lost my lighter. Fucking cough syrup. Luckily, there was a super nice down-and-out dude with a flame walking by. I'd have asked for his name - maybe solidified the prefect quote - but, once again, too much cough syrup. But I do remember the gist of what he said, which was that he had a local manufacturing job that dried up seven months ago, and that he's been homeless ever since, bouncing from couch to couch and sometimes sleeping by the river. He also said that none of the Republican assholes making their way around New Hampshire really speak to him. Me neither.

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