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.
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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