Kastelbaum's Lament

Airport bars. Never open late enough, but always there for you first thing in the morning.

Kastelbaum and I downed cups of coffee and bloody mary's two at a time. He looked at me with tired, jealous eyes. Ah, the life of a salaried News man. I had spent the week milling about the blog room and laying the venerable Maureen Dowd. She dumped me this morning, via text message no less, and that was that. What happens at the DNC stays at the DNC.

Kastelbaum was all over the place. His mind warped into a nebula of Obama-mania and McCain Veepstakery. Politics, politics, politics. But somewhere, in that twisted nest of neuroses, he was tapping into something very interesting.

"The point that's got me going from the speech last night were the bits about personal responsibility that Obama threw in. See, I really liked when he hammered it home to his own people about being better parents, fathers specifically, earlier during the campaign. But, the whole personal responsibility thing has been co-opted by Republicans and pretty well mangled. And, what finally made sense to me last night, was how the Democrats can finally reclaim those two words as their own." He stopped and looked up at me. He'd been addressing the entire monologue, thus far, to an empty pint glass lined with tomato seeds and horse raddish flakes. His eyes were splattered with red veins. He put two fingers in the air in the general direction of the bar and continued. "See, Bill, the difference is, when Republicans talk about personal responsibility they talk about what is mine: this is my income, how dare you tax it, this is my community, how dare you tell us what we can and cannot do. And on. What Obama was talking about last night, for me, was the idea of what is ours. You have a responsibility to raise your kids right and have the right to have government support in doing so because it's better for all of us. So, yeah, your tax dollars are going to pay for a lot of services you never see, but if it's done right, then you will see the benefits. And that's about being responsible to the nation as a whole. Mine versus ours. If I take care of me, then I will be ok versus if I take care of me and support a government, that is not going away anytime soon by the way, in supporting others, then the overall effects help me. It's more work for everyone, which has always been a problem."

The drinks finally arrived. Kastelbaum paused and stared at the mural of the Rocky Mountains framing the Dunkin Donuts across the walkway. I didn't know what to make of his little monologue. Morty's a bit of a mystery. One question did immediately leap.

"Morty, why do you work for Fox News?"

"They pay better."

Enough said.

Notes from Denver

Maureen and I ate Eggs Florentine in her suite this morning. Her interest in me is waning. Measurably waning. Three times during breakfast she counseled me on the proper way to hold a fork. Apparently, in her words, I ate like an urchin from 'Oliver Twist' and, while we went at it like rabid teenagers the night before, she could not shake the image of me, banging my fork on the table and screaming for more. Well, we may have nothing to say to each other now, but, there is something about not one energizing Clinton speech, but two and on back to back nights that really gets the political junkies' libido ramped up. Perhaps, tonight's tumescent swell of populist bliss at Invesco will extend our little tete a tete another week or two and I can meet some people of interest at the Times and obtain new assignments. I have been texting Kastelbaum like a fiend, trying to procure advice on how to keep standing with a woman of Maureen's stature. The only response from him has been a question: 'Do you remember the last time you were with a shiksa?" And indeed I do. Maria, oy! But that is a story for another time.

I am sitting in the hotel's designated blogging area. There are no additional seats. It's worse than LaGuardia. Krugman eyes me suspiciously every few minutes from across the room. I suspect he is catching on. I must make this last through Minnesota. Can you imagine if I, Wild Bill, were actually witness to history as opposed to continually making it up?

The bus is leaving soon. There will be question and answer sessions all day and then the One will make his speech. May it stir the imaginations of millions and the loins of one!

A Brief Encounter

Krugman's press pass worked well. Better than expected. So well, that I ended up seeing absolutely none of the evening's proceedings. It went something like this:

"Paul, why are you wearing that hat?" The voice was sultry, a slight gravelly purr owed to cigarettes and gin.

I had no idea what what Paul Krugman sounded like. In retrospect, his voice was probably similar to mine, nasal and direct, owed to Hebrew School and mastering the art of complaining. Instead, I chose to answer in something deeper, Marlboro-manish.

"Felt like I'd take a look at this whole idea of Change firsthand." I said. Potentially the stupidest line I'd ever uttered and not even buried in the furthest outreaches of a Princeton trained economist's lexicon. I turned to see a woman whose dark red hair swooped down on either side of her sharp face. She had pencil thin eyebrows, a sharp nose, and thin red lips. There was no mistaking, this was the one and only Maureen Dowd.

I swooned, if only briefly, and then laid on a thick smile. She was hot.

"I like it, Paul. I like it a lot." She whispered a lot and her breath rifled across the ends of my peyot.

"And you look luscious." Who the hell was I? Certainly not Paul Krugman.

"Let's leave." She said. Fate had played its hand and who was I to argue. I ran my hand down her skirt leg and smiled. Suddenly, a distant pang of professionalism shocked me back to eager surroundings. The thousands of devoted, the spirit of change, the---

"You know how these first nights go Paul. Ted Kennedy is going to make a bunch of people cry and Michelle is going to come off better than everyone expected. You can read about it online. Let's leave."

And with that were we gone. The night was glorious, tawdry, and exhausting. I think Dowd must have screwed eight years of angst out of me. I had never been in the presence of of so much prowess and power. I slept for hours.

This morning (afternoon?) I awoke to a note and fresh pot of coffee:

"I know you're not Krugman and I don't care. I'll see you on the floor tonight, Chassid. There's a special press pass for you next to your suit. Krugman spent the whole morning meeting bitching about missing last night. If he only knew... Maureen."

Oy. Now this is change I can believe in!

Press Credentials.

Denver, CO.

My attempts at getting press credentials at the Saturday night Media party had been futile. I couldn't even get in and was repeatedly reminded by fresh-faced college interns with annoying bright eyes that the deadline for application had, in fact, been February 1st, 2008.

I was temping in a Hartford Insurance company office then. I had given up on politics in particular and writing in general. How could I have known that fate would thrust me back onto the campaign trail?

So, I reveiwed my options and was delighted to see the name of Morty Kastelbaum on the Fox News team covering the Obama-Fest. Morty and I had been friends since college, although we had barely spoken in a decade. Morty, it appeared, occupied a tony position at FOX News and, I assumed, could easily provide me with the necessary credentials. We met for a brunch at Denver's Lola restaurant where I was able to secure us a table on the patio overlooking the majestic Mile High City skyline. We drank Bloody Maria's and reminisced about a girl in college of the same name who we had both had the pleasure of delighting in. It was my one tangible experience with a shiksa. Many laughs were had about our days editing the Collegiate Mendele Review and our nights directing avant garde adaptations of the works of Bellow and Sholem Aleichem. Brunch was a festive Mexican delight of Lola Huevos and El Admiral (both of using the out of town out of kashrut rules to justify our pork gilded meals). We were in full merriment when I tactfully requested that he slip me an extra press pass. He had always been a more conservative type, the kind who used college as a sort of petri dish of human experiment in order to justify the remainder of his life following a strict routine, so, it was with little surprise, that I noticed his drunken hue drain to a sober white as he quickly remembered who he worked for.

'Bill,' he said chewing on his third order of chorizo, 'you know there is no way I can get you in with FOX.' He believed that simple statement would be enough to quiet me.

'But, Morty, remember Hunter S. Thompson marching onto the campaign floor with the Nixon Youth in 1972! Stranger things have happened, my friend! And it's me! All I need is a good view of the proceedings and I'll have enough material to write for weeks.'

'Bill, it's impossible. And don't think I know you'll be wanting the same treatment next week in Minneapolis.'

He had me there.

'Nah, Morty, I've got something lined up with the Weekly Standard there already. No problems on the Republican front.' Morty was chewing more aggresively now and signaling our waitress for the check.

'Listen, Bill, I really should get to work. I can't believe I had so much to drink! Good to see you, though, old pal, and maybe we can do the same in Minneapolis. Huh? Anyway, I got this one and I gotta go.' And with that he threw cash on the table, much more than brunch required, and quickly left the restaurant.

Dejected, I wandered out into the oppressive midday Denver heat, sweat quickly soaking through my black coat and hat. My peyot had lost their bounce. Having little to do and even less hope of finding the necessary credentials, I spent the afternoon loafing in and out of local bars, chatting with the people of Denver about Obama and McCain and the state of our great country. I was, unfortunately, far too drunk to remember anything said and too dejected to take notes. After six hours of steady drinking I stumbled into the Sheraton Denver Tech Center, the hotel housing the Illinois Democratic Delegation. In the bar, much to my surprise, I saw a familiar face, head down on the bar, snoring.

It was Paul Krugman of The New York Times. Fortune had smiled upon me! There, hanging off the back of his chair, was his press pass. With little thought, I walked over to the bar, patted him aggressively on the back, yelled a declarative and familiar 'Hey Paul!' and slipped the pass off his chair and into my pocket. Krugman didn't budge.

I was home free.

Obama-Biden

The reaction here in Denver is favorable among the majority (the people who would have been happy if Obama had chosen a cocker spaniel as his VP) and predictably maudlin among the Clinton devout. Of course, Obama could have chosen a collective running mate culled from the DNA of FDR, JFK, Susan B. Anthony, and Martin Luther King Jr. and those people still would be upset. Time is short before we all huddle into crowded bars and watch the coronation in Springfield, and you can read about all the reaction from far more credible sources than yours truly. But I would like everyone to take a moment and consider this comment from today's New York Times online:

"I am sorry, but I cannot vote for any presidential ticket which reads: Obama - Biden. It sounds like,
and reads like, the FBI’s #1 Most Wanted terrorist since 9/11. Any other VP choice would have at
least given him a chance."

I am deliberately not putting this person's name in here as he/she has already made a big enough ass of themselves in a publication that many, many more people will read. If this is a joke, then this person is making Jeff Foxworthy look like a genius. If there is even a trace of serious sentiment here, and if someone actually deigns to use this as criticism of any stripe of the Democratic ticket, then I think it's time to go back to the drawing board on this whole humanity thing.

Ah... the leaves are...

...What? What's that you say? It's not late October? Oh, yes, check the calendar and the thermometer: It's August.

What an unfortunate fact that must be over in the land of the mainstream media. How my colleagues are so greatly relishing in the demise of the One, the imminent splattering of Hope on the pavement of realpolitik. How readily they trumpet what Obama must do and do now to save his once vaunted (by them, no less) campaign. How the angry Maverick is on the rise. How this convention is do or die.

This is politics in the age of mass pontification. And the entire endless proceedings are moderated by a bunch of attention starved, mind numbing whores. Hell, my memory has been ravaged by all sorts of chemical degradation, but even I remember the fucking exit polls showing Kerry beating Bush soundly in states Bush eventually won (the means behind those victories may be in question, but). And you may ask what that has to do with my current state of outrage about the blathering going on about the demise of Change? Well, everything, to be frank.

Because, with all our excessive means of gathering and sharing information, we're still wrong all the time. And with little substantiative information demanded by the media and, therefore, even less offered by the candidates, we have nothing to do through the infinite election cycle other than blow hot air. Unfortunately, for those of us interested in the actual fate of the country, that hot air is what propels candidates into office.

And nothing will stem that momentum. Certainly, nothing I say. So, for now, fuck it! Obama's going down! Clinton would have been ass raping McCain with a strap-on while Bill riffed off Miles Davis on his saxophone in the background! McCain is going to open up a 15 point lead after it turns out that not only will Obama not shake the hands of soldiers in Afghanistan, but that he actually flings his own feces at their returning caskets for fun!

The sad thing is that with a little polish and a mass email to the right people, I could probably influence some votes with that last statement.

Jew too?

Ah, Denver. The Mile High City. The place that pioneering spirits wondered at the Rocky Mountains, gathered their toughest and strongest for the rough road ahead, and left the pussies and complainers behind to found. There is nothing to do here. The Obamamaniacs work with religious fervor and, after the One's beating in the press, refuse to talk to me. So, I called an old friend from the McCain campaign, a high ranking member who wishes to remain anonymous.

WBH: Thanks for joining me ----.
HRM: Let's make this quick Bill. You've been banned from the campaign for months now.
WBH: I want to talk about McCain's potential running mate.
HRM: That's why I'm here. We're sick and tired of all this noise about Obama and who he's going to anoint to join his cult leadership.
WBH: Well, I must say, your campaign has made a spirited comeback, albeit by using the Republican attack tactics that your man initially said he was above, but none the less you've scored a major coup in the media. They're angry at Obama for making them look wrong. All the cooing and bluster they lobbed at him like confetti in his battle with the Clinton woman is now looking as vacuous as it actually was and the media is starting to doubt him because they feel slighted in the realization that the guy is actually human.
HRM: Yeah well, I mean, he's young and inexperienced and clearly struggling to find his footing. And, I'll tell you what, we would have done the same thing to Clinton. Because the one quarter of her voters still pissed enough to not vote for Obama would be the same one quarter of his supporters holding out out of childish spite. And our Republicans, the sensible ones anyway, are coming around to the importance of keeping the party in power. This is McCain's game to win now baby. I like him putting the idealists and the elitists on edge.
WBH: Yeah, you guys are confident. So, let's look at the top four: Romney, Ridge, that guy from Minnesota who no one has heard of, and, uhhh, Lieberman. Now, obviously, you people are practical, so we can cross Lieberman off the list---
HRM: That's actually where we're leaning Bill.

Prolonged Silence.

WBH: Are you fucking insane?
HRM: Not at all, Bill. In fact, Lieberman epitomizes the future McCain administration. Bi-partisan and independent with a keen eye toward broadening American military strength worldwide and bolstering a stagnant economy at home.
WBH: And you believe Joe Lieberman is the man who is going to provide the knock-out punch with the general electorate? He's the guy to once and for all topple the Obamamaniacs and all their fervor?
HRM: We're more concerned with the way the man will govern. We believe we can win this election with any of the current finalists.
WBH: Have you paid an ounce of attention to the way he has handled himself as a public servant since letting Dick Cheney eviscerate him in the 2000 Vice Presidential Debates? The man is a biohazard to campaigns. Are you hoping to attract to the racist upper class, comically pro-Israel septegenarian voting bloc? Picking Lieberman is not reaching across the aisle! It's like reaching into a tank full of poisonous snakes! The man will bury you! He's the perfect independent. He only cares about Joe!
HRM: Listen, Bill, with all due respect, this is getting out of hand. This is the exact kind of nonsense that got you kicked off the campaign in the first place. So, I gotta---
WBH: You're ending the interview? Oh, no sir, I am ending the interview! You people disgust me! Go, take your fake war hero and your misunderstood, myopic misrepresentation of my people and ride that horse straight to second place! Why don't you give Thomas Eagleton a call. I'm sure you could exhume him for a second run at the White House!

Silence.

WBH: Douchebags.

Notes from Frontier Airlines Flight 3301, LaGuardia to Denver

The terminal in LaGuardia resembles the hallways of Charlton Heston's apartment building in 'Soylent Green.'

The same man who checked my bag is now taking my ticket. At least I didn't have to pay to check my bag.

Inside the plane is surprisingly neutral. I was expecting something more rustic or faux 'Western' after seeing the wings and tail of the plane covered in a glamour shot of a galloping steed.

Much to my chagrin I am sitting in B, therefore, the middle, and therefore, nowhere to sleep.

A young IPhone wielding technocrat, covered from head to toe in Obama gear, takes the window.

Not a minute later a slightly older woman wearing a homemade 'Hillary was robbed' tee takes the aisle.

About thirty seconds after they notice each other, they're at it. Taunts of racism and sexism, platitudes about experience versus change, personal barbs and insecurities being masked by political baiting. I'd record the specifics, but, trust me, you've heard them all already.

Meanwhile, across the aisle, there's some guy a suit smirking. He's in a row with two seats and one of them is empty.

But, that's not why he's smirking. He's not wearing any buttons or tee-shirts proclaiming his support for anyone, but it's as obvious as the material of his suit who he's voting for. He's a McCain guy reveling in the Democrats still playing the you upended my personal Christ game. Meanwhile, the McCain campaign has started conforming to traditional Republican campaigning strategies and has managed to pull almost even in the polls.

This is why I stopped writing about politics for two and a half months. It was doing just fine without me. The color of one guy was a little different, that's all. Republicans play to win, Democrats play to feel superior. The rest is noise.

I order a bloody mary and a vodka tonic and down both in less than a minute, pausing only to knock back four Ambien in between gulps. I'll have two weeks to listen to this prattle day in and day out.

Sleep warms over me.