Well, I thought I had something to say, but it turns out I don't.
So I'll make one of those really annoying and boring blog posts that tells people about nothing interesting at all. Today, after 4 days off, I was back at work. It was actually kind of a relief, except for the getting up at 730 part. Ok, so I hit snooze until 8. When I was unemployed, the worst part was the general lack of anything structured to do. Of course now I have the opposite - a complete lack of anything unstructured to do, or, more accurately, a lack of unstructured time. I didn't realize how absolutely terrifying it is to not have any structure until I did - turns out I'm not very good at it. I should have learned this at Evergreen, and kind of did, but it really comes home to roost when I went from 6 months of no work to nothing but work. I work best under a deadline, which also may explain why I perform best after leaving assignments untouched until the night before they're due. I like me some pressure.
Well, that's about all the cliche'd introspection I feel like presenting to the world for the moment. Or at least to the four of you who read this. ;) Couldn't leave a blog post this boring without an emoticon.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Merry Christmas
It's snowing. In Seattle. On Christmas. This is simply ridiculous. It almost definitely means that my friends won't (be able to?) drive across the lake to watch a movie tonight, but who knows. I don't remember the last time it actually snowed ON Christmas.
I have to admit, my head's in a pretty weird place right now. Every year, someone seems to give me an incredibly depressing book to read just before Christmas. This year, it was The Kite Runner. Brie just came in and told me, "I'm never giving you another book." I barely put it down since she gave it to me, Sunday afternoon.
Five years ago, when Riley was still at Lake Tahoe and we all went there for Christmas, I was reading American Gods. I remember going out in the middle of the night, and walking up into the woods a little ways. It was bright the way snow makes the night bright. Everything contrasted. It was absolutely terrifying.
This is a pretty crappy Christmas post. I think these are supposed to be warm and toasty and full of cheer. I'm not very good at cheer. I personally prefer melancholy, so I'll see if I can't negotiate the middle and go with a factual update.
Due to some unforeseen expenses, I find myself about to enter the poorhouse early. The result is that, unless my boss can find room in the budget to pay me for a few weeks, I'm gonna have to leave the campaign before the caucus. Which sucks. But I'm holding out hope that something will happen.
When we get back from Christmas break (all four days of it, which is an eternity compared to what they get in Iowa), we'll be exactly one week from the first contest. Iowa, in the latest census, has a population of 2,900,000 or thereabouts. Approximately 130,000 of them are expected to turn out for the democratic caucus, and somewhere around 80,000 for the republican version. There's plenty of wiggle room after Iowa, of course, but the likelihood seems that around 200,000 people are going to choose the set of next presidential candidates. Pretty strange to think of, really.
And now it's snowing in Seattle. And sticking. It's almost like I'm back in Colorado, or New England, at Christmas. I guess I'm glad that if I have to be subjected to winter, at least I get snow. It is beautiful when it's falling, before it turns brown from exhaust, or turns to slush or crystallizes into a layer of jagged ice. I guess you can say that about almost anything new, really. It comes in shiny and clean and then something makes a mess of it and then you lose interest, and eventually it becomes a nuissance and you just want it gone. But I won't have to be here for that part. I'll be here to watch it fall silently, stick to the ground, coat the bare red trunk of the big magnolia that still has green leaves. I'll go out and throw a snowball to Henry, and watch him try to find it, four legs each going its own direction. And then tomorrow, I'll get on a plane, and go back to Vegas. On Thursday, I'll go back to work. I'll go back not knowing if I'll be there for a month or a week, but I'll go back and it'll be one week till Iowa, one week till we actually have something tangible to work with, or through, or against. One week until we see if the country really wants to change, or whether the racists and the nostaligists and the apologists and the corporate lobbyists get their candidate, or whether the rest of us get ours. And I don't know what or where or for how long my role will be, but I do know this much: for the first time in my adult life, I'll be looking forward to returning to work. And I won't have to watch the snow turn dirty and it won't melt into the bottom of my boots. It'll just stay a white Christmas, soft, silent, clean.
I have to admit, my head's in a pretty weird place right now. Every year, someone seems to give me an incredibly depressing book to read just before Christmas. This year, it was The Kite Runner. Brie just came in and told me, "I'm never giving you another book." I barely put it down since she gave it to me, Sunday afternoon.
Five years ago, when Riley was still at Lake Tahoe and we all went there for Christmas, I was reading American Gods. I remember going out in the middle of the night, and walking up into the woods a little ways. It was bright the way snow makes the night bright. Everything contrasted. It was absolutely terrifying.
This is a pretty crappy Christmas post. I think these are supposed to be warm and toasty and full of cheer. I'm not very good at cheer. I personally prefer melancholy, so I'll see if I can't negotiate the middle and go with a factual update.
Due to some unforeseen expenses, I find myself about to enter the poorhouse early. The result is that, unless my boss can find room in the budget to pay me for a few weeks, I'm gonna have to leave the campaign before the caucus. Which sucks. But I'm holding out hope that something will happen.
When we get back from Christmas break (all four days of it, which is an eternity compared to what they get in Iowa), we'll be exactly one week from the first contest. Iowa, in the latest census, has a population of 2,900,000 or thereabouts. Approximately 130,000 of them are expected to turn out for the democratic caucus, and somewhere around 80,000 for the republican version. There's plenty of wiggle room after Iowa, of course, but the likelihood seems that around 200,000 people are going to choose the set of next presidential candidates. Pretty strange to think of, really.
And now it's snowing in Seattle. And sticking. It's almost like I'm back in Colorado, or New England, at Christmas. I guess I'm glad that if I have to be subjected to winter, at least I get snow. It is beautiful when it's falling, before it turns brown from exhaust, or turns to slush or crystallizes into a layer of jagged ice. I guess you can say that about almost anything new, really. It comes in shiny and clean and then something makes a mess of it and then you lose interest, and eventually it becomes a nuissance and you just want it gone. But I won't have to be here for that part. I'll be here to watch it fall silently, stick to the ground, coat the bare red trunk of the big magnolia that still has green leaves. I'll go out and throw a snowball to Henry, and watch him try to find it, four legs each going its own direction. And then tomorrow, I'll get on a plane, and go back to Vegas. On Thursday, I'll go back to work. I'll go back not knowing if I'll be there for a month or a week, but I'll go back and it'll be one week till Iowa, one week till we actually have something tangible to work with, or through, or against. One week until we see if the country really wants to change, or whether the racists and the nostaligists and the apologists and the corporate lobbyists get their candidate, or whether the rest of us get ours. And I don't know what or where or for how long my role will be, but I do know this much: for the first time in my adult life, I'll be looking forward to returning to work. And I won't have to watch the snow turn dirty and it won't melt into the bottom of my boots. It'll just stay a white Christmas, soft, silent, clean.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Second Encounter
I realize that blogs are supposed to be updated more often.
I could request some sort of dispensation based on the number of hours worked, or my general energy level after 13 hour days, but really I just haven't felt the motivation to write.
The writer's strike meant that the debate Monday was canceled, which meant a free day, which meant we got a bonus stop on the way through. Two small events to build. More like one tiny event, and one so small (in the numbers sense) that it can't even be called building from a field perspective. Not that that made either less important, or less exciting.
There was a lot of hustle and bustle to get the high school interns to the library. Four schools. Conversations with 30 parents, permission slips, text message coordination, and rides to arrange. I bought a 36" pizza to feed them while they waited in line outside the library.
"Hey, when's Barack coming back," the pizza guy asked me.
"He's here right now."
"What, he's here? Where?"
"Across the street at the library."
"Hey, tell him if he comes here, I'll give him a free slice of pizza."
They let staff in first. We stood in the library hallway. Almost all of us were in our red shirts, the ones from the debate. I'm not entirely sure why, since we were completely closed off from the rest of the building, but we were all using our inside voices. When they started us moving, we went down the stairs, and into another room. It was stuffy, and there were thick black curtains on both sides, and doors at both ends.
For some reason, half of the group was still using inside voices. Members of the advance team were swirling around. "When the Senator comes in, we're not gonna mob him, ok?" Until he said it, I wouldn't have thought of it. Maybe it happened somewhere else. Who knows. There were Secret Service guys at both doors.
It was stuffy, and the high school students I brought, who were still standing outside, kept texting me to tell me that their fingers were gonna fall off. It ain't Iowa or New Hampshire, but it turns out that it does get kinda chilly here.
Every time the door opened, we all turned, and every time it was someone else from advance, or political, or communications. Then it opened and Barack came in. This time I wasn't at the end of a 20 hour day. I think he's not much different in physical size from me, and if you could lope at a walking pace, that's how he came in. Smooth and easy. "Hey hey, what's going on?" I'll be honest, I'm pretty sure he said something like, "so here're my people," but I was kind of too awestruck to really record it cleanly. The important part is that he was a real person. He called Luis up so he could personally wish him a happy birthday. He grinned. When he talked to us, he talked to us with just the right mix of humanity and invulnerability. "I know you guys are working hard. I know you're eating pizza every night. I know you need sleep, and you're not getting it. And I also know what a great job you're doing. Trust me. I see it. We're up against opponents who have a lot of strength, but there's no substitute for enthusiasm. I know how hard you're all working, and I make you this promise. I'll do my part. You keep it up here. I really believe we're gonna win this. Now come on. Let's take some pictures. We've got work to do."
We went up, a region at a time, and took a photo. He should our hands again. There was an episode of The West Wing where Alan Alda can't shake hands any more, because his is so chapped and torn up from all the shaking. Barack shook my hand softly, but not limply or weakly. Just enough press to let me know he was there, and I'm sure carefully constructed to save his hand.
He threw his fist in the air as he headed out to the auditorium. "Fired Up?"
"Ready to Go!"
And then it was time to get back to work.
I could request some sort of dispensation based on the number of hours worked, or my general energy level after 13 hour days, but really I just haven't felt the motivation to write.
The writer's strike meant that the debate Monday was canceled, which meant a free day, which meant we got a bonus stop on the way through. Two small events to build. More like one tiny event, and one so small (in the numbers sense) that it can't even be called building from a field perspective. Not that that made either less important, or less exciting.
There was a lot of hustle and bustle to get the high school interns to the library. Four schools. Conversations with 30 parents, permission slips, text message coordination, and rides to arrange. I bought a 36" pizza to feed them while they waited in line outside the library.
"Hey, when's Barack coming back," the pizza guy asked me.
"He's here right now."
"What, he's here? Where?"
"Across the street at the library."
"Hey, tell him if he comes here, I'll give him a free slice of pizza."
They let staff in first. We stood in the library hallway. Almost all of us were in our red shirts, the ones from the debate. I'm not entirely sure why, since we were completely closed off from the rest of the building, but we were all using our inside voices. When they started us moving, we went down the stairs, and into another room. It was stuffy, and there were thick black curtains on both sides, and doors at both ends.
For some reason, half of the group was still using inside voices. Members of the advance team were swirling around. "When the Senator comes in, we're not gonna mob him, ok?" Until he said it, I wouldn't have thought of it. Maybe it happened somewhere else. Who knows. There were Secret Service guys at both doors.
It was stuffy, and the high school students I brought, who were still standing outside, kept texting me to tell me that their fingers were gonna fall off. It ain't Iowa or New Hampshire, but it turns out that it does get kinda chilly here.
Every time the door opened, we all turned, and every time it was someone else from advance, or political, or communications. Then it opened and Barack came in. This time I wasn't at the end of a 20 hour day. I think he's not much different in physical size from me, and if you could lope at a walking pace, that's how he came in. Smooth and easy. "Hey hey, what's going on?" I'll be honest, I'm pretty sure he said something like, "so here're my people," but I was kind of too awestruck to really record it cleanly. The important part is that he was a real person. He called Luis up so he could personally wish him a happy birthday. He grinned. When he talked to us, he talked to us with just the right mix of humanity and invulnerability. "I know you guys are working hard. I know you're eating pizza every night. I know you need sleep, and you're not getting it. And I also know what a great job you're doing. Trust me. I see it. We're up against opponents who have a lot of strength, but there's no substitute for enthusiasm. I know how hard you're all working, and I make you this promise. I'll do my part. You keep it up here. I really believe we're gonna win this. Now come on. Let's take some pictures. We've got work to do."
We went up, a region at a time, and took a photo. He should our hands again. There was an episode of The West Wing where Alan Alda can't shake hands any more, because his is so chapped and torn up from all the shaking. Barack shook my hand softly, but not limply or weakly. Just enough press to let me know he was there, and I'm sure carefully constructed to save his hand.
He threw his fist in the air as he headed out to the auditorium. "Fired Up?"
"Ready to Go!"
And then it was time to get back to work.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Barack Obama, Ok
My 4 year old nephew isn't exactly happy to see me and my little brother leave at the end of a visit. He's always excited for us to arrive, but apparently apprehensive about us leaving before we're even there.
Just before we arrived at Thanksgiving, he asked my mom, holding up all five fingers on one hand, why "Uncle Ev and Uncle Rye have to leave after this many days?"
First my mom made sure he understood which days they were, and confirmed that it was indeed five days, as he had indicated. Always the educator.
Then she told him, "Riley has to go home to go to school, and Ev has to go back to Vegas to help get Barack Obama elected as President."
"President of the United States of America?"
"Yes, President of the United States of America."
"But Nan, we already have a President."
"And who is that Ibra?"
"Jed Bartlett is the President." If you've never met my nephew, you don't know the complete certainty with which he presents things. There are not gray areas. Of course, he's watched the West Wing since he was 1, so it's not an unreasonable assumption. And considering that my parents, like the rest of sane America, use the show as an escapist fantasy, it's perfectly fair. I wish it were true. Apparently for him, it is.
"Well honey, President is a job that people share. Now, Jed Bartlett is President, but it's almost someone else's turn. And Ev thinks that Barack Obama should be the next President."
"Why Nan?"
"Well, because Barack Obama wants to take care of America." (It's probably important to note that I'm completely fabricating this portion of the conversation. It's based on what I imagine the interaction was between my mom and my nephew at this stage of the conversation, not any objective reality).
"Oh. What about Jed Bartlett?"
"He thinks it's a good idea, too."
I'm told my nephew marinated on this for a minute, no doubt looking pensive as only a 4 year old can. "Barack Obama, President of the United States of America. Ok."
It might not be the most influential endorsement Barack gets, but as far as I'm concerned it's the best one.
Just before we arrived at Thanksgiving, he asked my mom, holding up all five fingers on one hand, why "Uncle Ev and Uncle Rye have to leave after this many days?"
First my mom made sure he understood which days they were, and confirmed that it was indeed five days, as he had indicated. Always the educator.
Then she told him, "Riley has to go home to go to school, and Ev has to go back to Vegas to help get Barack Obama elected as President."
"President of the United States of America?"
"Yes, President of the United States of America."
"But Nan, we already have a President."
"And who is that Ibra?"
"Jed Bartlett is the President." If you've never met my nephew, you don't know the complete certainty with which he presents things. There are not gray areas. Of course, he's watched the West Wing since he was 1, so it's not an unreasonable assumption. And considering that my parents, like the rest of sane America, use the show as an escapist fantasy, it's perfectly fair. I wish it were true. Apparently for him, it is.
"Well honey, President is a job that people share. Now, Jed Bartlett is President, but it's almost someone else's turn. And Ev thinks that Barack Obama should be the next President."
"Why Nan?"
"Well, because Barack Obama wants to take care of America." (It's probably important to note that I'm completely fabricating this portion of the conversation. It's based on what I imagine the interaction was between my mom and my nephew at this stage of the conversation, not any objective reality).
"Oh. What about Jed Bartlett?"
"He thinks it's a good idea, too."
I'm told my nephew marinated on this for a minute, no doubt looking pensive as only a 4 year old can. "Barack Obama, President of the United States of America. Ok."
It might not be the most influential endorsement Barack gets, but as far as I'm concerned it's the best one.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Quick Thoughts
I won't get into the complete unreality that was my 10 year reunion just yet. I'm too tired, I have to be up too soon, and it was a little too ridiculous for me to process fully yet. What I will tell you is that it was fantastic, and that when I went to meet a supporter who's a high school teacher, classes let out when I was in the hallway, and it really got real.
But what I want to talk about is baseball.
I can't claim to be anything I'm not. When we moved to New England (I was ten) I hated it. There were mosquitoes. People were trying to tell me about Jesus all the time. They didn't eat Pace Picante Hot Salsa, just the Mild. It sucked. And so I hated it, and everything associated. I made something of a passion out of rooting loudly and obviously against the home teams, and my poor pops took me anyway, on his Firm's season tickets, to many a game. When I moved to Seattle, I started to realize that there was something to that Boston place. Pizza, for one, and a good sub. And sports fans who cared even when things weren't so great. I started to root for the Sox, a little. In '03, I was back with Brie, and we watched game one of the (tragic) ALCS in John Harvard's brewpub in Harvard Square. I caught the bug for sure then. After Game 3 of the ALCS a year later, after we lost 19-8 and went down 3-0, I took a couple bets. My friends all laughed. I laughed last, of course, but that's not the point.
In the Republican You-Tube debate tonight, the last question came for Rudy. The guy wanted to know how Giuliani could be a Yankee fan, but root for the Sox in the series. Giuliani gave an answer that could be accepted in almost any other circumstance. He said he's a fan of the American League, and he'll root for whatever American League team makes the Series. Makes sense. I'm an American League guy too. But folks in NY and Boston know his answer wasn't ok. If you're a Yankee fan, you're contractually obligated to scoff at the Red Sox. If you're a Red Sox fan, you'd mortgage your soul to see someone, anyone, beat the Yankees. It isn't an either/or kinda rivalry that gets put aside when there's a National League enemy to defeat. It's a not-over-my-dead-body will I root for those cocksuckers kinda thing.
And the worst part is, "I don't know where I stand" Crazy Rudy didn't even give the worst answer to the question. Mitt "I couldn't hold a steady position if my life depended on it" Romney holds that honor. Mitt, born and raised in Michigan, made some sort of ridiculous claim that his family was all dyed in the wool Sox Nation. And then he dropped this one on us: "We waited 87 long years..." blah blah blah. Yeah, yeah Mitt, you're the good, long suffering Red Sox fan up against the evil Rudy Yankee-ani empire... Wait a second. Did you say 87 years? Hmmm. 1918. 2004. Nope, can't quite come up with 87 there. You f*&kin' moron, it was 86 years. How someone can claim, essentially, to have lived and died with the Sox (a claim I personally do not make, btw), and then assign them to 87 years in the wilderness... But then, Mitt's probably a bible expert too, so I'm sure he knows Christ was in the desert for 41 days.
And these are two of the people who're seriously being considered for President of the United States of America. Good god, people. Good god.
But what I want to talk about is baseball.
I can't claim to be anything I'm not. When we moved to New England (I was ten) I hated it. There were mosquitoes. People were trying to tell me about Jesus all the time. They didn't eat Pace Picante Hot Salsa, just the Mild. It sucked. And so I hated it, and everything associated. I made something of a passion out of rooting loudly and obviously against the home teams, and my poor pops took me anyway, on his Firm's season tickets, to many a game. When I moved to Seattle, I started to realize that there was something to that Boston place. Pizza, for one, and a good sub. And sports fans who cared even when things weren't so great. I started to root for the Sox, a little. In '03, I was back with Brie, and we watched game one of the (tragic) ALCS in John Harvard's brewpub in Harvard Square. I caught the bug for sure then. After Game 3 of the ALCS a year later, after we lost 19-8 and went down 3-0, I took a couple bets. My friends all laughed. I laughed last, of course, but that's not the point.
In the Republican You-Tube debate tonight, the last question came for Rudy. The guy wanted to know how Giuliani could be a Yankee fan, but root for the Sox in the series. Giuliani gave an answer that could be accepted in almost any other circumstance. He said he's a fan of the American League, and he'll root for whatever American League team makes the Series. Makes sense. I'm an American League guy too. But folks in NY and Boston know his answer wasn't ok. If you're a Yankee fan, you're contractually obligated to scoff at the Red Sox. If you're a Red Sox fan, you'd mortgage your soul to see someone, anyone, beat the Yankees. It isn't an either/or kinda rivalry that gets put aside when there's a National League enemy to defeat. It's a not-over-my-dead-body will I root for those cocksuckers kinda thing.
And the worst part is, "I don't know where I stand" Crazy Rudy didn't even give the worst answer to the question. Mitt "I couldn't hold a steady position if my life depended on it" Romney holds that honor. Mitt, born and raised in Michigan, made some sort of ridiculous claim that his family was all dyed in the wool Sox Nation. And then he dropped this one on us: "We waited 87 long years..." blah blah blah. Yeah, yeah Mitt, you're the good, long suffering Red Sox fan up against the evil Rudy Yankee-ani empire... Wait a second. Did you say 87 years? Hmmm. 1918. 2004. Nope, can't quite come up with 87 there. You f*&kin' moron, it was 86 years. How someone can claim, essentially, to have lived and died with the Sox (a claim I personally do not make, btw), and then assign them to 87 years in the wilderness... But then, Mitt's probably a bible expert too, so I'm sure he knows Christ was in the desert for 41 days.
And these are two of the people who're seriously being considered for President of the United States of America. Good god, people. Good god.
Fired Up, Ready to Go
The sky is just orange above the mountains, and still indigo and starry overhead. I slept for less than three hours last night. If I could hear my bike it would probably be roaring, but the wind at 100mph takes pretty much all other sound away.
Last night, pointing at the map, our state Field Director, Mike Moffo, laid out the strategic vision. He's got a whole battle plan, and it's brilliant. He was part of the Kerry team in Iowa in '04. Nuff said. He lays it out, piece by piece, a general prepping the troops. We get assignments. The teams, the timing, the plan. But that was last night. It's not quite 6am, I'm alone on 215, and my bike is flying.
It's already started by the time we get there at 7:15 in the morning. One team has been there all night, sleeping in cars, playing kickball. We've all got red shirts. Two flatbeds, one 16' UHaul. Supplies apportioned accordingly for the battle plan. It's not 8am, and we're set. Three supply posts, walkie-talkies, and a bunch of campaign staffers completely and totally oblivious to anything but winning.
I guess this is where I should say a few words about the layout. UNLV and CNN have dissected the campus, outlined a set of seemingly arbitrary rules, and a code of conduct for the "CVA", or Campaign Visibility Area. We're under strict instructions not to knowingly break any of these rules. Where we can and can't be, what we can and can't do, use, place, wave or say has all been pretty well preordained. Of course, it all goes out the window by 10am when it becomes clear that none of the other campaigns give an ass, and that campus security doesn't either.
There's the rule about the size of campaign signs, prohibiting the ubiquitous 4'x8' mega-sign. We've got 4'x6' signs. The Clinton folk have cut their 4'x8's into three sections and turned them into three man sandwich boards. The Edwards camp either didn't get the memo or didn't care, and there goes that restriction. An area of the parking lot labeled "H" has been designated as the only acceptable on-campus visibility area. No one goes there. By 11am, they're routing traffic through the CVA, and we're all out on the street, lining Swenson from Tropicana to the parking lot entrance. Mobile teams get the call via walkie-talkie and swarm to live camera shots, waving signs behind sometimes amused, sometimes annoyed TV anchors. We outnumber the other campaigns already, and it's still just staffers.
At 11am, the infantry starts to arrive. Volunteers roll in, pick up a sign, put on a tee-shirt, sign a pledge card and hit the street. By 11:30, we're several hundred strong. We've got the street lined with red tee-shirts. And it's time to start the cheering.
At this point, my adrenaline is starting to settle in. It hasn't gone down, or gone away, it just isn't making me twitchy anymore.
We need volume, so I make what I can. Up and down the line, leading the cheer, and after one pass I realize I need more volume. I twist a sign into a bullhorn, tap it with packing tape, and start shouting. Call: "Fired Up!" Response: "Ready to Go." Repeat. The Clinton camp doesn't seem very well organized. They're loud, and they have (against the CVA rules) a megaphone. We all have red shirts. It's pretty obvious who our people are. "Fired Up." It's got a military cadence. Long first syllable. Rising, then a sharp, hard second. There're other chants too. We have a megaphone before long. The response it steady, even. "Ready to Go!"
It's November, it's an early state, and we all put on sunblock in the morning. It's probably 80 degrees. At 12:30, lunch arrives, and most settle into the shade to eat PB&J. We have a bagged lunch for everyone. I'm distributing, and catch this bit as I walk by a cluster of Clinton peeps. Volunteer, female, 50: "So that campaign gets bagged lunch delivered, and we have to walk back to headquarters for fruit roll ups?" Campaign staffer, flustered, younger, male: shrug, look away.
By the afternoon, cavalry for both sides arrive. My voice is failing by 1pm, but I force it, when we need it. There's a group of staffers taking turns leading the pep. Me and Max, another Mass-hole, tag team a few rounds, running the length of our line, pumping our fists. Every time a camera goes live, we swarm. When they make the mistake of coming along the line, we pounce. More than one journalist gives up, laughing, as we surround in a sea of red shirts, signs, and chants.
John King's about to go live, and we get in behind him. Somehow the Clinton camp hasn't figured out how to get people behind the cameras, or maybe they just can't spare anyone from the line. John King's on a stage, and I'm holding a 4'x6' sign as high as I can behind him. He turns and grins at us. He sees my Sox hat. He gets the look every New Englander's had since '04. "Where you from?"
"Boston."
The look turns into the other one. The Nation one. "Oh, great. I'm from Dorchester."
"Lexington." I'm not sure he can actually hear me, because my voice isn't even a croak at this point. It's only 2:30, maybe 3. But he smiles, waves. He turns back to the camera, then looks back at where I'm standing. He's got a water bottle in his hand. He says something to the Camera man, the Camera man looks through his viewfinder, then looks at me.
"Hey, scoot this way a little," and he winks. I scoot.
We go live, and the Obama signs are the only ones there. Behind us, another news anchor looks at us and laughs. I glance over. She's cute, and she shakes her head at me, smiles, and shrugs. I agree. It's completely nuts. And I haven't had this much fun in ages.
The camera turns off for a commercial, and I set down my sign. I have to hold it high, and it's kinda unweildy, there's a breeze and my arms are tired. I see Rory Reed getting out of a limo, and there's a tall, thin redhed walking towards us. She's gorgeous, and I swear I know her. She walks right up to me and smiles. "It's good to see you all out here," she says, and she has a clean English accent, Queen's English. "Even if you are for the wrong candidate." It clicks in my head just as I see her button, just as she raises her hand. "I'm Elizabeth Kucinich."
"It's an honor to meet you ma'am. I have a lot of respect for your husband."
Her grip is firm, and she looks me in the eye. She shakes a few more hands and moves on. The camera gets ready to go live again.
There's a lot more shouting. A grand finale. We pack the trucks. We head to the party. A Mexican joint across from the Hardrock has 21 flat screens, and they're projecting the debate on a screen and on the parking lot wall. Everyone watches, but really we're all waiting. After the debate, after Secret Service ropes off a little area. After the intros, he comes bounding into the room. He's smaller than I imagined, somehow, even though he's bigger than I am. It's part stump, part off the cuff. He's standing 4 feet away from me, and Brie's squeezing my hand. To be completely honest, I don't really remember it. When he comes around to shake hands, I push forward and put mine in his path. He shakes it. He looks right at me.
It took me about three days to process, I think. If I remember correctly the shake was firm, buthe didn't press or apply pressure. After it happens I'm in a sort of a daze. And then, we're off to the last hurrah.
The first Nevada Jefferson-Jackson dinner isn't a damn thing like Iowa. It's in a ballroom at Paris Las Vegas. It's quiet. Of course, before I find out what it's like inside, I have to come down the hall. As I walk towards the door, the guys from my office break out of a group. "Evan, Evan, you gotta come over here." They're all in a semi-circle, and they bring me around. "Evan, this is Richard. Richard, Evan." Again, he's smaller in real life, but not as much as I would have thought. He looks at my Sox hat.
"Not wearing that hat I can't shake your hand," he says, as he shakes my hand.
"It's an honor to meet you, sir." I really can't talk now.
"Somehow with the hat I expected an accent."
For a few minutes, we get treated to the ideas of Toby Ziegler, er, Richard Schiff. I'm really just not processing anything anymore.
The dinner's interesting, in a clinical sort of way. Joe Biden's angry. Chris Dodd is too slow to make his point. I miss Kucinich, although I hear his wife was standing behind him the whole speech. I miss John Edwards too. Gravel's a firebrand, part loon and part Cassandra. People nod politely, he rants against the privatization of Washington and the selling of the Democratic Party, and he's mostly Cassandra, right but too honest to be believed. Our guy bounds onto the stage, delivers the stump. It was better in South Carolina, the first time, in it's full glory, but this one's pretty good. There's a giant TV on either side of the stage, and he looks tiny compared to the massive tele-rendering he gets on the screens. We wave our signs when he leaves.
Earlier, we packed the streets and the campus. Inside, it's Hillary who's packed it out, full of $120 a plate supporters. Every time she gives the call, they give the response. Her voice is shrill. I've never heard it live before, and it's every bit as shrill as on TV. I'm barely in the room, though, so it doesn't really matter. Finally, it's over, and we head for the doors. I say something to one of the other guys. He looks at me. "Is that really how your voice sounds?" I just nod, smile.
The chant is loud when we reach the door, and outside in the hall it's deafening. Every staffer. Every supporter who went to the dinner. They're all in the hall as we spill out. A sea of red shirts and red and blue signs. They're jumping. "Fired Up." It rises. "Ready to Go!" The floor is shaking a little. Some dinner-goers walk by shaking their heads. Every one of us has been up since 5am. We got 1, 2, 3 hours of sleep the night before. We're hoarse, at best, and exhausted, but the adrenaline hasn't given out yet. We jump. We chant. I see Moffo again, and he's grinning with the thrill of battle. "Fired up," he shouts. I catch his eye. "Ready to Go!"
Last night, pointing at the map, our state Field Director, Mike Moffo, laid out the strategic vision. He's got a whole battle plan, and it's brilliant. He was part of the Kerry team in Iowa in '04. Nuff said. He lays it out, piece by piece, a general prepping the troops. We get assignments. The teams, the timing, the plan. But that was last night. It's not quite 6am, I'm alone on 215, and my bike is flying.
It's already started by the time we get there at 7:15 in the morning. One team has been there all night, sleeping in cars, playing kickball. We've all got red shirts. Two flatbeds, one 16' UHaul. Supplies apportioned accordingly for the battle plan. It's not 8am, and we're set. Three supply posts, walkie-talkies, and a bunch of campaign staffers completely and totally oblivious to anything but winning.
I guess this is where I should say a few words about the layout. UNLV and CNN have dissected the campus, outlined a set of seemingly arbitrary rules, and a code of conduct for the "CVA", or Campaign Visibility Area. We're under strict instructions not to knowingly break any of these rules. Where we can and can't be, what we can and can't do, use, place, wave or say has all been pretty well preordained. Of course, it all goes out the window by 10am when it becomes clear that none of the other campaigns give an ass, and that campus security doesn't either.
There's the rule about the size of campaign signs, prohibiting the ubiquitous 4'x8' mega-sign. We've got 4'x6' signs. The Clinton folk have cut their 4'x8's into three sections and turned them into three man sandwich boards. The Edwards camp either didn't get the memo or didn't care, and there goes that restriction. An area of the parking lot labeled "H" has been designated as the only acceptable on-campus visibility area. No one goes there. By 11am, they're routing traffic through the CVA, and we're all out on the street, lining Swenson from Tropicana to the parking lot entrance. Mobile teams get the call via walkie-talkie and swarm to live camera shots, waving signs behind sometimes amused, sometimes annoyed TV anchors. We outnumber the other campaigns already, and it's still just staffers.
At 11am, the infantry starts to arrive. Volunteers roll in, pick up a sign, put on a tee-shirt, sign a pledge card and hit the street. By 11:30, we're several hundred strong. We've got the street lined with red tee-shirts. And it's time to start the cheering.
At this point, my adrenaline is starting to settle in. It hasn't gone down, or gone away, it just isn't making me twitchy anymore.
We need volume, so I make what I can. Up and down the line, leading the cheer, and after one pass I realize I need more volume. I twist a sign into a bullhorn, tap it with packing tape, and start shouting. Call: "Fired Up!" Response: "Ready to Go." Repeat. The Clinton camp doesn't seem very well organized. They're loud, and they have (against the CVA rules) a megaphone. We all have red shirts. It's pretty obvious who our people are. "Fired Up." It's got a military cadence. Long first syllable. Rising, then a sharp, hard second. There're other chants too. We have a megaphone before long. The response it steady, even. "Ready to Go!"
It's November, it's an early state, and we all put on sunblock in the morning. It's probably 80 degrees. At 12:30, lunch arrives, and most settle into the shade to eat PB&J. We have a bagged lunch for everyone. I'm distributing, and catch this bit as I walk by a cluster of Clinton peeps. Volunteer, female, 50: "So that campaign gets bagged lunch delivered, and we have to walk back to headquarters for fruit roll ups?" Campaign staffer, flustered, younger, male: shrug, look away.
By the afternoon, cavalry for both sides arrive. My voice is failing by 1pm, but I force it, when we need it. There's a group of staffers taking turns leading the pep. Me and Max, another Mass-hole, tag team a few rounds, running the length of our line, pumping our fists. Every time a camera goes live, we swarm. When they make the mistake of coming along the line, we pounce. More than one journalist gives up, laughing, as we surround in a sea of red shirts, signs, and chants.
John King's about to go live, and we get in behind him. Somehow the Clinton camp hasn't figured out how to get people behind the cameras, or maybe they just can't spare anyone from the line. John King's on a stage, and I'm holding a 4'x6' sign as high as I can behind him. He turns and grins at us. He sees my Sox hat. He gets the look every New Englander's had since '04. "Where you from?"
"Boston."
The look turns into the other one. The Nation one. "Oh, great. I'm from Dorchester."
"Lexington." I'm not sure he can actually hear me, because my voice isn't even a croak at this point. It's only 2:30, maybe 3. But he smiles, waves. He turns back to the camera, then looks back at where I'm standing. He's got a water bottle in his hand. He says something to the Camera man, the Camera man looks through his viewfinder, then looks at me.
"Hey, scoot this way a little," and he winks. I scoot.
We go live, and the Obama signs are the only ones there. Behind us, another news anchor looks at us and laughs. I glance over. She's cute, and she shakes her head at me, smiles, and shrugs. I agree. It's completely nuts. And I haven't had this much fun in ages.
The camera turns off for a commercial, and I set down my sign. I have to hold it high, and it's kinda unweildy, there's a breeze and my arms are tired. I see Rory Reed getting out of a limo, and there's a tall, thin redhed walking towards us. She's gorgeous, and I swear I know her. She walks right up to me and smiles. "It's good to see you all out here," she says, and she has a clean English accent, Queen's English. "Even if you are for the wrong candidate." It clicks in my head just as I see her button, just as she raises her hand. "I'm Elizabeth Kucinich."
"It's an honor to meet you ma'am. I have a lot of respect for your husband."
Her grip is firm, and she looks me in the eye. She shakes a few more hands and moves on. The camera gets ready to go live again.
There's a lot more shouting. A grand finale. We pack the trucks. We head to the party. A Mexican joint across from the Hardrock has 21 flat screens, and they're projecting the debate on a screen and on the parking lot wall. Everyone watches, but really we're all waiting. After the debate, after Secret Service ropes off a little area. After the intros, he comes bounding into the room. He's smaller than I imagined, somehow, even though he's bigger than I am. It's part stump, part off the cuff. He's standing 4 feet away from me, and Brie's squeezing my hand. To be completely honest, I don't really remember it. When he comes around to shake hands, I push forward and put mine in his path. He shakes it. He looks right at me.
It took me about three days to process, I think. If I remember correctly the shake was firm, buthe didn't press or apply pressure. After it happens I'm in a sort of a daze. And then, we're off to the last hurrah.
The first Nevada Jefferson-Jackson dinner isn't a damn thing like Iowa. It's in a ballroom at Paris Las Vegas. It's quiet. Of course, before I find out what it's like inside, I have to come down the hall. As I walk towards the door, the guys from my office break out of a group. "Evan, Evan, you gotta come over here." They're all in a semi-circle, and they bring me around. "Evan, this is Richard. Richard, Evan." Again, he's smaller in real life, but not as much as I would have thought. He looks at my Sox hat.
"Not wearing that hat I can't shake your hand," he says, as he shakes my hand.
"It's an honor to meet you, sir." I really can't talk now.
"Somehow with the hat I expected an accent."
For a few minutes, we get treated to the ideas of Toby Ziegler, er, Richard Schiff. I'm really just not processing anything anymore.
The dinner's interesting, in a clinical sort of way. Joe Biden's angry. Chris Dodd is too slow to make his point. I miss Kucinich, although I hear his wife was standing behind him the whole speech. I miss John Edwards too. Gravel's a firebrand, part loon and part Cassandra. People nod politely, he rants against the privatization of Washington and the selling of the Democratic Party, and he's mostly Cassandra, right but too honest to be believed. Our guy bounds onto the stage, delivers the stump. It was better in South Carolina, the first time, in it's full glory, but this one's pretty good. There's a giant TV on either side of the stage, and he looks tiny compared to the massive tele-rendering he gets on the screens. We wave our signs when he leaves.
Earlier, we packed the streets and the campus. Inside, it's Hillary who's packed it out, full of $120 a plate supporters. Every time she gives the call, they give the response. Her voice is shrill. I've never heard it live before, and it's every bit as shrill as on TV. I'm barely in the room, though, so it doesn't really matter. Finally, it's over, and we head for the doors. I say something to one of the other guys. He looks at me. "Is that really how your voice sounds?" I just nod, smile.
The chant is loud when we reach the door, and outside in the hall it's deafening. Every staffer. Every supporter who went to the dinner. They're all in the hall as we spill out. A sea of red shirts and red and blue signs. They're jumping. "Fired Up." It rises. "Ready to Go!" The floor is shaking a little. Some dinner-goers walk by shaking their heads. Every one of us has been up since 5am. We got 1, 2, 3 hours of sleep the night before. We're hoarse, at best, and exhausted, but the adrenaline hasn't given out yet. We jump. We chant. I see Moffo again, and he's grinning with the thrill of battle. "Fired up," he shouts. I catch his eye. "Ready to Go!"
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