The Battle of St. Paul: “Where’s George Bush, Karl?”

By EUGENE MULERO, Correspondent

As I sat in front of the Mitsubishi television in the small living room of my mother’s condo in Central Jersey watching a promising IFC flick, the recent memories of Matt Kennard’s adventures at the Republican National Convention electrified my mind.

He came to St. Paul, MN looking for a collision between cops and cool cats; instead he collided with Karl Rove, John Bolton and Republican Yuppies. Matt is in his mid-’20s, hails from London and was among the best students at Columbia’s Journalism School last year. In Minnesota, he stood out like an American Paris. And, when he was reporting, he never held back – except for the time he froze before Rudy Giuliani.

“I just can’t believe that was him,” Kennard told me. “He’s a clown, man.”

Matt was blogging about the convention for the New Statesmen, a magazine in the UK. The essays he produced were brilliant; they captured the insanity of political junkies, star-fuckers and wannabe Republican operatives. What was left out of those essays was how Matt assimilated with the hippies, turned me into his Mexican intern and fought for the rights of the common man.

He did it all with a notepad, a pen and writing “cunt” on his notebook.

He called anybody he thought was part of the so-called “New World Order” a “cunt” or a “clown.” Matt showed up at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport with a large black suitcase, oversized Rivers Cuomo-esque eyeglasses (by Tommy Hilfiger) and tight shirts. He looked very Euro.

He called my cellphone the Sunday before the start of the convention to figure out how to order a SuperShuttle. Once I explained to him the process, he showed up at the house where I was staying, just two blocks north of John Ireland Boulevard. There he met the man who rented us his attic, walked up two flights and relaxed on an uncomfortable air mattress. I had taken the bed, since I got there first. We talked about our girlfriends, college and our pathetic careers as struggling journalists. We both decided he was worse off than me.

***

Back in Manhattan, Matt lives in a horrible apartment in Harlem, in a building with 666 (seriously) as its address. At Columbia, he became known as the asshole who confronted Dr. Henry Kissinger. When the former Secretary of State came to the Joseph Pulitzer World Room last spring to be worshiped by weak-minded students, and feared by chicken-shits, I stood next to Matt when he asked Kissinger, “How do you sleep at night?” That sparked a back-and-forth between Strangelove and Matt. The biggest regret I have is not recording the moment. Kissinger called on another student after five minutes of engaging with Matt, who had blamed him for genocides in Cambodia, East Timor and Chile.

After we settled our bags in the attic, we walked 10 minutes to downtown St. Paul. I struggled to get a colleague to walk to the back entrance of the Xcel Energy Center to bring me my credentials for the convention. Finally, almost an hour later, my National Journal colleague, walked down with my press passes. Matt tried to get in – I felt bad he didn’t have credentials. Days later, I ended up giving him mine. Bu at the convention center that day, I walked by the media workspaces and found my way to National Journal’s headquarters.

(As I typed this, the IFC flick I was watching got really good—the two main characters were just talking about dating and sleeping with each other. The movie is, “In Search of a Midnight Kiss.”)

After I left the National Journal workspace, I called Matt and we met near the corner of Kellogg Boulevard and 7th Street. We walked into the Downtowner, where Kathy the bartender pampered us. By the look in her eyes I could tell she was taken by Matt’s not-so-thick British accent. Matt’s accent is less Gordon Brown, more Joe Strummer.

We had beers, talked about the police and National Guard in St. Paul, and made fun of ourselves making fun of Kathy the bartender. Matt had introduced me as his Mexican intern. He thought that was funny, so he told everybody who would listen that I was his Mexican intern. I didn’t care.

Matt was worried that if he got arrested, he would probably be shipped back to London. He was having problems with his Visa. Earlier that day, Matt had a run-in with Karl Rove. He captured the episode on video—Matt walking behind Karl, who was protected by Secret Service, asking him, “Are you a war criminal, Karl?” and “Where’s George Bush, Karl?”

The video was poorly produced, anti-climatic and all we had so far for our insignificant blog, TakingBackPolitics.com.

That night, we hopped on a taxi to First Avenue in Minneapolis to get some religion from Sammy Hagar. The concert was open bar – I drank lots of extra dirty martinis. Matt had plenty of whiskey on the rocks. Matt and I both became Waboists, named after Hagar’s Cabo Wabo tequila.

Here, Matt explains:
“I would just like to say that, yes, I was possessed by the Wabo; I’m not ashamed to admit it; the Wabo is a deep, mystical philosophy with roots in early Sino-Confucianism and Hindu metaphysics. It explores the complex and fraught relationship being existential ennui and tequila consumption in a way not seen since Sartre and Camus had their heads buried deep in a book sorting out the precursor to Waboism. Please let the man speak, and then join us, join us and the millions of others whom abide by the central tenets of Waboism, our best hope against the New World Order.”

***

The next day, the demonstrations kicked off around noon. The lawn in front of the Minnesota state capitol was taken over by all types of security officers, hippies, wannabe anarchists, legitimate protesters and Coca-Cola advertisements. A stack of plastic soda bottles was guarded by two officers wearing riot gear and carrying automatic weapons.

Matt and I spent the rest of our time in St. Paul looking for an epic battle – a clash between freedom fighters and the establishment. Matt urged the masses to take on the “clowns.” However, such a confrontation would never take place. The men in black had dominated the independent thinkers and troublemakers through intimidation. To cope with our disappointment, we spent our nights drunk and our days hungover, much like a modern-day Hemingway. The absurdity in St. Paul – the sad political ritual of Americana rooted in classism – was too much for us to bear. Alcohol was our cheapest painkiller.

***

At the Northern Lights Grill at Concourse D at MSP airport, waiting for a bacon cheddar melt, I drank an awful coffee. The bartender, who looked like his name was Butch, had a bad attitude; odd, considering it wasn’t even noon yet and I had an even worse attitude. I had just seen what the apocalypse would be like at a party the night before, where the Charlie Daniels Band had performed. Ironically, Charlie sang his terrible single, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” at this painful party.

The Battle of St. Paul would not be. Score one for the Good Ol‘ Boys. This is Maverick time, now. Obama better put his mouthpiece on – and cover his groin – I suspect the hits from the GOP and the 527s will be aimed way below the waist.

As soon as the bartender handed me my breakfast, I thought to myself that if I were ballsy, I would order a dirty martini. Looking back, I wish I had.

When the plane took off I knew I’d never return to Minnesota. It’s bitterly cold in the winter and boring in the summer. And, besides, I don’t follow hockey.

Flight 1022 NW was now just barely above the clouds. The state looked like a Lego set – the Republicans, I’m sure, escaped just as I did. I thought about Matt and wondered whether he had whiskey on the plane. After the convention, I understood quite well why gonzo journos took so many drugs to report about these conventions. If you’re straight and alert, the circus of heightened political illusion takes over your mind. Look at me; if it hadn’t been for the dirty martinis, I wouldn’t have lasted one night in St. Paul.

The IFC movie was almost over and all I could think about was, “Where’s George Bush, Karl?” I haven’t had a dirty martini since I last saw Matt.

Eugene Mulero may be reached at Eugene.Mulero@gmail.com.

Where Matt Kennard Found His Wabo

BY EUGENE MULERO, CORRESPONDENT  

If Sammy Hagar performs at a concert near you—go see him.  Hagar is a prophet. His message is simple, and it rhymes, Cabo Wabo.

Yes. I saw, heard and smelled Hagar perform at First Avenue in Minneapolis, MN with my colleague Matt Kennard.

At the event, which was part of the 2008 Republican National Convention, there was an open bar that Matt took full advantage of. He downed several Buds before upgrading to rum and Cokes. It was at that point, about two hours into Hagar’s set, that Matt lost control and was overtaken by the Wabo. Hagar’s message of tranquility, peace and tequila consumed Matt, who reacted the only way anybody feeling the Wabo can — he wrote the word “cunt” on his reporter’s notebook and waved it at Hagar.

It’s unclear whether Hagar read the word, since he wore late-’90s Oakleys throughout the night. But there were times he appeared to be staring right at “see you next Tuesday.”

Matt laughed uncontrollably as he waved his notebook. He was the happiest I’ve seen him in a long time.

It was at this time that Hagar prepared to cement his message of Wabo, and I quote, “my mother always wanted a tomato garden … I grew up poor… now I got Cabo Wabo.”

What did it all mean? Why were the young Republicans around me cheering, laughing? Why was Matt still writing in his reporter’s notebook?

Another man saw Matt rejoicing in Wabo and grabbed his notebook and threw it at Hagar. The show went on uninterrupted. Matt, however, was not pleased. During the commotion a drunk Republican spilled his drink on the left side of my shirt, because a tall, unattractive woman had slapped him.

Matt was now fully wasted. He confronted the Yuppie scum who tossed his masterpiece at Hagar. The Yuppie offered him money for the notebook. Soaked in alcohol, I broke up the confrontation.

Hagar kept advocating we all drink Cabo Wabo tequila, and I wanted a stage light to fall on his face.

After the show, Matt recovered his precious notebook. We grabbed a cab back from Minneapolis to St. Paul and wondered why Hagar was not being taught at Harvard or Oxford.

I know Hagar has no business performing music—let alone leaving his house, but Cabo Wabo…Cabo Wabo is deep.

Close your eyes and say it: Cabo. Damn, it feels good. It makes you want to be on a resort in Mexico, surrounded by nobody, feeling nothing, wishing for everything.

Matt found his Wabo. I was also plenty drunk and slept like a baby.

We woke up hung-over, with looming deadlines. We had forgotten about Wabo.

Good times.

Eugene may be reached at Eugene.Mulero@gmail.com.