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.

Is This It?

BY EUGENE MULERO, Correspondent

At about 5 p.m. on Thursday I was at the corner of John Ireland Boulevard and Kellogg Boulevard in St. Paul staring at a jumbo-tron screen that featured biased bios of Republican superstars, such as George Tenet. His bio on the screen read: “Knew the dangers of Bin Laden before 9/11”; “Bush Awarded Tenet the Presidential Medal of Honor.”

The torturous sound of police helicopters flying over me clashed with tunes of Neil Young’s anthem about President Bush’s legacy.

I was at the heart of the American political struggle of ideas—at one side of the state capitol hundreds of members of the FBI, National Guard, State Police and local cops prevented demonstrators (with permits) from marching to protest the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. At the other side of town political junky Chris Matthews pretended to grill former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani at a makeshift stage MSNBC set up.

The world is now waiting to listen to their big Maverick unite the Republicans. Of course, he’ll succeed. The Republicans never split.

Across from me was the large cathedral that overlooked the state capitol. Onlookers were all around me. Police cars blew right by the intersection.

A young girl—she must’ve been about 10—handed me a gray long-sleeve shirt with the words “I don’t have health insurance” written with black marker.

Meanwhile, my colleague Matt Kennard was about a half-mile away from me inside the Xcel Energy Center. There he confronted the likes of former United States ambassador to the United Nations John Bolton, and other newsmakers.

Earlier I saw Amy Goodman from Democracy Now! and she told me police are still charging her and her staff for rioting.

There is something very schizophrenic about the convention. I mean, while delegates and politicos rub shoulders with media elite and power brokers, the peace advocates and riff raffs are contained like lab rats outside.

Everywhere I turned, a man carrying a power-rifle stared at me. And the helicopters overhead reminded me of the horrible music Nurse Ratchet put on for the patients in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”—in time, we get used to the noise.

And that’s what it all is anyway—noise. Nothing is what it seems. The restaurateur across the convention center is making noise to attract business. The demonstrators are clamoring for attention. Police are speaking loudly, asserting their power.

One thing does come across clear to me—the establishment is indestructible and the anti-war movement is over.

As I stared at the jumbo-tron screen, it hit me that this is the best any anti-war leaders can do on the night when Maverick takes over the microphone like the GZA.

Robert Kokott, an English teacher in Minneapolis, came to the state capitol to check out the action. Once police broke up the march he made it to the intersection where I stood.

With an ‘is this it?’ stare he asked me, “I thought something would be going on tonight?”

You think.

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

Police State

BY EUGENE MULERO, CORRESPONDENT

I remember long ago watching with horror, old movies about World War II which depicted Germany as this horrible, black and white, homogenous place where the military controlled every human behavior.

After walking around St. Paul, M.N. for the past two days during the Republican National Convention, I feel as if I’m trapped in one of those old movies.

Everywhere I turn I see security guards in riot-gear guarding the Xcel Energy Center like a fortress. Thus far, nearly two dozen individuals have been arrested. Other crowds were tear-gassed, and journalists (such as Democracy Now!’s Amy Goodman) have been arrested.

On Monday, I was filmed by a security guard at the corner of 12th and Cedar streets while I interviewed demonstrators. Later that night, when my colleague Matt Kennard and I walked around the downtown, military officers stood alongside the convention center preventing the public from catching a glimpse of the building.

I told a friend that I always thought these events were open to the public—a rite of passage in our democratic process.

I was wrong.

These conventions, just like the after-parties that follow the days’ activities, are private gatherings. Everybody has their credentials out—if you’re not carrying the big plastic yellow card around your neck with the proper bar code and the RNC logo, you can’t get in.

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

Adventure at the RNC March

BY MATT KENNARD, CORRESPONDENT

The RNC march was a pretty standard affair. There were lots of people snaking around downtown St. Paul telling everyone how George W. Bush and Dick Cheney are terrorists—all true, but when you’ve walked for two hours, you’ve heard it all before.

Things got interesting when the police blocked off the bridges dividing St. Paul at the end of the demo. They had submachine guns and big sticks in their hands wearing full riot gear. The people they stopped moving were your usual anti-war types, apart from one disabled guy in a wheelchair who buzzed around telling everyone they were anti-American and should go back to Iran. He told me London had become Islamic, and all the rest. He was like a comedy character Will Ferrell had come up with, zipping around haranguing the protesters and telling the riot police what a great job they were doing.

It was all a bit of fun, but his screeching voice and chubby face really upset a lot of the protesters who were trying to concentrate on taking on the police-industrial complex. They didn’t look too happy themselves as they sweltered in 40 lbs of riot gear.

Basically, you realize that what happens in the Xcel Energy Center, the site of this year’s RNC, is all boilerplate ludicrousness. Nothing of consequence will happen there in the grand scheme. They will continue to perpetuate war and injustice; while the people outside are the ones who can change not the debate, but the terms of debate.

Matt Kennard can be reached at MattKennard@gmail.com.