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.

What it Takes to be a Cosmo Girl

By EUGENE MULERO, Correspondent

Katie Glueck is 18, likes journalism and she’s very cosmopolitan. So much, in fact, that CosmoGIRL! magazine has turned her into its political correspondent. Glueck was hobnobbing with high-profile politicos, Beltway power brokers and Hollywood celebrities during both national conventions. Among her key interviews were a chat with Sen. Hillary Clinton and heart-to-heart with House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. She loves fashion, yet adds that politics is her calling. She is taking on political science at Northwestern University and hopes to come to Washington, D.C., soon to emulate the careers of other strong-minded and witty ladies, such as Maureen Dowd or Helen Thomas. Taking Back Politics sat down with Glueck at the Rock The Vote party at Bar Fly during the GOP convention.

 

 

TBP: What do you think about the Convention?

KG: I’ve covered both the Democratic National Convention and the Republican National Convention, and it’s been interesting to watch the parties cultivating their messages that will define both campaigns through November. Participants at both conventions are energized and seem to really believe in their candidates.

 

TBP: How would you describe your blog and CosmoGIRL! news?

KG: I try to cover the election from an angle that young women would find interesting. I focus on the youth vote and on engaging young women and girls in the political process. In that vein, I’ve interviewed Sen. Clinton and Pelosi, and spent a lot of time talking with young people at the early primaries and caucuses (i.e., Iowa, New Hampshire and South Carolina), and now at the conventions. We’re non-partisan, so I make sure to talk to young people from all kinds of ideological backgrounds. I’ve got a weekly blog at www.cosmogirl.com/election2008, and I publish a column in the magazine.

 

TBP: Where are you from and tell us how you got involved with CosmoGIRL!

KG: I’m originally from a suburb of Kansas City. I just graduated high school and will be a freshman at the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University in about two weeks. I’m CosmoGIRL! magazine’s political correspondent, a position I came into by winning a contest. Last fall, the letter from the editor in CosmoGIRL! said that the magazine wanted to send one young woman to cover the major events of the election. They were looking for someone who could synthesize these huge political issues in a way that would be engaging for young readers. I wrote an essay to apply, and last October, found out that I was one of five finalists. I did a 40-minute phone interview, and was fortunate enough to be selected for the job.

 

TBP: Describe the experience of reporting from the conventions.
KG: It’s been amazing! This election is historic on so many levels that are of interest to CosmoGIRL! readers — we’ve seen the first woman get close to clinching the nomination of a major party, the first African-American receive that nomination … unprecedented youth involvement — so covering both conventions and being in the middle of all this excitement has truly been an honor.

 

TBP: What has been your favorite moment during the Republican National Convention?

KG: So far, Sen. Joe Lieberman’s (I-Conn.) speech. Regardless of my personal political views, I think he’s got a real point on the issue of partisanship. I think that the majority of our country is pretty moderate, and it would be nice to see those in Washington moving past party lines to actually achieve some tangible results for the American people. That’s what we elected them to do.

Palin Fever Hits the Prairie

By TOMÁS DINGES, Correspondent

Two liberal women commiserate on a back porch during a cool night on the East Coast. They drink water now, instead of wine, after watching John McCain’s RNC acceptance speech. Two speeches in two nights had caused agonizing living-room protestations. For these women the rousing words of McCain-Palin signified doom for the Obama campaign. Say it ain’t so, it went. Sarah Palin and John McCain had sunk an illusory battleship and one of these women was thinking of a country for self-exile. They were in disbelief that large swaths of the United States could be inspired by Republicans in the wake of George W. Bush. These women had sensed the attractiveness of the speeches.

Thirty-year-old Julia Yach changed her electoral opinion to the Republicans upon Palin’s speech. Inside her home in suburban St. Paul, Minn., Julia’s 16-month-old daughter hangs on her leg while she talks on the phone, leaving her on occasion to pull books off a wooden shelf. Julia has two children, and works forty-hours a week as a communications manager in the furniture warranty industry. It’s an American company proud that it doesn’t outsource their call center, instead sending its calls to a small town in South Dakota. “If they don’t work in the gas station or the cheese factory, they work for us,” she says. She and her husband have two cars and their home is not at risk of foreclosure. Still, a vacation is not being planned any time soon.

The night before, she says, Sarah Palin’s speech had officially made her a swing voter, from Barack Obama to McCain-Palin. “I was so thinking that the Republican ticket sucked … and was almost relieved that there was somebody out there that could excite” the people, she says.

It was abortion and Palin’s tough words. Yach was impressed by Palin’s confidence and the strength with which she carried herself in the face of media scrutiny about her family. It’s not that Obama’s position was bad, to prevent teen pregnancies any step of the way, she says, it’s that Palin’s position was good.

The speech was also smug, Julia says, and maybe a bit overconfident. But that was OK.

Eight hours of prairie-driving away in Pierre, South Dakota, Julia’s mother, Carolyn Guhin, regrets not having watched the DNC convention. She is supporting Obama, but has yet to hear him speak.

An in-law celebrates the choice 1500 miles away. For Carolyn, a daughter of a schoolteacher and a car salesman from small-town Iowa, the Democratic Party has always been the public servants and the supporters of social justice. The Republicans were the fat cats. But Carolyn is against laws legalizing abortion, and she presents a profoundly complex viewpoint.

“I was trying not to think of the election … until Palin,” says Guhin.

A Catholic schoolteacher for whom the thought of hearing McCain speak this night “just gags me,” Palin’s speech had “fired her up” out of a slumber of general inattention to the campaign.

Palin came across like “the popular girl running for high school senate,” says Carolyn. “It was shocking how confident she was.”

Was it the tone, the aggression or the way of slipping in backhanded cuts on Obama that made it seem like this? Palin made comments that one had a sense were untrue, but seemed plausible, and totally indefensible in the moment.

Back in the Arizona delegation hotel in St. Paul, sometime between a delegate group photo and a delegate reception with a financial institution, Laura French, a 34-year-old alternate delegate, declares by phone that she “fell in love” with Palin and her speech, and was excited to embrace her as their new leader. At times French wears a “Unidos por McCain” button. After Republican primaries that were “divisive and anti-immigrant,” McCain’s July declaration at a luncheon for the National Council of La Raza (a Latino advocacy group) that immigrants were “children of God” as he repeated in his nomination speech, resonated deeply with French.

These reverberations are what Stephan Strothe, the chief correspondent for the Washington bureau of the German news channel N24 News, tries to convey to a German populace mystified by the popularity of the Republicans and blinded by adulation for Obama. A little more than a month ago, 200,000 Germans congregated to hear Obama speak at the Victory Plaza in Berlin.

At midday Strothe opens the blinds to his hotel room after live broadcasting through the Mid-Western night and the German early morning (4-8 a.m.). Bedtime was 5:00 a.m. Central time.

“(Germans) have a hard time understanding what has happened in the last eight years,” including the “false premises” for war and the state of the economy. It is not clear to them yet “how this can be a close race,” he says.

For Germans and the women on the porch, Obama should be the guaranteed winner.

Strothe is just trying to explain this different process to his viewers. The United States political process is highlighted by, “banalities and how the candidates wave the flag,” he says. “If all else fails you have delegates chanting USA, USA. That is totally foreign to my audience in Germany. We have to explain how the decisions are being made here.”

If only it were so simple.

Tomás Dinges can be reached at tdinges@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.

Beautiful Strangeness

BY MATT KENNARD, CORRESPONDENT

In the evening I accompanied my colleague Eugene Mulero, who was being mistaken for my Mexican intern (he’s Puerto Rican) by many of the less refined Republicans, to a party at Bar Fly in Minneapolis, which is about a 20-minute cab drive from St. Paul. It was organized by the strange and boring Rock the Vote organization, and again had a free bar, which, again, got fully taken advantage of.

The irony of the whole event was that while I supped free whiskey and cokes and nibbled on pecorino cheese and salami, we were informed that this party was now a fundraiser for hurricane Gustav. The MC made sure that we knew that federal government wasn’t the answer and that we needed to donate because private charity was the only way to ameliorate the suffering of those affected.

I felt like screaming “KATRINA!”

As the night wore on, we were greeted with the entrance of Megan McCain, John’s daughter, who has been blogging her way around the campaign at McCainbloggette.com.

Then we had a nonentity country singer who sang songs that no one knew the lyrics to, although he thought himself quite famous. During his set a midget started dancing on stage and singing along to the lyrics. It seemed like part of the plan, but no one explained the significance; it was just more of the same beautiful strangeness that this convention seems to specialize in.

Next was a three-piece Southern sister band. Less said the better, although they did make a heart-rending appeal for donations for Gustav before they unveiled their new single, Different Breed, a weird and grotesque exploration of ennui in late capitalist America, or something like that.

Matt Kennard can be reached at MattKennard@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.

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.