Palin Didn’t Know Africa Was a Continent

By EUGENE MULERO, Correspondent

When piranhas run out of food, they start to devour themselves. That’s how the McCain and Palin staffs are acting lately. Their attacks on each other over which team F’ed the campaign have become vicious.

The latest assault came from the McCainers, which using Fox News’s Carl Cameron as proxy, ridiculed Gov. Palin for her geographical ignorance. Cameron reported on the O’Reilly Factor that “senior” sources told him Palin could not identify NAFTA’s members, she failed to prepare for national interviews, and at one point she was unaware Africa was a continent. The sources apparently said Palin thought Africa was a country—you mean it’s not a country?! (Kidding.)

All this doesn’t change my view of Palin. It has the opposite effect.

I am even more disappointed at the Maverick and his team (Steve Schmidt & co.) for being naïve. Why the heck would they pick a candidate who did not know NAFTA, had zero foreign policy experience and was unproven nationally?

Also, let’s remember, there are many Republican governors with more political readiness than Palin (ie, Connecticut’s M. Jodi Rell). I don’t think Palin cost the GOP the presidential election. President Bush did that.

Palin was a small town mayor, who came from humble beginnings, who loves the outdoors. Yes, we all recognized her acute ego, which blinded her from her political immaturity. But Palin was slowly building her GOP base to eventually make it inside the Beltway. The McCainers were the ones who brought her to us. And now they intend to destroy her (what are friends for).

After Tuesday, Maverick should be really aware that W. ruined his chances at the White House twice. In 2000, Karl Rove and his politicos destroyed his reputation in South Carolina. In 2008, Bush had destroyed the country’s confidence in a GOP White House, which made it impossible for a Republican to succeed him.

So while Palin spends the next four years studying Africa and cramming Wilsonian doctrine for a run in 2012, the Maverick should stop blaming the Hockey Mom for his demise.

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

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.