With my posse properly
assembled, I lurked and roamed the streets of Manchester looking
for something to do. I was still
hampering after that girl from the day before a bit, but decided it was a lost
cause. She was from New Hampshire though, and none of us knew what do so my
buddy Ettinger asked her what there was to do.
Anyone who’s never been to the city of Manchester better get there
as soon as they can.
I dropped my intellectual sadness over the
political conundrum I faced in favor of impulsive delights that would keep me
feeling good in short bursts. We went to
a Manchester staple called the Red Arrow Diner and the atmosphere was perfect
for a guy like me. The place was
compact, tight-knit, and vintage as all hell; the food was tasty and fulfilling
to the brim, plus the waiting staff was composed of a pretty girl and a funny
guy. What could be better than all that? I’ll tell you what buddy old pal:
NOTHING. With a full stomach and
excitement on my mind, I needed another fix.
I got loud and proud, goofed off like there was no tomorrow and felt pretty alright. A little flirting here,
a little joking there, running, jumping, skipping, cat calling, insulting the
Ron Paul supporters and the Occupy Manchester dwellers alike, but digging
everything all the same; it was grand folks, it was real grand.
I was on my high horse, lit up a cigarette, stomping
the streets with my pals until we got cold.
What was once a fairly large ensemble dwindled down to only a couple of
us because the rest were colder and more tired than me, so they decided to take
a rest at the Manchester Raddison Hotel.
I have only two words to the overnight security staff of the Manchester
Raddison, and those words together compose a pretty common expletive phrase that you can
hear just about anywhere without even looking too hard. I took the final drag of my bogey and went
inside, relishing in the warmth and the ebony and ivory keys of a Steinway
grand. Now, fair reader, if you’ve got a
Steinway grand and don’t want it being abused by teenagers, either lock it up
and keep it out of sight or deal with the lack of musical talent you’re about
to endure. They disagree with me at the
Manchester Raddison, and their security guard let my friends and I know it.
Needless to say I was mortified. I’ve never been one to get embarrassed about
much in all my days folks, but when you’re berated by some failure of a man in
fake cop Halloween regalia calling himself a “Security Guard” in front of
pretty ladies (or, like I said before, handsome men if that’s your poison), to
the point that said pretty ladies and other companions want nothing to do with you out of embarrassment,
you get pretty self conscious. We were
forced to leave and wander the cold night alone and those old school, Delta blues
chords chimed hard in my uneasy mind. I’m one who loves it all, but when things go downhill, I get to magical thinking. I
start relating all my problems to something bad happening in the future as a
matter of fate. Silly I know, dangerous
I know, but you just can’t help yourself from indulging in self-pity from time
to time. I wallowed about, dragging my
group down until Suavo gave me the “screw them all” speech we all love so much
when we’re down in the dumps and my spirits picked up in a flash. We raced to the bus, gave the Raddison the
finger, spit on the ground it stood on, and started planning what we’d do for the
rest of the night. We had one more trip
that I’ll discuss later on, and for that trip the bus would be leaving at 8:30
SHARP. At 8:13 PM, while cycling
through pictures of all the events of the day so far, we stumbled upon a
picture from the Red Arrow wherein the waitress appeared to be giving me the eye. Everybody agreed she was digging on me. I jumped to my feet with an idea. I’m gonna get that waitress’ Facebook or
phone number just for kicks! I had
seventeen solid minutes for my idea to come to fruition. Time was not on my side and as I was
sprinting off the bus I told anyone who wanted to come with me on my journey to
come. I got a pang in my head
that this was a stupid idea that will make me look like a child, but I brushed
it away at the prospect of shits and gigs.
Suavo and I ran the many blocks; laughing excitedly, cracking skeptical,
cynical jokes about the whole ordeal and how goofy it was but still loved it
for that very same reason.
I raced into the Red Arrow and had to pee so
I went to the back with a swift swagger and a big smirk on my face. Suavo followed after I was done, we pow
wowed, and I went out there to do the deed.
I could hear Suavo from the bathroom yelling “GO GET ‘EM ROCKY!” and I
accosted the situation with a delightfully flirtatious fury. The exchange was quick for time was short and
I kind of pussied out and asked for her Facebook as opposed to going for the
full on phone number, but hell I didn’t care there would be no getting it on
after this! I was having more fun than
half my detractors and naysayers who said I pussied out. “F*** ‘em, buddy it was a grand old time!”
exclaimed Suavo as we left the Red Arrow with the waitress' name inscribed in purple ink on
my left forearm.
When I reached the bus I got praise from some
for doing something for the sake of doing something (the real root philosophy
behind the whole thing) and received rolled eyes and
scoffs from the sorry bastards who don’t dig things the same way I do. The event that followed (the one I’ll discuss
later on) was the first cornet of hope that rang out a reveille in the boot
camp of my brain. At first however, I
was being brought down by the overbearing embarrassment I felt for the
two stunts I pulled and more so by the fact that I felt mortified about
it. Until the event was over and we were
already back at the hotel, my discomfort was written all over my very face.
On the way back we were discussing the event
and its relation to the morning’s Facebook debate on Meet the Press. What a spectacle that was, my friends. The
winner of the debate was David Gregory for showcasing how idiotic all the
candidates were and making no bones about it; asking questions that hit them
hard and left them gasping for air. The
man’s a beast and a presence I will always respect as a journalist and an
American. I can’t say as much for the
candidates, but at least I can confidently say it for him. I stayed up all night smoking cigars with
everybody, playing Frisbee in the cold until some angry middle aged wretch came
out in her bathrobe, boohooing about how she couldn’t sleep and was receiving
noise complaints. I think they all
should have just come out and joined us; sleep’s a waste of time in this
big nasty world if you ask me. But lo, I
digress. When we went inside we had sing-a-longs (where I got finally bust out my guitar) and turned on more political television to fill our
mainline with that sweet news junkie juice.
We couldn’t get enough. We
were desperate for it at that point with our minds swaying back and forth in
the information overload breeze, no matter how mad or depressed we got at all of it.
The next and final day would be the most
empty day of the trip in terms of our meetings and experiences, but when you let
the Apollonian thinker dance with the Dionysian dancer as Nietzsche would
deduce it, things can get crazier than I can summarize with these lowly words.
This was the day that we would see the
angriest, oldest, most falsely patriotic and delusional baby with an identity
crisis this side of the Yazoo: Newt Gingrich. I woke up late that morning for breakfast so I ditched
that in favor of sleeping late, packing up my suitcase with Pat and
leaving the Salem Red Roof Inn for good.
Salem was good to me; the cigarettes were cheap, the breakfasts were good,
and the foreign waitress at Sammy J’s wasn’t too bad looking to say the
least. Overall a nice town that I’d
raise my kids in if I had any, kudos to you Salem!
The bus was more exhausted than ever because
we’d all been up so late, but I still tried to wake up those around me by being
louder and more annoying than ever.
Needless to say, it wasn’t appreciated but hell, I tried and it woke me
up so I didn’t mind their growls and scowls of sleepy rage. The whole time I sat there contemplating my
position and the primary, and I began to see similarities within both
situations. It was a strange experience,
I never thought my philosophical and personal quandaries would reflect the
experiences of any politician (especially Republicans), yet I got over that quick and decided to focus
on something else. That stuff was far too
deep and troubling for a sleep-deprived, chain smoking Dylan Merrick on an
empty stomach.
The bus meandered its way up to Concord, New
Hampshire (where people have one of the funniest accents you’ll ever want to
imitate; imagine Frances MacDormand in Fargo
and a drunk Sarah Palin; somewhere in the middle of the spectrum you’ll
find Concord). Concord proved to be the
final battleground for my battered psyche.
As if the perversions of conservatism I saw at the Santorum, Romney, and Paul rallies weren’t enough, Newt Gingrich
opened his rally with the Pledge of Allegiance. Now, I’m not opposed to the original Pledge
of Allegiance, but when the McCarthyists hijacked it to fight the “Godless
Commies”, I didn’t appreciate them stomping all over the basic principles of
the Constitution to do so even if I wasn’t born yet. That’s a different fight for a different day
though.
Newt’s performance was akin to watching Helen
Keller at the junior prom. I was zipping
around pretending to be a member of the "professional media" and got up pretty close and personal with Mr. Gingrich. From the distance between
Gingrich and I, I could smell the propaganda dribbling off his lips and floating
lazily into the audience. More than any
other candidate, Gingrich played up his former career as Speaker of the House
as if he were Christ talking about his experiences as a carpenter. In fact, he decided to give us halfway decent
folks in the audience a full overview of his entire Congressional career, with
extra emphasis on his points with Ronald Reagan (when he WASN’T Speaker) while
his swindlers traipsed about the crowd handing out the “21ST CENTURY
CONTRACT WITH AMERICA”. The whole scene
felt like I was getting flanked on every side by a well-trained, well-armed
Republican syndicate who would use brute force if necessary. At one point, when explaining his healthcare
policy, I began to suspect that rabid police dogs were going to burst in through
the exits and consume any detractor that Newt or his cronies deemed too
vile for society. If I was ever at a Hitler Youth
rally and not getting chased around with golf clubs and hungry Luger pistols, I’d imagine that it felt a little bit like this to those who were
not on the inside loop of things. It was
too well-orchestrated, too controlled, too serious; in the end I couldn’t wait
to get out and breathe again without feeling as if with one wrong move I’d end up on a private cargo plane down to Gitmo.
Once the bus was packed and on its way home I
decided to sit down to some thinking. (Please
pardon the drop in energy here and throughout this article, it is difficult to
gather up all these thoughts and make them as coherent as humanly
possible). Fortunately, as if God
reached down from the night sky with a mighty wag of the finger and scolded the
Professor for NOT having a debate as a means of jogging my thought process, the
Professor decided to have a bus-wide debate that jogged my thought process. The question
that brought on this entire three-part saga came from one of the strongest
human beings I know, a police officer who served during September 11th and an
all around great guy named Jimmy.
Jimmy and I find ourselves often on polar opposite ends of the
political spectrum. Whereas he supports
a lack of separation between church and state, I think any politician
advertising a crucifix, Star of David, or Pentagram can go shove it till the
cows come home and the same goes for preachers, imams, rabbis, and any religious official infusing
politics with their sermons.
Jimmy’s words struck that cynical chord with
the audience that always resonates and reverberates loudest, banking from wall
to wall, ear to ear, causing everyone to think. “I don’t believe the government
cares about us” Jimmy said, “if they did, they’d do something about our
problems, but they only make them worse”.
A jolt of some nightmarishly fast electricity surged down my spine and
raced around my body all of a sudden. My limbs sprang
into action and I jumped out of my seat; my mouth spat fire and my mind
provided the gasoline; the impulse was too great for me to have tried to keep
down; where I once dug the scene I was now making sweet love to it down by the
sexiest fireplace known to humankind.
I’ll tell you what fair readers; it’s not
that Jimmy was wrong; it’s that he wasn’t completely right. I disagree with the premise that our
government doesn’t care about us, and that is what this trip and the lunacy of
primary season has taught me. What I’ve
learned is that the government cares way too much about us.
The government couldn’t give any less of a damn about our sorry little problems. If
we’ve got pot holes, gangs, teen moms reaping the welfare system for benefits
while addicted to meth, a tanking economy, no jobs, and a wealth disparity that
would make Ayn Rand go “Really guys? Isn't this a bit much?”, they don’t want to hear it. The government couldn’t give any less of a
flying rat’s ass about the issues we every day people face. Politics may be local, but every politician
thinks they’re the King or the Queen of their locality; from the village
legislatures to the President of the United States, the bug’s all got them and
there’s no shaking it. Yet there is one
thing politicians care about: public opinion. Politicians would rather hear about
themselves from your Tweets and Facebook posts than hear your voice in the
streets or news publications. They may
not care about your problems, but they care about nothing quite as much as what
you have to say about them on the Internet, anonymity or no anonymity.
So you know what it comes down to
amigos? Piss them off. Piss them off like tomorrow’s dead and
there’s no bringing it back. Occupy Wall
Street scared them, sure, but it didn’t piss them off. “That was just another hippie protest that
the cops can take care of” declared the pompous Representative to the other
pompous Representatives. But it still
made them nervous which is a start. The
only way to piss off these bastards is to educate yourself for your own sake. Take it all in, dig every scene and
get that knowledge and experience. Like
that campy 80’s Captain Planet slogan said (or whosever it was) “KNOWLEDGE IS
POWER!” And if you don’t wanna read,
gain knowledge, form opinions on your own, and educate yourself, then get the
hell out of the way of those of us who do.
Gingrich’s main talking point besides his make out session with Ronald
Reagan’s ghost was a strong emphasis on American Exceptionalism. After the performance I was discussing the
idea with my pal Santos who is from Brazil. She
said Americans have to get over the fact that they’re not living in the
greatest country in the world anymore.
That’s true, we’re not, and we need to suck it up and understand that we
wanted other countries to educate and better themselves like we did. But I got mad, WOAH NELLY did I get mad! I couldn’t believe I had some foreigner
telling me my country wasn’t great when I wouldn’t tell them the same about
their country out of respect. But we’re
not the greatest anymore.
Our healthcare system is degrading to discuss in public regardless of
what vermin like Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck say; our education system can’t
keep up because we’re too lenient on the dumb and don’t reward the best and the
brightest; our economy’s been sleeping in the River Styx since the ‘70’s and we’ve
been navigating ourselves towards disaster since then.
But the biggest problem we have, the Big
Queen Mama of all problems, is our culture.
Our culture of yes, yes, YEAH BABY!
We want it here, we want it fast, and we want it now. Louis CK once joked about how people get mad
when their phones can’t get on the Internet quick, when we should wait because
they’re going to space. By George I think he’s got it! None of the Republican nominees admit that
the roads we’re gonna have to travel are gonna be a lot harder than we want
them to be. They couch it and sugarcoat
it in easily recognizable phrases and clichés as to make it sound
triumphant. And Obama, he, like a good
bleeding heart Centrist, may admit that it will be hard, but coddles you to
make it seem like he’ll take care of you.
He may want to, buddy, but he won’t.
YOU can take care of you. YOU
hold the keys to the Congress and the Senate and the Presidency (kind of). YOU can rule the government but you have to
do one thing first before you get mad; before you get angry and lose your cool;
before you shake your fist at the metaphorical “Man”/”Establishment” and
educate yourself; you first gotta admit that it’s your fault. For all the corruption, greed, vanity, ignorance,
warmongering, bribery, megalomania, and sheer irresponsibility on the part of
the government in regards to the citizenry (regardless of party, be it majority
Democratic or majority Republican or what have you) WE did it. We did it, and we won’t admit it just like we
won’t admit that the American Century was over before the close of the last
one. This is a global world, but it
doesn’t mean we can’t reinvent the American Dream. The American Dream got tarnished with the
Cold War, with its visions of quiet suburbia over top of a rumbling underground, fueled by mass apocalyptic hysteria. We’ve gotta shake it down to its
philosophical underpinnings and crack the foundations till we reach
gold. But to do it we’ve gotta admit
that we’ve screwed ourselves over, cry a bit about it, wipe our eyes, man up,
stick out our bottom lip and say that it ain’t over till we say it’s over. The American Dream can’t die because the
philosophies hidden underneath the shroud of consumerism and ignorance will
never die (or hopefully will never die to put it safely, but screw that, I’m a
risk taker; I’m a goddamn proud American).
The Republican candidates refused to admit that it was the audiences' faults and their faults too because that humble pie doesn’t taste too good when
you’ve got a belly full of bullshit.
Enter Fred Karger. Fred Karger is the first openly gay, Jewish presidential candidate EVER. You probably
haven’t heard about Fred Karger because his campaign is smaller than Stephen
Hawking’s weight room, but he’s there (just call me a political hipster, I
don’t mind). He’s running as a
Republican because he loves Reagan, but is as far left with social issues as
you can go. He’s a real Maverick (stick that in your ancient Inuit peace pipe Palin, go hunt a griz with your bare hands elsewhere), and makes no
bones about it.
He’s running an independent campaign because he wants to and because he feels
he can do good. He’s honest to his
opinions regardless of who he has to answer to.
He’s basically Ron Paul if Ron Paul wasn’t a Nancy boy who’s terrified
of losing. The final event of the day when I saw Romney and Paul was a meeting with Karger and he won me over with real
honesty and a truly free attitude. I had
tried too hard like Romney did while at the Paul thing, making a spectacle of
myself because I wanted to be the name on everyone’s lips. My own vanity and willingness to be so vain was
too dangerous. And I went overboard with
that same message when I was in the diner or playing the piano, much like Ron
Paul, who ended up being uncomfortable with it anyway just like me. I finally realized that I couldn’t try to
revive that feeling of acceptance that I felt that first day I was ranting on
the bus and it hit me as I watched Newt Gingrich pathetically pant out his
broken phrases of a once living, breathing dream. My philosophy with politics should have
filtered its way into my own life, and that’s what happened when I shook Fred
Karger’s hand. The guy probably won’t receive
a sixteenth of a percent of the vote because he’s got no funds, but goddamn
he’s the best guy out there by far.
Zero Hour, 9AM. The words split the dark air as I sum up this
huge thing. To those of you who stayed
with me till the end, I commend you and love you even if I don’t know you; to
those of you who didn’t, well, you’re not reading this, so you can go scratch. You missed out on some good stuff and bad stuff, but it’s
your choice I won’t tell you what to do (but I'm judging you like you're 4 and you didn't eat your peas).
I guess there is no moral to the story.
I won’t say “so in conclusion, this is the American Dream…” and go into
philosophical reservoirs long abandoned since the time of Blake and Kierkegaard. F*** that s***. You figure it out for yourself, that’s what I
did and am still doing and that’s the way I like it. I’m gonna go add to my nicotine addiction (19
and already hooked even with all the information we’ve got out there; it’s a
sad, sad world out there hombres) but first I wanna strike a chord if I can be
so bold. There’s a shitstorm coming,
hallelujah. Everybody knows it; things
are getting too bad to say otherwise.
But don’t listen to me if you don’t want to because I don’t know for
sure and neither does anybody else. If
you want to educate yourself like I said before, go for it I’ll be with you
every step of the way. But for those of
you who want to step out into that great abysmal divide between what you know
and what you can't see, that’s your prerogative. I’m just some false, mad prophet of the Internet with a mouth like an old school truck driver. But after what I saw in New Hampshire which included but was not limited to: the
glorification of dead ideals, the celebration of image above matter, the utter
nonsense that poured out of the mouths of possible presidents, etc. I know the
situation is pretty dire and pretty dismal unless we do something about
it soon. On that note, I’m gonna slip out of
here before the FBI tracks me down for sounding like a terrorist. Like good old Bolan said, Bang a Gong Get it
On.
~Viva amingos,
~D. Merrick
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