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Dave Eggers' The Wild Things is available for preorder, in regular hardcover and
limited-edition fur-covered.
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A NOTE FROM CAMPAIGN 2004 - - - - After The Debate, How About A Lift Nobody picks up hitchhikers anymore, and maybe they never did. I flew into New York on Sunday, and Tuesday I caught an Amtrak into the deep swirl of the election, the last democratic debate. But by then Al Gore had already endorsed Howard Dean so there wasn't a whole lot to debate about except who was willing to bow out so a single machine candidate could mount a legitimate challenge to Howard Dean's thick necked juggernaut. Most of the candidates were just pissed off by the whole thing. You could pretty much see it plastered over their curled smiles, just dying to get out, "Fuck fat fucking Al shit fucking Gore." Kerry said the election wasn't over until the votes were counted, which sounds good, but simply isn't true. But I can't blame John Kerry for being angry. He was supposed to win this thing. Sharpton said that nobody was going to tell the voters who they had to vote for, they would make up their own minds. But Sharpton isn't even running for president, not in the real sense. And saying that the voters will make up their own minds is really giving too much credit to the average American. Lieberman said he thought his chances were better now that Gore was endorsing Dean. He said the money was pouring in. People were stopping him in airports. Edwards basic response to every question was that he was an outsider. And at some point I realized that John Edwards was out of the race. I'm not sure when the shift occurred, somewhere in the first forty-five minutes of debate I realized that John Edwards was not the stalking horse I thought he would be after seeing him dazzle a town hall meeting in Concord New Hampshire back in July. It might have been when John Kerry said, "I love John Edwards," that I lost faith, but I don't think so. I think it had something to do with his constant harping on his outsider image. His Us versus Them thing. It doesn't match his hairstyle, or his suit. Anyway, every time he said he was an outsider I heard John Kerry in my head saying I love you. Edwards: " I am very much an outsider."
Then I knew that Edwards wouldn't be president and that he wouldn't be vice president either. There were two hundred reporters in that room watching a big screen TV but I was probably the only one who changed his mind about John Edwards. And Ted Koppel just kept hammering on it, "Things are going very well for Howard Dean in the polls. Things are going very well for him in terms of raising money. What has Howard Dean done right? Who here thinks Howard Dean can beat George Bush? If you were Howard Dean, what would you eat for breakfast? Would you shine Howard Dean's shoes?" Finally John Kerry said, "I'd tell you where you can put your polls." Dennis Kucinich told Koppel to stop focusing on money and polls and start focusing on the issues. Later, in the spin room I thought Kucinich should have made more of an effort to remove his makeup. None of that mattered to me at ten o'clock this morning. I arrived in Durham, New Hampshire with no plans, no car, no place to stay. I guess I just figured that someone in the press fraternity would offer me a floor to crash on in their deluxe hotel suite and a high-toned ride to the next big event. I mean, we're all on the same team, right? But the other press didn't seem into hanging out with me at all. They could smell my panic. They kept turning their back on me or stepping away, always eager to talk to someone else. Also, I don't have an expense account. Picador gave me a flat fee and it's all coming out of my own pocket. The only chance of me making any money on this thing is if I can spend less than that covering the election, which is no chance at all. Basically, I have enough to hang out for a month or two and then go hide in Hawaii where I figure I'll follow things on television and make up stories ala Jason Blair. I'm a little stressed out about it to be honest, but I've always wanted to learn how to surf, ever since I read Kem Nunn's The Dogs Of Winter. So at ten in the morning I was hitchhiking down Highway 1 in Portsmouth trying to get to the bus station and to Boston where I know a girl who once sublet my apartment. I stayed with her last time I was in town, back in July when this stuff was really interesting. She has phenomenal soap and towels. I would have liked to join the John Kerry Real Deal Express which included a chili feed at 11:30 in Claremont and again at 6:00 in Nashua, but I had no way of getting there. So it's freezing out and I'm trying to hitch a ride with my bags, two-and-a-half miles to the bus station, but nobody wants to pick me up and I wonder if it's too dreary out for my Malibu shades or if my blue Ford hat doesn't match my cream Gap winter jacket. Anyway, the Ford hat was a Christmas present two years ago from Ben Peterson and his mom, and it's the greatest hat I've ever owned in that it is impossible to lose. But nobody stops to pick me up and when I find a corner store they want to charge me a dollar for directions. Then they give me bad directions. I try just hanging out at the light and approaching stopped cars and asking if they wouldn't mind taking me to the bus station. They all shake their head politely or reply that they're not going in that direction, which is a fairly obvious lie. I was fourteen years old the first time I hitchhiked. John and I ran off to Los Angeles from Chicago. The plan was to become beach bums. We had been homeless for mostly a year at that point and John was wanted for breaking into a basement and not showing up to court. He hadn't broken into the basement but we knew who did and they looked enough alike that John had no chance. They were both Korean. Anyway, you could say it ended disastrously when we were arrested on a highway outside of Ceasar's Palace and placed in the Las Vegas Juvenile Detention Center. We were on our way home. Los Angeles wasn't what we thought it would be. After three days they took me in handcuffs to the Greyhound station and put me on a Trailways with four dollars. I was lucky to be on a bus with one of Michael Jackson's horn players. His wife kept me fed for most of the three-day ride. John wasn't released for weeks and when he stepped off the bus in Chicago he was arrested immediately. Three months later the state took custody. Anyway, that was then. We had good times too. Also, here's a tip, next time you're hitchhiking hang out in rest stops. Ask people at the urinals if they wouldn't mind a little company. Walking down a Portsmouth side street in the dead of winter won't net you anything except frozen feet.
OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
Because We Are 100 Percent Committed By Michael J. Rosen Statement of Witness from Benjamin Mavodones Concerning His Involvement in the Recent Actions Against Local Gang Members Who Call Themselves "The Hail Marys" By David Meiklejohn Joe By Paula Fox Untitled By Victoria Lancelotta McSweeneys's Brain Exploder By Carlton Doby |
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