Romney Will Be VP Pick

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Not to freak out those of you who - like me - would like nothing more than to torture Mitt Romney in front of his children, but the Commonwealth's least favorite Ken doll might just be our next VP nominee. My buddy was sitting behind some staffer dick at the Celtics game last night and saw an interesting message on dude's Blackberry: an email from (former Bush White House Chief of Staff and notorious Mass. Republican) Andy Card stating that the Mittster was sure to get the nod.

According to my friend, who's not only not a liar but who is a helluva lot more trustworthy than Mitt, McCain or any other tight-vested conservative, this particular staffer replied something to the extent of: "Well than I guess I have a job for the next couple of months."

Not like anyone is going to take this post seriously, but if members of the Republican machine would like to know who the careless culprit was I can offer this: find the white guy who had floor seats at the Celtics game last night and who was there with his three kids, and you'll find your careless Blackberry user. Man do I hope that guy got in a horrible accident on the way home last night. Anyone with so little spine that they take a gig with Mitt Romney really shouldn't have a chance to bring three kids into the world. Little mini Republican scumbags!

SXSW 2008 Final Dispatch - Still Alive and Crackin'

By Chris Faraone on Mon, Mar 17, 2008 12:27 pm

I woke up this morning with no teeth, four limbs full of track marks and three kids who I’m not interested in raising. A way-ahead-of-time warning to those of you who plan to ever hit SXSW: wear a full-body condom and drink lots of water.

Not Literally Me, But Close

Friday kicked off with an hour-long talk with Pharrell Williams. The N.E.R.D. front man and his two-man crew sat with me for an exclusive interview that will run in next month’s YRB NYC magazine, so I can’t disclose much besides that when I asked him if he needs extra strong windshield wipers to knock off all the bitches clinging to his car, Pharrell responded: “You can’t fuck ‘em all.”

After that tame drug-and-alcohol free excursion I went to what was propped as – and in many ways turned out to be – the most insane party of the entire week. Hosted by Mad Decent and IHeartComix – the “Texas Blowout” managed to fill a parking garage and roof deck with hipster cats wearing everything from “I Fuck on the First Date” t-shirts to Alonzo Mourning jerseys to tight black jeans, tight black jeans, tight black jeans and tight black jeans. I even bummed a smoke off a dude whose tight black jeans were such tight black jeans that he couldn’t fit the pack in his pocket.

The only problem was that despite the range of activities and free booze including shuffleboard, Rock Band and ginger beer and Dewars, nobody was content. Instead, they were obsessed with entering the next level VIP lounges despite not really knowing what was up there.

Never before have I seen a VIP within a VIP. So when I made it to the top level – which was equipped with two super-chic swimming pools and more complimentary intoxicants – I decided to stop the social climb. There was one more exclusive door to wait in line for, but I was too insecure to press my luck any further.

Hollywood Holt & DJ Next

On the roof I got to meet Hollywood Holt – a maniacal half-hipster hopper from Chicago – and see a performance by Roxy Cottontail, a glorified stripper with a voice box who has no business rapping but will certainly make big business rapping because of her stinky slice and blond hair.

Boxy Roxy

After leaving the Mad Decent party to catch my breath I had the fortune of meeting a very odd cat named Stevy T, who runs Nfinity Entertainment out of Dallas. There’s not really too much that I can say about Mr. T that you won’t be able to get from this picture of him.

Stevy T

If you followed my dispatches the whole way, then you’ll know that I promised a young deranged MC named Dubb Sicks that I would play wingman to his Friday night show outside of Austin. He promised to pick me up, so I recruited the super party rocking DJ On&On and we looked for the “91 Firebird with spray paint on the hood” that Dubb was driving.

After scooping up his girlfriend and a twelve-pack of Miller Light, Dubb and his hype man Mumbles took us for a ride into Deliverance country. We drove past several signs for Waco, as well as more than one house with a marquee out front. I’d never seen a house with a lit up sign that had the family’s name – where I’m from we just have numbers.

When we arrived at our destination – The Oaks – after getting lost for at least half-an-hour, it was truly hip-hop. The DJ inside was bumping The Pharcyde, and the half-toothed bartender told us that while they only served beer, if we had a bottle of liquor in the car we were more than welcome to bring it in. She was so hip-hop that she even offered to provide shot glasses.

Outhouse Bound

The few heads who came to watch Dubb Sicks were dedicated to his lethal brand of degeneracy. Reciting lyrics like “I’ll shove my first up your bitch like a ventriloquist,” his fans made the already frightening scene that much scarier. There was an un-plumbed toilet in the middle of the venue, the sound booth looked more like a sniper nest (and probably was for those who step out of line), and Dubb’s girl was on stage in a short red dress and high heels pumping a keg.

Back to reality – or at least Sixth Street in Austin – On&On and I linked with DJ JayCeeOh at the Firehouse Lounge. Together the two of them are The Masters, and even though they hadn’t planned on rocking out together, the shit went down anyway and the crowd full of b-boys and sluts hit the dance floor something fierce.

The Masters

But I needed to explore something from outside of Boston, so I hit the Chingo Bling show at Fuze. Unlike most SXSW showcases – even the hip-hop ones – that are filled with white, white and maybe some off-white folks – this one had some color.

Chingo Bling is a Latin Texan who sports cowboy boots, a cowboy hat and get this – a diamond-flooded cowboy boot chain around his neck. He’s got a sense of humor too; in doing the impossible he even spit a version of Birdman’s “Still Fly” that was even more ignorant and hilarious than the original.

Chingo Bling Bling

In the highlight of my Friday night – and possibly even my entire weekend – I made friends in the balcony at Fuze with BO$$ from Intense Entertainment. I’m not insinuating what BO$$ and his homeboys do for a living (the picture will do that), but I will say that the bouncers let us chill for at least a half-an-hour longer than everyone else so that we could finish drinking on some Grey Goose. Props to the Intense Entertainment dudes by the way for being cool to a whiteboy in a Mickey Mouse shirt.

Who's the BO$$?

Next to crusty box there’s no better taste on earth than warm Budweiser, which is why I started my last day in Austin slugging two of them. Gross as they were, though, it’s a good thing I had a drink before witnessing the scene down the street from my apartment.

So I’m walking down the block to have a drink at the Beauty Bar – an outdoor café that I thought would be a good place for free cocktails and sun – and I run into the week’s most awful sight: more than 400 people lined up to enter Rachel Ray’s party. Since it wasn’t ridiculous enough that she was having a party featuring her husband’s band, every chump in Austin had to show up.

Morons

After shouting at the fucks waiting to see that training bra Food Network trick with an upstate accent, I was inspired to hit some off-the-radar gigs. If all these alleged fans, DJs and critics come down for the mundane, played out and straight commercial shit that they can see on television and in their town anyway, I would do the opposite.

The “BRMG Hip-Hop Not Heard on the Radio” showcase at the Fireside Lounge was exactly what I needed. The first act I saw there was the D.D.C. crew, whose “Fat Boy Anthem” was, in their words, “Ballin’ like Spalding” (it rhymes in their Dallas accents).

Then came London MC Sway, who has twice the dexterity of the ever-popular Dizzee Rascal and an even better sense of humor than Mike Skinner. According to Sway, “People from the UK don’t just drink tea and eat crumpets;” they drop dope tracks about getting their first credit card at the age of eighteen. Now that’s a universal struggle.

The BRMG event also delivered sweet sets from Ann Arbor MC Buff 1, Austin aesthete Zeale, and San Antonio rapper Question, who did the realest thing I saw all week by bringing Virginia’s Doujah Raze and Bronx legend Percee P on stage to erase artificial regional boundaries. When it was all over Boston’s Termanology capped the show with a tremendous “Watch How it Go Down.”

Percee P, Doujah Raze & Question

Saturday night brought me to one of the few non-rap showcases that I went to at SXSW (it’s ignorant – I know – fuck you). The band was Low vs. Diamond, and they’re fronted by my high school buddy Lucas Field. There’s nothing like catching up on ten years at a noisy rooftop club when you have no voice left whatsoever, but we drank a beer and took a pic. I could only stay for two songs, but I’m proud to say that homeboy Luke laid some shit that was sexually commensurate with that of Uncle Luke.

Me & Luke

Back to planet hip-hop. The only show I made a point to hit all weekend was the Megaphone gig at Light Bar on Saturday. And Special Blend, Moe Pope and Headnodic did not disappoint – between the sound effects, love, enlightenment and Billy Ocean interpolations I think the crowd of mostly southern hip-hop fans took on a slight inferiority complex as they nodded in astonishment.

Lastly I ran though a club called Prague to see the Cunninlynguists (not a live sex act, but instead a dope underground rap group from Kentucky). As fortune had it I also got to check Seattle up-and-comers Blue Scholars and Canadian outfit Grand Analogue, whose bass lines were so delicious that I would have sniffed them had it not there not been so many people around.

I know I’d been drunk for four straight days by the time I saw them, but the Cunninlynguists brought the most intense encore imaginable. While blunts got passed around the absolutely packed crowd, Kno, Deacon and company proved that they haven’t just been “thugged out since Cub Scouts,” but also serenading live shows since that tender age. I hope they all get merit badges for their SXSW performance.

Actually, I lied. My night really ended in an alley outside the Music Gym drinking Budweisers with the guys from UndergroundHipHop.com and AmalgamDigital.com. From what I remember, we were break dancing and singing, “Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Portuguese.”

If there’s a better place on earth than Austin during SXSW, then arrange for a liver transplant and show me the way.

SXSW DAY 3 - BIG DICKS AND TID BITS

By Chris Faraone on Fri, Mar 14, 2008 12:49 pm

I’m not stable enough to write a fluid piece this morning. Instead, here are some quick snap shots of shit I’ve seen down here in no particular order:

A lot of people in Austin actually sleep in booths at their friends’ bars at the end of the night. I’m a wastoid degenerate and all, but I still find that to be the lowest thing since child molester vans with that ladder in the back. Where do those ladders go anyway?

More Booze

The prize for worst slogan ever – and I mean ever – goes to Weekender Records, whose motto is: “Home is where the Record Player is.” I’m pretty sure that “record player” doesn’t rhyme with “heart” guys.

The Jackalope, which has become my bloody mary bar of choice in Texas, is home to “Austin’s Best Medium-Fast Burger,” whatever the fuck that is.

I saw a group called Drop Sonic from LA yesterday, and they sound what I imagine U2 would sound like if Bono wore Oakleys. In fact, I’ll be adding them to the short list of bands I like, so hopefully they don’t mind being in the company of AC/DC, Sick of it All and the Bloodhound Gang.

Just walk around down here and you’re bound to run into a free taco. And if you don’t there are a lot of prostitutes around as well.

Percee P – who I told you yesterday slung CDs on New York streets for twenty years before finally getting a record deal – is still selling merchandise everywhere he goes. I swear this dude would push discs at a funeral.

Me & Percee P

DJ Statik Selektah is a beast on the decks. Homeboy kicked one of the flyest golden age medleys that I’ve ever heard at the “Urban Meet and Greet” yesterday. “Urban,” by the way, means “black.”

Statik Selektah & Termanology

I’ll never get tired of hearing Wu-Tang’s “Triumph,” and neither should you.

I’ve completely lost my voice. It’s gone.

Eli “Paperboy” Reed is no joke. He’s the dopest whitest soul singer to ever break out of Brookline, and I saw him get famous last night. Just watch how much hype follows him out of Texas.

Eli Reed

Pinky ring worth about fifty bling-bling.

It was a long walk to the Scoot Inn, but Texas rap crooner Devin the Dude tore it up and down. That dude – or “The Dude,” if you will – makes bitches wet and men hard. El-P – while not the cum-spiration that Devin is – also got heads cracking.

This is the sound of what you don’t know killing you. “We don’t have any happy music tonight,” said El-P.

El-P Yo!

I saw Bushwick Bill – the self-proclaimed “King Kong with the ding dong” – and man is that dude short. He’s also not too friendly.

His Hands Were All Bloody From Punching on the Concrete

Dubb Sicks – this maniacal whiteboy MC who last year I saw kick over a Porta Potty with someone in it – is back on the scene. I’m not going home until I get this kid a deal, so I might be down here for a while.

Dubb Sicks

Peace to 7L, Beyonder, Esoteric, Karma and all the Boston cats who ripped the UndergroundHipHop.com showcase at the Light Bar last night. Someone had to show these Texas fools how to put it down.

Fly Casual Crew

I met Jesus Christ's tambourine player. Seriously.

Hey...Play A Song For Me

SXSW DAY 2 - THE CRACK IS GREAT DOWN HERE

By Chris Faraone on Thu, Mar 13, 2008 1:24 pm

Wednesday started innocent enough with two bloody marys (or whatever the plural of that is), three sixteen-ounce Lone Star brews and a joint thicker than your mother’s tampon. My man Bill at the Jackalope (which is named after some sort of odd hybrid creature that patrols the southern landscape) makes the cruelest bloody that I’ve ever slugged, complete with red-hot chili pepper sprinkled on the rim.

Speaking of spicy rim jobs, my second to last party of the night was Ron Jeremy’s birthday bash at The Music Gym – a fly new joint on Sixth Street owned by a white dreaded Bostonian named Rob. The only problem is that Mr. Jeremy was a no show at his own affair, which, in addition to being downright rude (people went through a lot of trouble prepping the party hats and nail the tail on the donkey games) was also disappointing. Luckily, the porn crazed post-adolescents who rolled up for a glimpse of the Hedgehog’s pole had a sweet and sexy two-time AVN award winner named Pennny Flame to ogle and sign autographs. Oh yeah – Boston favorites Lovewhip and Audible Mainframe rocked the spot.

I managed to catch the tail end of Audible’s Music Gym set, which is becoming sort of a trend this week – even though I’ve only been here for one day. The first show I tried to catch of theirs was a three o’clock set at the always-reliable Pure Volume Ranch, but I ended up getting trashed at P.F. Chang’s across the street an missing the whole damn thing. That’s right – in the land of micro brews, authentic Tex Mex cuisine and indie rock I hit up a corporate hole that I wouldn’t be caught sober in back in Boston.

On a quick side note, Austin is one of the few places on the planet where I always feel comfortable sagging my pants. Even in New York – my native city and the low-slung pants capital of the universe – I feel like people have a problem with my exposed crack. This place on the other paw is just a cornucopia of crack fiends; today I’m heading out in a g-string and some hip huggers.

My bad – did you think that I came down here to review music? I did, and I’ll get there in a minute, but first you have to hear about my running into Jackie “The Jokeman” Martling at a Canadian hip-hop show. Martling, who was Howard Stern’s joke writer and whipping boy for a good twenty years (think Artie Lang without the needle habit, or at least without the sloppy gut) actually looks a lot better than he ever has before. I wouldn’t have even recognized him if not for the name badge, but I’m glad I did because it turns out he knows my father from way back (a true story that’s too long for this space). Maybe today I’ll run into Paula Poundstone and discover that she was in a street gang with my mom back in ‘Nam.

Before checking out some evening gigs I headed to the super-chic Hyatt to interview British rap king Dizzee Rascal for The Source magazine. Homeboy’s new disc is dropping on the indelible New York indie imprint Def Jux, which is also home to El-P, Cage, and of course – Boston’s Mr. Lif. The twenty-minute one-on-one (that’s what we call it wiseass) went fairly well, but one thing was sort of strange: I had met a gaggle of British music critiques in the lobby before heading to his room, and they gave me a bunch of regionally specific questions to ask. But when I busted out “How come at the Shepherds Bush gig the crowd was full of girls from Richmond?” (translation: how come your new core fan base is rich white chicks?), he just answered as if I could have feasibly known that without having lived in the UK.

While I’m fairly sure that the Trinity Avenue near my Austin pad is not the same “Ave. of Trinity” that Fat Joe talks about, this has become a sick hip-hop Mecca in the past few years at SXSW. Last night brought one of the main showcases that I came to see: a collaborative effort between the California-based label Stones Throw and Brooklyn’s Duck Down Records. This wasn’t the type of abstract hipster-hop nonsense that usually gets highly propped at these festivals – this was crusty ass Sean Price getting rude in a public forum (i.e. – “I stuck my dick in her ass and my hand in her purse”). He did the unthinkable – something that few SXSW performers have ever done – by injecting a sense of humor into his performance.

Sean P was only outdone by Percee P – a Bronx hero who after twenty years of slinging mixtapes on the street was recruited by Stones Throw to record a proper album. Percee flung raw uzi raps that I’m assuming a lot of cats down here rarely get to see; the man simply doesn’t stop to breathe. For a long time fan like me who has bought numerous Percee P records outside of New York clubs and record stores, there was no greater joy than watching kids go up to him afterwards to cop product.

For all you people who would rather read about music, music, and more music than my charades and shenanigans, please stay tuned. I promise to deliver some of the most close-minded indie rock reviews in the history of entertainment journalism first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll also be spending a large chunk of Friday with Pharrell Williams and the N.E.R.D. crew, which should surely satisfy the full gamut.

SXSW Day 1 - I Just Flew In And Boy Is My Crack Sweaty

By Chris Faraone on Wed, Mar 12, 2008 12:04 pm

Every time I hit the road for this type of trip I’m reminded of “Bloodsport” – my favorite Jean-Claude Van Damme film that is also reputed for catapulting Forest Whitaker’s career into the Oscar realm. The movie begins with fighters from around the world practicing with their masters before traveling to Kumite (pronounced Koo-mi-tay) – an underground marital arts Olympics in which there are only three ways to defeat opponents: 1 – to throw him off the mat; 2 – to make him say the local equivalent to “uncle;” or 3 – to straight up murder him.

My favorite characters in Bloodsport are as follows: the Latin kickboxing guy who gets ready by pulverizing sparring partners; the guy who also played Ogre in “Revenge of the Nerds” who I believe prepares by eating bricks in a biker bar; the African fighter whose training entails climbing trees and retrieving coconuts; and of course, Jean-Claude Van Damme’s character – Frank Dukes – who readies himself by going down to MTV Spring Break and violating unwilling co-eds.

Right now around the country other writers, bloggers and journalists are bracing for cold-blooded South by Southwest combat. There’s a Texan who’s sticking a card that says “press” in his cowboy hat. In Hawaii there’s a reporter going for one last surf before throwing on a lei to hang his press pass on. In San Francisco there’s a gay reporter looking for his pencil, and in Alaska there’s a journalist whose laptop is wholly made of ice cubes and whale blubber. Lastly, in Boston there’s a freelancer who got a cavity search by airport security because he stunk like booze and trees.

The terminal scene en route to SXSW is always an alt culture spectacle. Sure, there’s one guy in a cowboy suit (big stupid hat and Wrangler denim), but for the most part my plane is packed with curiously unshaven non-taxpayers and shameless hipster singer-songwriters. From the looks of it – besides Cowboy Roy with his snakeskin boots and me and my Adidas – everybody on this flight is wearing Chucks. I’m assimilating though; I recently got a tattoo and I’ve already found that it lends me significant access (nice ink! two of my tatted brethren have already exclaimed).

I promised to deliver a blog by noon today, but that’s difficult since I just arrived in Austin. As a substitute, I intended to spend this entire dispatch lambasting my co-flyers. However, I don’t really hate these people enough to torture them on first sight – except for the guy sitting in front of me reading a USA Today article about Larry the Cable Guy’s remarkable weight loss – so you’ll have to wait for my arrival for the torment. All I have to offer now is the story of my routine in-flight dump, during which I renewed my membership to the Mile Low Club.

I can also give you a quick preview of the week to come: Tonight I’m going to Ron Jeremy’s birthday bash, where Boston’s premier live rap outfit turned Long Beach transplants Audible Mainframe will be rocking following a screening of the hedgehog’s latest fuck flick. I’m actually from the same block in Queens as Jeremy – for real – and I’m very much looking forward to the opportunity to compare schlongs.

For you indie rockers and “I listen to everything but rap and country” motherfuckers, I promise to not ignore you all together. On Thursday I’ll be surprising an old high school friend who currently fronts an LA outfit signed to Arista called Low vs. Diamond. His name is Luke, and the last time I saw homeboy we were bent on hallucinogens and freestyling in the basement radio station at our prep school. Now that he’s a rocker and I’m a hardcore rap critic with a reputation for packing large firearms I’m sure our blue blazer pasts are equally embarrassing.

Lastly I’ll be chilling with hip-hop’s best and most hyped. Among the MCs and rap personalities down in Austin – that I know of so far – are Moe Pope (Boston), Headnodic (Oakland), Bun B (Houston), DJ Special Blend (Boston), Bisc 1 (Brooklyn), Dizzee Rascal (UK), 7L&Esoteric (Boston), Statik Selektah (The Bronx), Termanology (Lawrence), Del the Funky Homosapien (Oakland), DJ Frank White (Boston), DJ JayCeeOh (Boston/Cali/NYC), Buckshot (Brooklyn), Sean Price (Brooklyn), Kidz in the Hall (not sure where they’re from, but I know they went to UPENN), Percee P (The Bronx), Schwayze (Malibu), Zion I & Living Legends (Oakland), C-Rayz Walz (The Bronx), Time Machine (Rhode Island and some other places), The Cunninlyguists (Kentucky), A-Trak (MTL), Pete Rock (Westchester), Diplo (Hipsterville), Grayskul (Seattle), The Clipse (Virginia), Mac Lethal (Kansas City), Talib Kweli (Brooklyn) and Lyrics Born (Bay Area).

Before signing off I want to forever ban the idiom “wardrobe malfunction” from pop culture’s vocabulary – especially when and if it applies to Justin Timberlake. It wasn’t funny when we got to see Janet Jackson’s surgically manipulated nipple, and it’s even less hysterical now. Some dick on CNN this morning snuck it into a report about how Timberlake presented Madonna with her undeserved Rock and Roll Hall of Fame trophy, and it was deplorable. From now on, the episode that went down between that barely post-pubescent puke and Miss Jackson will forever be referred to as “The Day That Chris Faraone Masturbated Like a Monkey.”

Packing My Bags And Arranging to Buy Weed Down in Texas

By Chris Faraone on Mon, Mar 10, 2008 1:41 pm

I'm sitting at the Dig office stocking up on note pads and morning after pills. In two days I depart for South by Southwest - also known as SXSW - in Austin Texas, where nearly a week of criminal degeneracy will ensue. Last year I got to smell Amy Winehouse, so the prospects and possibilities for 2008 are looking pretty outstanding.

I would promise to keep tabs on your favorite Boston bands who are going to be down there - from 7L&Esoteric to Eli "Paperboy" Reed - but the truth is that I'll be going to whatever parties have free beer. Unlike all your other favorite reporters, I won't pretend that music is the reason that I'm going.

Polluted Memories of SXSW 2007

What you can expect though are dispatches from Perez Hilton and Rachel Ray's parties. I'd go as far as to say that if there's one goal for this week it's to get the Raytard on all fours and force feed her some of that junk she made for her dogs on last weekend's pet-friendly Food Network special.

I'm no Hunter S. Thompson - really folks, I'm not - but I do think that every good road story requires a certain amount of contraband. This was easy for Thompson, who did his traveling before the days of having to take your shoes off at the airport. I can't fly dirty, so I arranged for a hefty bag of green to be waiting at the Hotel (Austin Hilton, Room 253 if you're interested).

If you know of anyone who digs real music and adventurous journalism, then please tell them that I'll be posting at high noon from Wednesday through Friday, and once again with a big weekend round-up next Monday.

Until then...

Pissing in America’s Stream of Consciousness – Day Three

By Chris Faraone on Mon, Jan 7, 2008 9:45 am

I promised to bring you in the back rooms and bar booths where locals, staffers, volunteers and journalists dance the pre-primary tango. We’ve been drinking since we got here, but on Saturday we hit the strip with pens drawn. While most reporters crowded in and outside of the debates at St. Anselm’s, my crew split up to cover the jamborees that campaigns host around Manchester. I arrived at Murphy’s Tavern minutes before the Ron Paul wagon pulled in. Unlike in Boston, where bars were reluctant to change the channel from ESPN to C-SPAN when the Democratic National Convention was in town, even Manchester’s greasiest moron holes blast politics during primary week. At Murphy’s, only one screen was left on football, presumably for the drunk, loud Neanderthal who was committed to screaming over the debate. At first, the only dissent around the room came from a peanut gallery of Huckabee supporters in the back. It was standard arbitrary cheer; like when insecure baseball fans broadcast their preference for the visiting team. The Paul people were equally obnoxious, but considering that they had the home team advantage, and that their candidate was the only Republican on stage who speaks truth – not hollow consultant scripted tag lines – they had a right to party. Their tendency to roar every time Paul got face time reminded me of when my entire family went to see my cousin’s two-second cameo in Married to the Mob. The only Republican candidate who the Paul supporters outright booed was Romney; one guy suggested that Mitt could free America from its foreign oil habit by simply shaving his head. The group seemed to respect John McCain, and for the most part lacked the aggressive prep school arrogance that you generally find at grand old gatherings. That’s no surprise, since Paul is more of a cheap suit Libertarian than a Brooks Brothers Republican.

Drink One for the Crazy Guy I left Murphy’s near the end of the Republican debate to find a liberal bar. Ignorant as most conservatives are, lefties have them beat on close-mindedness. As I predicted, the gather.com herd at Milly’s Tavern had no interest in the Republican debate, even though a lot of them were allegedly there to write about it. The entire scene at this party was abhorrent; in addition to how the kiddies talked through the Republicans and shushed the room for Barack and Hillary, organizers had roped off a corner for about a couple dozen bloggers to set up. Since my next dispatch will feature a heavy tirade on blog culture, I’ll hold back for now. But if anyone can explain why I have to share space, air and wi-fi signals with every post-collegiate dip with a shiny Mac Book Pro and trite opinions, please enlighten me in the comment section below. I’m sorry – did you want me to tell you about the actual debate? On the Democratic side, my only notable opinion is that Barack Obama sucks every time he gets knocked off his stump. He’s a gifted speaker, but he can’t smack the curve balls. I would have something to say about Bill Richardson and John Edwards’ performances, but since they’re unpopular amongst the college web log crowd, I was unable to hear anything they said over all the chitchat that went down when they were talking. Well, I do have one thing: I think that Bill Richardson and Dennis Kucinich have the same hair stylist. Either that or their mothers still lick their hands and glue their bangs down with spit before they leave their houses every day. Sunday morning called for a bowel rupturing brunch. This shouldn’t have been a problem at 11am; most visitors were out campaigning at events, and the few yuppies back in downtown Manchester were all in line at Dunkin Donuts playing with their Blackberries. But due to the local service industry’s drastic unpreparedness, I had to walk out of three fast fooderies after not being served for several minutes. I would have been angry about my hapless calorie hunt had it not ended with a blessing. Just when I was about to get angry, some guy on a bullhorn announced that in minutes Kucinich would be appearing at a nearby restaurant with Hollywood heavyweight Viggo Mortensen. I heart Dennis, but I was enthralled to see Viggo, who is kind of an inside joke between me and my girlfriend; not because we think he’s a bad actor or anything like that, but because of the Vanity Fair cover on which he looked like a gay porn star, and because his name is Viggo. As it turns out, Viggo is the Goddamn man; pretty boy is the most eloquent and enlightened star endorser out here pitching. He knows issues, and he’s right: this country really is in too much trouble to not have a real leader with compassionate convictions. Too bad we never will. Since Ron Paul had been able to sneak so much progressive rhetoric into his debate appearance, and Kucinich had been excluded from the Democratic crossfire, I asked the congressman if he’d ever considered running as a Republican. He gave me an answer so strong and so passionate that for the first time I understood how he roped that stunning wife of his. The man has heart, and next to thick cocks that’s probably the number one turn-on for most women. The semi-homeless guy with the five-foot dreadlock at the Kucinich press conference didn’t make it to Romney’s event at Elm Street Middle School in Nashua. It’s a good thing, too, because they would have stopped him at the door. This event – billed as “Ask Mitt Anything” – was a pristine production. Mitt rode in on a cocaine white unicorn cradling a small child. Other than a red hot blonde MySpace slut with hoop earrings, everyone on stage looked like they just jumped off a page in J Crew’s winter catalogue.

The Mittster I can understand why rich, simple-minded yuppies and other assorted selfish jerkoffs gravitate to Romney. He says all the optimistic economic babble, family junk and racist anti-immigration fluff they love, which is especially easy when everybody’s lobbing questions at you. Sure, you could ask Mitt anything, but only if it’s written on a cue card that gets handed to you at the rally. To the lady who got up and gave a spiel about how her and her kid have diabetes: if that’s not true I hope your husband takes your youngest daughter’s virginity with a baseball bat. Sorry for the aggression. I should be happy that I got into the event wearing my dingy old wax coat. Not everyone was so lucky; due to a costume ban, some global warming protestors in snowman suits were denied access, as was a girl who drove from Haverhill to hold her sign. After covering Romney for three years in Massachusetts, I can attest to the metaphorical value of their non-admittance. If Mitt pulls this off, they won’t be the only ones left outside. Snowman

Pissing in America’s Stream of Consciousness – Day Two

By Chris Faraone on Sat, Jan 5, 2008 5:33 pm

I’ve been a Dennis Kucinich fan since 2003, when I was abducted by aliens who coerced me to accept a leading role in his last hapless presidential bid. In addition to the intergalactic intervention, I was also persuaded by the fact that he’s the best candidate for me. I truly respect Kucinich’s courage – always have and always will – but in this past year I’ve both admired and resented his perpetual lunge at the White House. Not because I’m one of those hack pundits who think every race should begin and end with a few top media-propped candidates, but because while I know that he’s on point – and perhaps the only one in either party who is generally interested in engineering social equality – I’m constantly embarrassed by his campaign.

The five minutes that I spent in Kucinich’s Manchester office gave me flashbacks of the 2004 campaign I helped run in New York City. I haven’t seen such a swarm of apathetic credit-seeking students, bleeding heart fools and barely post-pubescent Sondheim fanatics since liberal arts school. All week I’ve been griping about how a maniac fringe Republican like Ron Paul can generate so much more steam than his benevolent equivalent across the aisle, and I think I’m closing in on an answer. Instead of focusing on pragmatic people who might agree with his ideas if they paid attention, Kucinich hangs in smoothie bars and vegan delis. The highest-ranking member of his staff who was on the premises couldn’t tell me one place where the man was speaking today.

Kucinich Heads

Having had enough with self-destructive loser staff types, I went back to covering the dirty rotten scoundrels who have a shot at placing in this kumite. I’m beginning to think that Hillary Clinton’s declining popularity has to do with the aggressive presence of armed guards and police dogs at her campaign events. To cover ground, the Clintons have embarked on separate speaking tours this weekend. I went to peep Bubba at a high school up north in Dow, where I was greeted by a Reservoir Dogs-esque cop and K-9 team in the bathroom. And while it would have been mightily ironic to get busted holding weed at a Bill Clinton event, I felt relieved to have left my crops back at the car. This was probably one of the smallest crowds that Bill Clinton has ever romanced; it was less than half the turnout that Mike Huckabee – that other former Arkansas governor – turned out in a nearby gymnasium just one day earlier. Sure, Bill Clinton didn’t have Chuck Norris in tow, but that’s just because there aren’t enough mops in New Hampshire to soak up the roaring female cum rapids that would surely flow if Chuck and Bill were in the same room at one time. Bill was on time in a way that no other presidential candidate or celebrity has ever been on time before; Toni Morrison was wrong – he wasn’t really the first black president, which is good news for Obama. After being introduced by a local politician who said something about change, change and change – political panhandling, if you ask me – he gave the first amazing speech that I’ve seen so far this week.

Bill Clinton I have to admit – Bill still chokes me up every damn time. He can even make this “change” shit sound convincing. Always the diplomat, he even managed to praise governors Huckabee and Romney before diving into pharmaceutical corruption and slashing Bush for appointing cronies instead of competent officials. It would have been cliché rhetoric out of any other politico’s jaw, but Bill marinates my soul. For a moment, he nearly convinced me that his wife is a committed public servant instead of a megalomaniacal carpetbagger. And like that – we’re off to the Manchester pub scene.

Pissing in America’s Stream of Consciousness – Day One

By Chris Faraone on Sat, Jan 5, 2008 12:59 am

These presidential candidates are aggravating me with their public displays of exhaustion. They should try getting irresponsibly cocked and hammered, sleeping for two hours and waking up before the crack to steer through New Hampshire’s paralyzing cold.

I woke up twice on Friday. The first alarm rang at four-in-the-morning back in Boston, where I kissed my girl good-bye and hit the highway with my comrades. Two hours and a blunted cruise across the border later, I was re-awakened by a gang of carpenters rallying for John Edwards at an old mill in Manchester.

John Edwards loves mills. Anyone who followed his failed presidential bid in ’04 surely agonized over his proclivity to advertise his hayseed roots. And while he’s since evolved from a wannabe poor boy to a promising working class leader, he still can’t give up the mill jive. This place was old and splintery, with claustrophobic ceilings and a few leaky pipes that I bet campaign workers rigged for effect.

The populism jig is working for Edwards, who seems to be the only candidate pushing for solidarity amongst steel workers and street workers, bums and nuns, chimps and pimps. His severe anti-corporate rhetoric has effectively repelled everyone who looks like him, and attracted a slew of broke godless bastards.

Before I got to admire Edwards’ reinvigorated everyman image at his Granite State launch rally, I had to wait 30 minutes for the cat to show. It’s like, just when I’m about to forget that this dude’s the prettiest mofo since Zack Morris, he pulls some fashionably late stunt. On most occasions, I would have enjoyed the complimentary juice and muffins and ignored his tardiness, but this time I had to sit through an unbearable half-hour of some last-ditch hype man embarrassing himself with a dangerously uninspired call-and-response number (“I love Edwards – yes I do, I love Edwards – so should you”).

Despite Edwards’ surge in popularity following his silver medal grab in Iowa, his operatives were smart enough to keep his primary weekend debut intimate. For those of you who have only witnessed these podium antics on television, it’s important to understand the calculated behind-the-scenes production. If campaign workers are expecting 500 people, they manufacture pandemonium by corralling off a space suitable for 300 heads.

As the cool kid on campus, Barack Obama needs no smoke, mills or mirrors. In addition to being a cocaine-addled rock star on the stump, homeboy romped his opponents in Iowa, which I suppose justified launching his weekend tear with a rally in an airplane hangar.

If I was more awake after Obama’s jump-off, it’s because I was smacked by a 500-ton metaphor at his event. Next to the stage – in the part of the venue that you won’t see on CNN – was an expired Pan Am 727. The message, whether intentional or not, was Crystal Pepsi clear: the economy is bent, and Barack Obama can change that.

Should the next president deliver the sort of economic stimulation that Edwards and Obama are promising, there won’t be enough abandoned plants, factories and mills for candidates to stump at come 2012. So it’s actually a good thing that neither of them will be able to reverse the deficit, combat corporate greed and get people working.

Reality never stops zealous lefties, who every four years find an honest but frighteningly naïve candidate to excite them. Obama’s turnout was especially impressive; in addition to all fifteen of New Hampshire’s black residents showing up, his morning rally attracted teenagers, seniors, and enough MILFs to kick start a porn site.

The great thing about this leg of the race is that even righteous analysts stop complaining about candidates’ reluctance to extrapolate on issues. The primary season is about buzzwords, cheap shots, panache and zingers, and Obama has a quiver stuffed with pre-packaged arrows for the cameras. Even I was moved enough to curse the “tyranny of foreign oil” as I dropped a quarter-tank of gas driving to my hotel in Manchester.

As my colleagues cracked beers and pounded keys in the room, I grew unsettled with the partisan course we’d taken. I had a fever, and the only cure was ideologically sexy conservatism.

The Mike Huckabee fiesta was a quick forty minutes away at New England College, which students probably describe as a small college located somewhere between Manchester and nowhere. Though the event was billed as a “Reason for Giving” salute to local charities, the hot attraction was undoubtedly Chuck Norris, a well-known political columnist who I’m told earned his stripes acting in obscure karate flicks.

Huckabee might be an opportunist evangelical, but the dude pumps up the jam. Unlike Edwards and Obama, whose pre-entrance entertainment was limited to Jock Jams blaring over makeshift sound systems, Huckabee nailed the entertainment angle. Before the candidate surfaced, a local band played classic rock songs that are really liberal blasts about social inequity but that primitive conservatives love anyway because they don’t really understand the lyrics.

When he finished playing bass with the invited band, Huckabee introduced Chuck Norris, who, despite fear of encountering his fatal fists of fury, I’m compelled to report has a wife who inspires boners. While the Norris endorsement started out as – or at least I’m hoping started out as – a joke, it has become an integral component in Huckabee’s campaign.

Before witnessing the gaggle of college-age supporters cheering for Chuck, I was under the impression that Huckabee was ready to shake the novelty, but didn’t have the balls to tell America’s favorite bearded ass beater to get lost. Now I realize that the “Huck and Chuck” tag team is here to stay, and that people aren’t kidding when they chant, “Chuck Norris for secretary of defense.”

On a more important note that trumps everything else I saw throughout my first day on the trail, I met a guy named Vermin Supreme who is also running for president. If you’re still undecided, I suggest that you seriously consider him. In addition to experience – he’s run in every election since 1988 – he showed winning potential in ’04 by clocking 146 votes in the DC primary. In contrast to his opponents, Supreme is tackling serious issues including mandatory tooth brushing, zombie preparedness and time travel research. Sorry for the detour, but it’s just refreshing to see at least one prospective commander-in-chief with realistic goals.

Vermin

50 Reasons Why WeeklyDig.com should be your primary news source

By Chris Faraone on Thu, Jan 3, 2008 2:31 pm