Getaway day, that’s what they call it, and I need to get away more than I need to keep breathing air. For once, Dan Riehl was right: “forget waterboarding, just strap a liberal in a chair and make them sit through it all.” Spoken like someone who’s never been waterboarded, but if this hasn’t been torture with a capital T like that advocated by the vice-president (“Dick Cheney is an authoritarian bully and a personal coward”, says Charles Pierce; his res ipse loquitor moment is seen in the fact that his approval rating is at 100% at CPAC and 19% everywhere else in the country), it has at least been little-t torture to have to hear the endless tributes to an underhanded cadaver and his sham ideology, the slyly delivered racial slurs in the elevators and hallway (“Hissing you’re good at, you slimy snakes”, says Sgt. Groper to the madmen). Ann Coulter’s slander du jour has multiplied like cancer cells among the puerile youth strutting the outer boroughs of the Omni Shoreham: I’ve heard “Barack HUSSEIN Obama” more times today than I’ve heard the name of John McCain, and I keep thinking of a friend back in the greater world who says whenever he hears it said that way, he thinks of the upper-crust pseudo-fascists and pro-Nazi pornographers back in the ‘30s who talked about “Franklin Delano Rosenfeld”.
Yesterday, I stopped in to see the Conquering Mustache, John Bolton, for this trip’s hairiest disappointment. The crowd was full of no-hopers, dead-enders, hangers-on and toadies of every age and temperament, warmongers and fear-fuckers and other assorted dry-humpers of the American Nightmare. I sat barely a stone’s throw, and G-d save her that there were no stones to hand, from Pamela Oshry, battered bride of Jewish Christ, who gazed up raptly at Bolton with “the Look” Nancy Reagan practiced on her husband until everyone made fun of her so much that she had to stop. As he talked about the Islamic bomb, the threat of North Korea, and various other national security bugbears, you got an idea of what a puffed-up, third-rate intellect the guy really is, a complete nothing elevated to laughable prominence by a willingness to say yes. Following, as he always has, the dictates of the President of StupidTown, he offers a lukewarm bucket of spit by way of endorsing McCain: conjuring, in one of CPAC’s most bizarre rhetorical flourishes, the specter of V.I. Lenin, he says that conservatives must not sit out the election, because to do so would leave it in the hands of those who will not defend it. (This would, of course, refers to liberal Democrats, who apparently live their lives in a constant state of suicidal ideation. This earns the most arbitrary standing o to date, a more or less perfunctory round of applause to Bolton simply for existing and reminding the crowd of how darky-fear trumps all.
My pills are gone but the rearrangement of my synapses that was their charge hangs in my head, making me crazy sick and aching for a fight…my cover is blown, or forgotten, and I wander the meeting rooms of CPAC in a fur hoodie, chains and street kicks, stumbling like a wounded rhino, aching for a fight…my every encounter with anyone not employed by the hotel is a silent plea to be dragged away, not responsible for my actions, to be put on a handrail and dumped on some drug corner in Baltimore…the American Milk Solids Council has cancelled my expense account, and I don’t have the cash for a six-dollar Pepsi…the bottom-drawer delegates are arguing the virtues of McCainist happy warriorism vs. convention stonewalling in favor of some pocket Hitler to be named later; it’s all just larks…Mike Huckabee thunders from the Regency Ballroom: “I didn’t major in math,” he says to cheers from the same people who hooted for intelligent design last night, “I majored in miracles”…Ouichita Baptist University may well have such an option for their hillbilly hell-shouters, but none of them are likely to become president; Mike is staying in he race, he says to a surprising amount of applause – there are a few people in the house, at least, who think Romney took the cheapjack way out – but at this point, he’s running only for Vice-President…the latest Hillary hay being made is her allegedly manufactured offense (ambitious as she is, and ambition is a crime only in Democrats, she cannot possibly feel real hurt) at MSNBC reporter David Schuster’s claim that she was “pimping out” daughter Chelsea; this makes for many an hilarious pimp joke from the ceaselessly white kids in the hallways…Ron Paul, after his combative speech earlier in the week which drew more jeers than even McCain when he suggested that America could ill afford any more foreign adventurism, is effectively out of the race, but there are no lamentations from his legions as there was for Romney – they have all retreated back to their homes on the internet, leaving the few diehards in the Libertarian Party booth to dream their minarchist dreams…many of the other booths are closing up shop, some of the big bloggers are already heading home in advance of the 5:30 ceremonial closing up shop, and the publishers are beginning to give away free books to save on transportation home. I pick out a handful, which will be my penance for having pretended that I belong here, for my repulsive pretense that I am one of them.
I have one final stop to make. My own flight time grows nearer, and I doubt I’ll have time to savor the fluffed-up diarrhea of Newt Gingrich, so if he positions himself as the new savior of the conservative movement, blowjob-free and ready to run, you won’t hear it from me. But I must stop by and gaze into the most abysmal bits of the abyss, into the Heart of Dumbness: I must see Mike Adams and Doug Giles, the one a scrawny, self-impressed misogynist and the other a beefy, self-flattering fanatic, and between them both not enough brains to spark a stuffed owl. Since most of the bigwigs have gone home by now, there’s a longish like to have books signs by both of these moronic hunks of right-wing meat on the hoof, and it’s a bracing tonic for the long trip home ot the dead city center of San Antonio to hear their bovine bleatings prior to hopping on a cab. In, but not of, thank whatever weird god holds this thing together: I am in, but not of, and now it’s time to get out. I’m tired of all this hazy hatred and self-satisfaction, of all these princes of privilege giving each other high-fives for having been born 90 feet from home plate. I’m ready to pick up my Mister at the coat-check and report to American Milk Solids Council HQ that my mission was a failure. My quiet little outpost of sanity on the edge of Texas-style legislative craziness ain’t much, but goddamn it, it’s mine, for as long as I can hold on to it. These people have real power, but being here, watching them claw at their cages when they don’t get everything they want, is a reminder that they’re not always in charge, and if nothing else, it’s been salutary to watch them squeak like bitched-up rats when they get Swiss instead of Camembert.
Holding a purloined copy of Adams’ latest worthless book, Feminists Say the Darndest Things: A Politically Incorrect Professor Confronts ‘Womyn’ on Campus, I ask him how it feels to know that the vast majority of the people he works with hate his guts. His answer is stock and predictable: when that many of those people think he’s wrong, he says, he knows he must be right.
You and me both, you bullying shitstain. Time to go home.