The J Affect

[PBurstin]

As a writer coasting through a life better suited to fiction, I am often privy to invitations to events that attach me to twisted, larger-than-life individuals who scare the shit out of me. I write fiction. I live life to the fullest, and then expound on and exaggerate that life so it is amusing and, hopefully, informative to others. Some of these friends find my honesty (or as honesty is better known today: lack of sanity) amusing, and every so often invite me to an event where Secret Service will be called in if I am too loud with my brand of humor; my phone often clicks, but so as to not be hypocritical, I still take calls from my dealer. A concert by Sir Elton John at Radio City Music Hall to support the Clinton Campaign became such an invitation.

I was asked to meet beforehand to get good and sauced at a nearby bar just before the concert. I prefer pot and painkillers, but if these Clinton fundraiser-types wanted to get me loaded on drink, so be it. I had a small handful of Percocet in my pocket for later, incase things got out of hand. We lined up on 49th Street and made it through security just fine.

When we reached our seats, I realized how in my friends were. We sat in the front row, glairing up at Bill, Hillary, and Chelsea. These people do not need spotlights. Like a beacon from God, their charisma spews forth from them, forcing the nearby eye to squint in order to take them in. They yakked on about our future and what states were next on their to-do list to shouts of their supporters. And then finally, Sir Elton came out and serenaded us with a piano. The guy is ridiculously talented. He was practically sitting on my lap when he played. We were so close, he tossed us intimate looks in-between his general audience showmanship for all else at the 6,000 seat arena. Hillary, Bill, Chelsea, and her hidden (boy) friend (who was whisked out of sight before the cameras could get hold of him) sat seven rows behind us.

A red card reading, “admit one” got us to a lineup of her hundred or so biggest supporters from the event after the show. While in line to shake the hands of the latest American Royal Family, I began to ponder exactly what it was I was doing there. These people are twisted out of their minds. It wasn’t the drink-and-painkiller-mix kind of twisted I had going for me, it was a maniacal grouping of entitlement and phoniness, mixed with plastered, Paxil induced smiles and forced enjoyment, all masking faces that had somewhere hidden in them something genuine. Those surrounding me in line, awaiting occasion to meet our next possible president and her husband and daughter, grumbled to themselves over and over the proper thing with which to use for greeting that may have some impact more than the $1500 they shelled out per ticket in support. The Secret Service were standing on guard all about the place to protect from any shenanigans. “What the hell could I say to such individuals?” I wondered to myself as I was ushered next to my friends. Everyone was so bright eyed and bushytailed, eager to get in their two cents and shake the hands of power.

As I approached the Clintons, I looked deeply into each of their eyes. Bill was the poppa of charisma. He spewed forth a bombastic smile that seduced you into submission. I found myself smiling by something akin to osmosis. It was weird and, I think, unrelated to the Percocet pleasantries. Hillary was next in line. She seemed about as genuine as an airline stewardess saying “B’bey, now. Thanks for flying with us,” to a lineup of passengers leaving a plane. I can’t blame her for looking through her biggest supporters’ eyes, there were a lot of them and I can’t imaging having to shake the hands of a thousand people a day. It must hurt after a while. And you never really know where someone’s hand has been, let alone a thousand peoples’ hands. Then there was Chelsea. She had a pancake of makeup on her face rivaling Paris Hilton, so I really can’t tell you what she actually looks like, but it is not terribly pleasant. Her eyes penetrate you as if to say, “I am being bread as the next generation of leadership, how are you? Vote for my mommy so one day you can vote for me, you little person, you.”

I shake their hands and feel the sweat from the fifty people who did so before me. When I got to Chelsea, I saw her looking through me. I bobbed my head to try to get the perfect eye contact. I had the briefest of moments to think before I would be ushered off. Should I ask her something about what she truly believes in, or about the economy or the war, or give my two cents regarding matters of State? Finally, here eyes actually settled and met mine. Out of my mouth came the strangest utterance she’s probably heard in a while: “I think the only thing I could say that would make any impact would be to ask you for your underwear. I don’t wear any myself. I like freedom.”

After a few glances of disbelief from both parents and a wide-eyed shock from little, pancake-faced Chelsea, a large man in a suit and wrist radio whisked me off and out of sight. I swear I saw him stifling a snicker as he did so.

As I came outside, preparing to be reprimanded by the Clinton supporter who invited me, the rain started coming down. He came up to me, slapped me on the back, and gave me a hug: his lips were drowsy with wine. “I like you, man. Come with me to Pennsylvania to watch the process. It’ll be fantastic. I’ll get us on the bus. We’ll follow Hillary about for a week.” And then he burped and threw up between my feet and the entourage of vehicles awaiting the Clintons out front of Radio City.

I agreed and wondered if he’d remember when he sobered up. To my surprise, he called me the next day, laughed about his pounding headache, and said we couldn’t go till after the weekend because of something with his kid and the weather, but, “Pack up. We’re leaving for Pennsylvania first thing next week.”

So I am packing up a weeks’ worth of Percocet (perhaps a few other items so I can deal with the insane PR machines that be), and heading out on the road with the Clinton campaign to try to secure PA. There will be more pressure there than any other place as supporters admit they have to win PA to stay in the race. I have to see what our process is firsthand. I want to see what happens, how it is spun for those who sell it to the public, and finally, how the media pitches it to us. It should be a freak show because everyone involved in the process is insane or twisted out of their mind on drugs or drink or PR. Those who run are insane to be placed in such a public pitch-fest. Those who spin are insane because they alter reality for us. Those who tell the tale are insane because they do and say as they’re told with very little thought or concern for reality. The public is insane because you people will lap up any crap spewed you way without concern for reality. It should be fun. How the hell did I get to be one of the sane ones?