Brothers and Sisters: McCallister&Me

Back From The Dead... Yo.

McCallister having become irrelevant, I've turned my attention to these two.

May 2, 2008 -- Pasadena, CA

Let me be clear.  Leonard Koplitsky is no stalker.

My irritation at some recent accusations compels me to say this.  While it may be that I've been keeping tabs on Justin Walker and his sister/friend Rebecca Harper, please know that I am a recently unemployed videographer.  In other words, a PROFESSIONAL. 

I just happen to be a little lonely right now. 

In case any of my (five?) loyal readers were worried about my health and safety, given my long absence from this blog, worry no more:  Leonard Koplitsky, your humble narrator, friend to your RSS feed, is alive and well -- far from the train-wreck of the Adamson campaign and even farther from its impotent media czar, Karen ____.  So disgusted with national politics did Karen make me that I hadn't the heart to return to Washington, District of Columbia -- my ancestral homeland. 

No, I opted to remain where the Adamson campaign had dropped me.  That being Los Angeles. 

Now, as you may remember, LA and I got off to a rocky start.  I called it a moral wasteland, or something similar I probably stole from Luther Reeves.  LA, in turn and by implication, called me a fascist. 

But things have changed.  For one thing, Clay Adamson tanked. 

To refresh your memory, there was this unfortunate little matter of the governor's secret disabled child.  Which would have been just that -- a little matter, maybe even a boon --  but for the fact of Adamson's vocal opposition to federal funding for  special education. 

It was all quite embarrassing for Clay A, to say nothing of the hardworking staff that supported him tirelessly during the grueling primary season. 

But them's the breaks, ain't they, Karen?  I guess that's what happens when you ALIENATE your most ADEPT and EFFICACIOUS foot soldiers. 

Ahem. 

To make a long story short, in case you don't read the front page, Adamson dropped out.  Little Lenny was jobless, homeless and marooned in Los Angeles.  The only people he knew were the people he had been spying on -- Robert McCallister, Kitty Walker, and her family.  It was like that German movie, The Lives of Others, only set in Pasadena.

Of course, I couldn't possibly reach out to them.  But I also couldn't let them go.  So I hung onto my beat, silently watching the Walkers' most intimate moments -- Kevin's kerfufflage with his "roommate" Scotty and the Senator's brother, Jason; Nora's assignations with Isaac Marshall (!), legendary political wolf -- knowing that these people whom I knew so well would never see my face... and knowing that even if there was no reason to use my trusty videographic apparatus, it felt good just to hold it.

Then McCallister dropped out, leaving Boyd "the Toyd" Taylor as the lone option for GOP voters.  Some option.

I confess, I felt adrift.  Still do, if I'm honest.  I mean, it's been MONTHS since I last hung out with someone my own age.  And LA's a lonely place if you don't know anyone.  All the solitary people, cooped up in their pods hurtling down the superhighways, with no way to reach out / To the next pod ... --

I'll spare you my underdeveloped sense of poetry.

To ameliorate my age anxiety, I started following around the two youngest Walkers, Justin and Rebecca.  They do hang out an awful lot, and I really felt they'd like me if they just knew I was there.

Life at the Vista takes place in black and white, even to this day.

One day they went to the movies in Silverlake.  This great old theater, the Vista, was playing a crazy heavy-metal slasher flick -- the kind I used to rent on weekends with my friends when we were in the eighth grade, didn't know any girls, and couldn't convince the local North African convenience store to sell us some 40s.  Spotting the happy Walker siblings up ahead, I slid into a seat a few rows back to take in the film.  But the real show was going on in the audience.

Justin and Rebecca were whispering incessantly about something.  Usually these two are happy as clams to calmly enjoy each other's company.  But not this time.  One after the other, they got up and walked out of the theater.

I got up to follow them out to the lobby, anxious to get the scoop on their troubles... but an usher shone a light in my face and asked for my ticket stub.  Furiously, I searched my pockets, but to no avail.  Evidently, in the zeal of espionage, I failed to pay for the movie.

Happy to exit to the lobby now, I followed the usher, trying in my annoying way to get him to walk a little faster and muttering what I thought a persuasive argument about how the film wasn't worth the cost of the enormous soda I'd purchased... but he wasn't persuaded.  And when he finally left me at the cashier, Justin and Rebecca were gone.

Damn it.  I know this is Karen's fault.  I just haven't figured out how.  More on that next week -- for now, I've got to rush up the hill to Rebecca's mother's home, so I can stake it out and learn exactly what all the fuss is about.

And sorry for being so out of touch.  From now on, you can find the customary Leonard Koplitsky updates here, where they belong.

Love,
Your loyal minion,
Lenny

Getting a Leg Up

Jimmy Stewart giving his best Justin Walker impression.

As I train my lens on Senator McCallister and the people who populate his  life, I can’t help but picture Robert as a red-tie wearing onion.

Actually, I suppose artichoke would be more apt, considering he was born and raised in the artichoke capital of the world: Castroville, California.  I’m not trying to say that he’s a vegetable when up there giving speeches; merely, that he has layers.  And as each layer gets peeled back, things only get more interesting.

Having a recent lull in his travel schedule, I've had the opportunity to focus on his eclectic group of future in-laws: The Walkers.

This bunch is a handful.  With so many of them running around, it’s nearly impossible for one Lenny to track all of them simultaneously.  There are two that do seem to be quite easy to follow, though, as they rarely leave their Pasadena paradise: Justin and Rebecca.

Justin Walker is the family hero.  Hell, he’s climbing up my hero ladder too.  As an Army medic, he’s served two tours of duty overseas as part of our ever-reaching global war on terror.

In his second tour, the first in Iraq, he sustained a serious leg injury when engaged with the enemy.  This provided him a ticket home to the United States for rehabilitation -- a ticket his family no doubt hopes is one-way.  Due to his limited mobility, he  spends a great deal of time shut in his home.

I have this recurring dream that Justin develops acute paranoid neurosis, spliced with cabin fever, and suddenly loses his marbles a la Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. This nightmare of mine concludes with Justin turning a camera outside his own window and filming me filming him.

I think I’m safe from this for two reasons.  One, my unparalleled incognito ninja-videography tactics, and two, that he appears to be in a really good place for a wounded veteran.

I’m convinced that a lot of this positivity stems from his resident Florence Nightingale, his youngest sister and object of my innocent leering affection: Rebecca (unemployed?).

She tags along at physical therapy, watches mindless Hollywood dribble on the tube with him, and just generally seems to keep his spirits high.  These two come across as partners in crime and her presence wards off any feelings of loneliness that might creep into Justin’s head.

I, on the other hand, am starting to feel just a small bite of the lonely bug.  It's inevitable to a certain degree when traveling by your lonesome, but when you find yourself naming your iPod (Kitty) and your camera (Winston) it’s time to take a hard look in the mirror.

 

J&R - shocked to find artistically enriching TV.

I’m not complaining, though:  Look where I am. It’s beautiful, and consistent, and consistently beautiful.  I’ve stopped checking the weather forecast here altogether.

California really does carry a solid amount of natural assets.  Mountains AND beaches, bears AND sharks.  You can surf and snowboard on the same day.  You can double-fist drinking a mudslide and a sex on the beach during a mudslide while having sex on the beach. (always been a goal of mine)

Not that I'm paid to enjoy the bounty of this most populous state.  I have managed to squeeze in some McCallister time lately, albeit with little result videographically speaking.

While covering his recent speech on immersion of the English language at the Chavez Ravine Historical Society, I found myself agreeing more and more with Brian Wilson and the rest of his Beach Boys -- really wishing that they all could be California girls. Everywhere I turn, they're there.  Are they following me?  Unlikely. I'm continuously amazed by this omnipresence of beautiful women in LA. They even pop up at the most unlikely places: sterile GOP fundraisers and bland Republican rallies.    

Problem is, since there just happens to be a camera attached to my head at all times, my sightseeing errs on the side of noticeable.  And, to my boss Karen, if you’re reading this, I assure you that all my footage from this speech is pure California 49er gold.  I know you’ll love it.

Living the dream,

Lenny

 

Shedding Light on the Shade

Something tells me I should get used to this.

 

October 12 -- Pasadena, CA

Leonard Koplitsky here, filing a fresh dispatch from a town I’m guessing I’ll be spending a whole hell of a lot more time in… Pasadena, California. 

Here in Kitty Walker's hometown, I've slowly begun accepting, shall we say, alternative lifestyles.  Not that they require my acceptance.  But, with that said, as is perpetual in these parts, I'm gonna get my two cents in.

Today, friends, I come to you from a North Light Coffee on California Ave.  You might be wondering why, after the gangbusting work I did vis a vis the wedding dress showdown, to say nothing of last week’s huge find -- that Senator Cabbage Patch had to skedaddle out of Iowa for some urgent Kitty business in LA — why I’m drinking a soy beverage in this practically Communist coffee chain. 

The answer is simple.  My fearless beacon at the Adamson Campaign, Karen, read my blog.

You might remember a few unfortunate things I wrote about her here.  So.

(The girl to my right is so gorgeous I think she must be French!)

The last couple of days I’ve been on Walker duty.  Not Kitty, my love and the lustrous namesake of my new iPod.  Not their feisty matriarch Nora.  Not Justin, the family hero. 

Last and most disappointing, not the mysterious beauty who wanders around the house all day, occasionally peeping out to secretly photograph the neighbor’s gardener. (I’ve finally learned her name:  Rebecca.)

Nope.  I’m on Kevin duty.  I got the gay brother.

I have to feel Karen must have smirked as she devised this exquisite, voyeuristic torture.  She was none too happy about the allegations I made about her and my colleague, Margaret.  Well, the allegations she alleges I made.  I think if you read through my old posts you’ll find nothing concrete.

But here I go, for the record:  “If it seemed I suggested impropriety between Karen ____ and a member of her staff, I was mistaken.  She is utterly above reproach, is positively heterosexual, and in fact may be a genius.”

On the subject of Kevin Walker… I’ve heard that he’s in a relationship with Senator McCallister’s brother, Jason.  That was all the buzz last week, when Luther Reeves spread it around the Red airwaves like avian flu.

However, if that’s the case, then all the stereotypes about gay men and their sexual promiscuity are true.

While Kevin’s work as a lawyer mostly consists of corporate litigation, I did sit in on a misdemeanor case in which he represented a gay man (former lover?) who had harassed a police officer.  No doubt the defilement of the badge is one of Kevin’s oldest fantasies, so I’m sure he took a special satisfaction in the outcome.

I'd bet you my heterosexuality Kevin Walker loves Banksy's work.

Much worse, the other day I watched from afar as Kevin entered the Walker homestead.  Then I snuck around the side of the house with my DV camera, tracking him from window to window until he entered the bathroom and began laboriously setting the stage for some extreme hardcore unwinding.

Soon bubbles were floating around by the hundreds while, from within, I could hear some of the…forgive me for saying so, gayer tones I’ve ever heard. 
Vibe-y grooves to melt your scented candle, if you get my driftage.

I shut off my camera.  Whether this was my vocation or not was immaterial.  I simply didn't have the heart to watch.  We all do embarrassing things when we're alone, even when the whole family is gathered in the other room.  What if he was about to...I can hardly bring myself to say it...touch himself?  Or was this just how all gay men went to the bathroom. 

Or perhaps this was the first step in orchestrating a seduction.  Perhaps Kevin was about to play host to a bathtub indiscretion with another man.

Let me be clear.  Unlike many vocal conservatives, I have no problem with homosexuals per se.  I'm not about to stuff marriage licenses in their Christmas stockings, but a fundamental right in America is the right to privacy.  But infidelity is its own beast, something that couples of all orientations contend with.  Infidelity is liberalism in its grossest form.

Embarrassed for myself, I high-tailed it back to my car, nearly tripping on the garden hose, and popped in Quixote to soothe my jangled nerves.

Thinking about this possible betrayal, I almost wanted to tell the Senator so he could save his poor (if sexually misguided) brother from a lifetime of potential deceit and heartbreak, to say nothing of aesthetically suspect bathing habits. 

But it seemed the only outcomes of such rash action would be:  a) the loss of my job for communicating with the enemy, and b) getting reamed by Kevin Walker… legally speaking. 

So once again, I bottled up my trauma and released it only to you, my friends and family back home in Ann Arbor… along with whoever happens to stumble onto this blog via accidental Google search.

See how well-behaved I was this time, Karen?

Adios,

Lenny

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Taking this picture was pretty fun.

Howdy.

You'd think that the recent negative attention heaped on the McCallister campaign as a result of my bridal shop exposé would get me a little juice with my Adamson peoples. 

Not quite.  Or if there is a reward, it seems that Karen thinks it should   involve me crouching outside the window of the Walker home in Pasadena, filming the torturous moments of a family waiting to find out if one of their own is even alive.  This was hell for them and me.  After ten minutes, I called Karen and flatly refused to continue.

Despite some initial hemming and hawing, Karen soon acknowledged that Margaret had requested a leave of absence from stumping with McCallister -- an apparent family emergency in Key West.  "You can ride with Mac for now," she said, before adding, in a disgruntled tone that should have tipped me off to future miseries, "Don't blow it, Lenny."

My new journey began as I dropped off my rental car in Los Angeles.  Karen, penny pincher that she is, mandated that I return it a full eight hours before my flight, to save the cost of an additional pro-rated  day.  Obviously I'm not reaping the benefits of our recent spike in the polls.

This extra time bumming around LA did allow me to realize just how much I loathe carrying all of my possessions.  Lugging that camera equipment is giving me adult onset scoliosis.

Billions of trillions of Angelenos pass through the fabled MetroLink daily.

With a little time to kill, I decided that a little housecleaning was in order.  If I’m going to be this super nomadic videographer guy, I need to minimize things just a bit.  I’m not looking to go full-on naturalist a la Henry David Thoreau, but at the very least I'll take page out of Boxcar Willie's book and make do with a mere sack on a stick. 
 

Looking to lighten my load, I located a Goodwill Donation Center.  Entering the store, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia.  In younger, more liberal days, nothing satisfied my thirst for commonality with the working man like a few hours of feverish browsing at a neighborhood thrift store.

I'd even stopped in a couple times in the last year -- Goodwill being as trusty a spot as any for scoring barely-worn Brooks Bros. attire.  Alas, now I found myself at the donations desk.  And they say Republicans don't care about the less fortunate!

After unloading a suitcase there, I set forth for my next destination: the Apple Store.  Home of the most smug and pretentious little tech support-house in the world, the genius bar.

My purpose here was to make a subtraction by means of addition.  While hauling 612 cds of Raul Julia reading Don Quixote can be plenty of fun, hauling those same discs in one teeny-tiny iPod is called heaven.  With that in mind, I picked up their sexy new touch-screen model and made my way to Union Station.

The subway in Los Angeles sees less traffic than anywhere within a hundred-mile radius.  Inside it's like a library.  So I seized this rare, quiet opportunity to begin painstakingly loading up my new toy with each disc in my 612 volume audiobook.  I was on disc 57 when it was time to rise from the depths and catch my bus to the airport.

Exiting the station, I approached an informational kiosk.  Like most, it had a red dot indicating my present location along with the words, “You are here."

Reading the phrase had me craving one of my favorite songs from last year:   Nathan Fake’s “You Are Here”.  Now, with a quick transfer from my laptop to "Kitty" (that’s what I named her -- I know it's weird, but it was the first name that popped into my head), I can scratch that itch.

As I blissed out on the bus, my anticipation of getting on the road again grew.   Unlike some of my friends in college, I never took a summer to travel the country following Phish.  This is the closest I’ll get to my rock tour and believe me, I'm fine with that.

My former high school best friend.  Former.

This week, McCallister was doing a steady diet of stumping throughout the Midwest.  Next up:  Iowa’s “fields of opportunities," from which he'd board a bus while I followed in my rental car. 

But rather than fly me to Iowa, Karen had me coming in to Omaha, Neb. the day before Bobby McC touches down at Des Moines Intl. Airport to deliver a speech right there on the tarmac.  Yep, I’ve got to hop in a rental car and drive 130 miles on I-80 -- leaving one airport and heading directly to another.

I had to call Karen out on this one.  Her vengefulness had gone too far -- she was now blatantly making my life miserable for her own enjoyment.   When I finally got her on the phone regarding my less than logical itinerary, though, she blamed Accounting.

"Yeah, they claimed that after factoring in all costs incurred, your fly-n-drive would save over $142 for the campaign.”  I tried offering her a $142 donation out of my own pocket, just so I wouldn’t have to drive my   already exhausted self.  No dice.  "Sorry, Lenny.  It's all   politics."  Before she hung up, I heard a mysterious female voice in the background.  I'd bet you my hairline it was Margaret asking her for the sunblock.

Our smooth flight touched down ahead of schedule.  Ready to rock, I jumped in my econo-rental and began my march East to Des Moines, relishing the opportunity to have nothing but open road in front of me.

I briefly pondered visiting the world’s largest ball of stamps as I left Omaha…ah well, there's always next time.  I crossed the state line into the Hawkeye State.  Endless corn fields on my left.  Endless wheat fields on my right.

As I arrived at the tarmac and made my way toward the front of the rally, McCallister was already into his remarks.  He was talking about what else, corn fields.  It’s these very fields that have Iowa on the cusp of an energy revolution.  And, I thought to myself, it’s this very reason why Iowa in '08 has taken on a significance that far outweighs the Straw Poll.

I looked around at the folks in the rally.  Unlike me, they were actually listening to this tan man.  And why not?  He was addressing an issue that would affect them and their children for years to come.

I was once again filled with disgust for my job.  Where was the wisdom at the Adamson campaign?  If they spent one-tenth the time listening to constituents that they spent spying on the aggrieved and devising byzantine travel routes for their flunkies, we'd be an extra 6 points ahead in the polls.  Why, if Karen, that... low-quality human, would stop shacking up with the sexually impressionable and focus on her job--

I stopped.  I must have been muttering aloud because people were staring at me.  Realizing Senator McC's speeches were the one place I didn't need to pay attention, and still unable to rid myself of the Nathan Fake earworm that had infested my brain, I grabbed my new touchscreen "Kitty"  and pulled a quick search to see what Mr. Fake was up to these days.

Lo and behold, Border Community just released a series of “You are Here” remixes.  This has gone beyond making my day.  God bless technology.

Many people are quite skeptical of remixes, especially if it’s a reworking of   one of your favorite songs.  Not me.  Sure, I’ll be the first to admit they’re typically hit or miss.  But at the very least I may get to love something new out of something old.  And it struck me this was the essence of politics:  New mouths delivering the same old messages over and over, mixing up the syntax for the moment at hand.  And there was nothing wrong with that.  In fact, it was sort of inherently conservative...

I awoke from this daze as the Senator finished to a joyous ovation from the crowd.  But his flesh-pressing routine was cut short by a grave Travis March, the campaign manager, who whispered in his ear.  McCallister's expression hardened with resolve.  I wondered....

Then he was taken away, leaving the bus scheduled to bring him to Cedar Rapids waiting, empty.  Within a couple minutes he was on a plane, flying off into the setting sun.

Hmmm?  This wasn't planned.

I need to call my contacts and figure out just what is going on here.

Confused as #$@%,
Leonard

My Quixotic California Adventure

If you look closely, you can find at least three Republicans in this picture.

Los Angeles, CA -- September 27

By now, unless you've spent the last few days on the Moon, you've seen/heard/read about the Kitty Walker wedding dress campaign gaffe.  So today's post has a dual purpose: to claim credit, and to give you a little behind-the-scenes. 

The background was this.  Since I started following Senator McCallister around, trying to dig up dirt on him, I'd often wondered if Karen, my boss over at the Adamson campaign, had her head up her proverbial keister.  When I got my latest assignment -- follow Kitty Walker back to LA and keep tabs on her while she's there -- I let my wondering cease.

Truth be told, Karen is a bottom-feeding hack.

Please don't misunderstand.  I get that politics is dirty, that if I don't like the sandbox I can go climb a tree somewhere, blah blah blah. But... still.  You want me to stalk McCallister's fiancée while she visits with her family?  Really? 

Do voters respond to this sub-tabloid mud-bathing?  I guess the smart money would take one look at me and my job and say, yes they do.

So these were the thoughts running through my head as I touched down at LAX.  I was, I admit, perhaps a little insulted that I wasn't even coming here to follow the Senator.  (That vote of confidence went to my colleague Margaret, AKA The Lesbian Who Wasted An Afternoon Outside A Strip Club Because McCallister's Limo Was Parked There...Only To Find Out It Was His Driver.)

But for my smarting vanity, I had a salve named Kitty Walker.  Kitty's no lightweight and she's way more than Senator Too-Pretty-For-Words future wife.   She works on his campaign as a highly placed message maven.  Her old satellite radio show, the brilliant Right Idea, was the most significant reason I gave up on the Left.  She's a household name because of her great work on Red White & Blue, where she proved a smart and sexy counterweight to that idiot, Warren Salter. 

Did I say sexy?  I meant "smoking hot."

Plus, with her family full of liberals, there's all the chance in the world I'll connect McCallister to some embarrassment or other that will mortify the Republican base. 

Consoling myself with this internal monologue, I brightened.  Things weren't so bad.  I'd get to see LA, where I'd never been.  Sure, it was a sprawling sea of weak-kneed liberalism, but hey -- fish tacos, right?  I already knew to order two at a time in case I ran into George Clooney and needed to throw one at him.  Maybe I could get a star map and drop in on Bruce Willis.

McCallister's RW&B appearance marked Kitty's first step toward the Dark Side.

As it turned out, a star map would have been handy.  Any map would have been handy, actually, as I got lost no less than fourteen times in the three days I was in LA.  (This could have been avoided if Karen hadn't been too cheap to rent me a car with GPS.)  After much zigzaggery, I arrived at Kitty Walker's preferred B&B, which happens to be the Walker family home in Pasadena.

I parked on the manicured, tree-lined street and settled in for a stakeout.  I had an In 'N Out burger handy and an 834-disc audiobook edition of Don Quixote, read by Raul Julia, which I won in a poker game last month.  I'm on disc 23. 

The reason for Ms. Walker's homecoming was unclear.  Was she just visiting... or was there something more?  And who was the beautiful and mysterious girl living with Kitty's mother, making tea and talking to the computer?  I wish I could stalk her.  I mean, in a non-criminal way.

The day went on.  I nearly snarfed my delicious burger from laughing at Quixote.  I love Sancho Panza, and it occurred to me that Karen resembled the knight-errant DQ in a real and frightening way.  I wished I could persuade her that all the ludicrous missions she sent me on were just windmills.  (BTW, this is what I have to show for my Yale degree: an enhanced identification with epic Spanish farce.)

The Walker home is like a family filling station.  Over the course of the morning, five different brothers and sisters stopped by, and they all left with full thermoses of coffee.  Kitty used to talk about her dad all the time on The Right Idea, and I guess he put a premium on the face-to-face.  Still, was Pasadena not wired for telecommunication?

By the time Kitty and her mom pulled the Prius out of its enormous driveway (so classic, btw -- the Walkers are my parents exactly), I was napping in a pool of saliva.  I yawned and grudgingly shifted into Hot Pursuit.  Here we go, I thought.  A trip to the supermarket. Who knew politics could be such a wild adventure?  At least I could buy a tangerine to ward off the scurvy that had me in its sights.

Instead of a market, though, I found myself at... a bridal shop. 

I followed at a distance as Kitty and her mom entered the boutique.  Nora was texting away on her Blackberry.  Karen didn't give me much in the way of a dossier, so I don't have squat on Nora Walker.  I think she might be a motion picture agent.

Kitty went into the changing room.  Playing it cool, I strolled through the shop, perusing the wedding fashions on display, keeping an eye on the proceedings in case she popped out and I got the first shot of her in her future bridal gown.  (Mental note:  make a contact at the Enquirer.)

A cute salesgirl approached and asked if I needed any help.  I responded with a well-worn flirtation, causing her to pretend to remember something else she needed to do. 

Bored to tears and cursing my lot, I began composing the speech I would make to Gov. Adamson upon my return, calling Karen out on her boneheaded dirt-digging tactics.  "Is this how you think the money you've raised should be spent?  Staking out bridal shops?  Is it?"  Then I'd insinuate an affair between Karen and Margaret... 

Suddenly I heard raised voices.  Perking up my ears, I listened as carefully as I could over the hum of the central air... yes.  Recognition.  The sweet, yet tough and pragmatic voice that used to pour from the speakers in my car during my daily commute.  The right voice.  The Right Idea. 

Kitty Walker.

I hurried back over to the dressing room.  Here it was -- my big break! Could Kitty really be exposing herself to scandal?  With all her punditry experience could she possibly be so naïve to lash out at a low-level retail employee, and think no one would catch her?

It amazed me that a woman involved in a presidential campaign would even go out in public.  What if she decided she wanted a donut?  In minutes there would be photos all over the internet.

One day, if I'm lucky, I'll be one of these people.

This superior train of thought ended rudely with a cold realization:  I had left my DV camera in the rental car. 

!#$%#%$@#!  Was it really possible I'd blown my one chance to turn this lemon of an assignment into lemonade for Adamson?  The GOP gods had thrown me a softball and I'd come up to the plate without a bat!

I patted myself down frantically.  I was in a real bind now and knew it.  Four years in New Haven and a degree from the Kennedy School might have made my parents proud, but they wouldn't be my salvation today.  Desperate and defeated, I whipped out my cell to call Karen and tender my resignation.  It was clear to me that this Sancho Panza wasn't cut out for La Mancha.  Then I paused.  The solution was staring right at me from the palm of my hand. 

A battle-tested, gleaming, hard-bodied piece of 21st Century technology, fully equipped with 2 whopping megapixels of camera-phone prowess.  My Treo.

And the rest, as they say, is history.  Thank you, thank you -- you've been a lovely audience.  I think when this campaign is over I'll go work at a think tank.

'Til next post,
Leonard

American Cheese: The Senator Hits Wisconsin

Every slice of the McCallister campaign agenda can
be found in this cheese hall.   

Kenosha, WI -- September 20

It's ninety degrees, I haven't had a vegetable in weeks, and I nearly dropped my video camera in a vat of Wisconsin cheese fondue this afternoon.

All of that aside, the big picture looks bright like Ike: I'm working on Clay Adamson's campaign for president.  And I'll wager my entire J. Press collection he wins.

Sure, it would probably be more fun to travel with the Adamson campaign.  Being sequestered with the enemy can get lonely. 

But following McCallister around on Gov. Adamson's behalf makes me feel like a CIA agent during the Cold War heyday...except that my transmissions come from places like Skokie and Lake Geneva instead of Irkutsk and Riga.

(Incidentally, a bowl of cold borscht would beat all the cheese fondue in the world right now.)

These McCallister supporters are rabid and hardcore.  Hand to God, I saw a thirty-something woman tear up when the senator kissed her newborn earlier at his afternoon rally.  She might as well have been at a Michael Jackson concert on the Bad tour. 

Call me crazy, but when you connect with people emotionally, it doesn't matter that your immigration policy is half-baked and impractical, that you have essentially no concrete position on the war, or that your idea of family values is to the left of Bill Clinton -- they're listening to you anyway.

I do have to hand it to him, though:  McCallister has the politician thing down to a science.  Combine that with his squeaky-clean living and war hero status, and my job isn't getting any easier. 

I need to get something juicy on him soon or Karen will have my head.  Our numbers are dropping in several key Midwest states according to the most recent polls, released earlier in the week.  Knowing the first primaries are less than six months away (!), we're taking this very seriously.  Hence Karen pressing me harder to dig the dirt on McC and company. 

I've been paying more attention to his fiancée and communications director, Kitty Walker.  She appears all tough and perfectly composed on the surface, but she's bound to slip up sometime.  They all do.  And when she does...I hope my trusty camera isn't dripping with barbecue sauce!

Tomorrow takes us -- McCallister and me, that is -- to Chicagoland for some luncheon with the Northwestern University Young Republicans club.  I haven't been to that city since my seventh grade field trip to the Shed Aquarium.

I'm really excited to meet up with my sister and brother-in-law downtown afterwards.  She won't stop raving about this great pizza joint where they encourage you to write all over the restaurant's walls.  I'll leave my Sharpie in my hotel room, though; it's the authentic deep-dish pizza that I'm there for.  A hundred bucks and the keys to my dad's Prius says it's 3,000 times better than anything I can get back home.

I gotta go capture some footage or Karen will wonder what she's paying me for.

  ‘till next week.....
 
  Leonard