“Do you dress in costume?” I ask. Keep in mind this is a man in his late thirties.
“Yeah, I usually take a costume every year.”
I love this guy.
We go to their home to meet up with Jess. It’s a small ranch house, decorated with movie posters and memorabilia everywhere. Jess is an adorable brunette, her voice a little gravelly from whatever small ailment she has. We sit around their living room and shoot the shit.
“Show them your office,” says Jess.
Cargill opens a door and we enter Nerd Paradise. There are hundreds, or possibly thousands, of small lead figurines from the roleplaying game Warhammer 40000, which I think is like Dungeons & Dragons except it takes place in the future. But it’s basically the same thing: a bunch of dudes (and I am going to make a wild assumption here that it’s almost all dudes) sitting around rolling dice, smoking pot, and killing Orcs.
Cargill’s Warhammer dudes fill every surface area of the office. Inside the closet are even more. He has assembled a tiny army here, thousands of creatures of every conceivable form. It is the dorkiest thing I have ever seen.
If it sounds like I am making fun of this, I am, but only a little. I played D&D as a kid, and my own father was into painting lead figurines. I remember him huddled over a giant magnifying glass with a tiny paintbrush trying to get a wizard’s robe the perfect shade of periwinkle. Cargill also has a giant magnifying glass. Seeing it almost makes me tear up with nostalgia.
Meghan: The first time I ever really hung out in Austin was with Cargill and Jessica for an event called Butt-Numb-A-Thon, a twenty-four-hour film festival where the attendees watch consecutive movies hand picked by the “Head Geek,” Harry Knowles. Let me tell you, the tickets are hard to get and you have to be invited and approved by Harry, but if you get the chance, go. It was one of the most fun times I have ever had, especially watching movies. My dirty little secret part of myself (actually, there is nothing dirty or little about it) is that underneath it all I am a huge nerd. I love sci-fi and horror movies, video games, everything. I apparently passed the “geek/nerd” test by Cargill when I told him District 9 was my favorite movie from 2009.
I’m so happy to be in this house of old friends with my new friends that everything starts to feel like it’s back in balance. Although I think Michael is hilarious and pretty much feel like I had to pass the Michael Ian Black seminar while preparing to go on the road with him, I’ll admit that I don’t always get his snarky humor. A few cracks he’s made along the way about me being a rich girl and my father being old, I have to assume is just his way of showing weird affection for me as a friend, even though I don’t really find personal jabs of this nature to be funny at all. It’s probably our biggest obstacle so far, my not really knowing if Michael is joking or being serious. Like most comedians (or at least the few I have known), so much is shielded with humor that I find myself asking Stephie if Michael is laughing at me or with me. But now, here, with Cargill and Jessica, I feel relaxed and safe, as though they’ll be able to soak up some of my self-consciousness with their more affable brand of humor.
Michael: There is a certain kind of American who just does not give a shit what the world thinks. They do what they do, and if anybody has a problem with that, they can go take a flying fuck. It feels like a quintessentially American attitude, and Cargill and Jess have it in spades. They like what they like—movies, sci-fi, karaoke, good eats—and they have created a life for themselves here in Austin that allows them to do what they like and be left alone.
This is one of the common threads among the people we meet on the road; they just want to be left alone. Not isolated, not separate and apart from their communities. But they want to preserve the freedom to live their lives however they see fit with as little interference as possible. It was true for Jackie out on the ranch, and the entrepreneurs we met in Vegas, true (I assume) for Omar the Anarchist, and now here it is again in the form of Mr. and Mrs. Cargill. And it’s true for me. It is a classically Republican philosophy: self-reliance, individualism, freedom. Yet Cargill is reluctant to call himself a Republican, at least as it’s currently defined.
“I’m a philosophical Republican rather than an ideological Republican,” he says, complaining about the state of his party. “It’s really frustrating when they’re fiscal radicals who are like, ‘No, we’re not budging on taxes.’ That’s actually a very radical fiscal policy. Fiscal conservatism is actually about balancing the budget and figuring out how to pay for everything.”
He says there’s nobody in the Republican field he likes and that “at this point, I’m probably going to vote for the president right now.”
Yet he would never call himself a Democrat.
Almost nobody wants to own the label “Democrat.” That’s another thing I’m learning. Even I, the “liberal” on this trip, have a hard time saying I am one. Because I don’t know what the Dems stand for. It’s easy with the Republicans. Whether you agree with them or not, at least they are ideologically consistent. So ideologically consistent, in fact, that nobody is pure enough for them. I think that’s what Cargill means when he says he is a “philosophical” Republican, as opposed to an “ideological” one. Philosophy implies reason. Ideology, as applied to the current political scene, implies rigidity. Like Meghan and me, and nearly everybody else we meet, Cargill is sick of political rigidity.
But enough about politics, and on to drunken karaoke.
First up is a big meal at Casa Chapala, a Tex-Mex joint in a nearby strip mall. “Don’t let the location fool you,” Cargill warns. I don’t. It’s amazing. I order the Mexican thing with the stuff in it. Delicious. As we are leaving, Jess and Cargill point out the photo of President Bush the Younger on the wall. As it turns out, President Obama also has eaten here, but there’s no photo of him.
Meghan: Cargill and I are really on the same page with things. For as long as I can remember, he has referred to himself as a “philosophical” Republican versus an “ideological” one. I refer to myself as a progressive Republican and have even been harassed by Glenn Beck for, you know, being a bastard mutation in the original Republican “ideologue” design. This is the thing, and I’ll say it as often as I have to: I really do identify myself as a Republican, and I firmly believe in the core ideals on which the party is based.
One of my bona fides that many people outside of the Republican circle haven’t heard is that my mother was pregnant with me at the 1984 Republican Convention in Dallas, where President Reagan accepted the nomination from our party. It’s my most badass Republican street cred, and I have attended every single Republican Convention since.
I flat-out love everything about it: the converging of the best—and, yes, worst—minds of the Republican Party in one happy room. No one’s there to talk smack about our platform; they’re all there because they believe in what we stand for, with passion and commitment, without a bunch of nitpicking naysayers attacking our vision for including diverse opinions. I’m not naive; I know that there are also bad apples on some branches who are there seeking their own power and glory, but from where I’m usually standing I have a treetop view of all the good that can be done when people with conviction work together for America. Until you are on that convention floor, talking to people from every corner of America, you cannot begin to understand just how beautiful the spirit in that room really is. Television cannot do it justice, trust me. It is a party, of the very best possible kind. Yes, even better than Vegas—unless, of course, it’s being held in Vegas.
Unfortunately, Republican politics really started getting more radicalized in the last eight years. I want to live in a Big Tent Party, and I believe we should be reaching out to younger voters by finding flexibility within the platform. I have never thought being a Democrat was cool, and anyone who believes in big government doesn’t really understand what big government means. On a philosophical and cultural level I connect to the Republican Party, and there is no scenario where I could fathom myself ever
voting for a Democrat, or joining another party. Yes, even in instances where the party would lean more conservative. I am a moderate Republican and I am more comfortable with a little sway more conservative than liberal.
While we are eating, the issue of Michael’s and my cultural differences over our party alignments flares up once again. I start to see that much of our arguments tie back to cultural rather than political differences of opinion. As stereotypical as it may sound, I think that being a Democrat implies being a pacifist: someone who is out of touch with the rest of America, or more specifically someone who compromises to the point where they end up with little of what they started out with. Being a Democrat, in my experience, doesn’t mean “ride or die,” or fight until the end. It means “Anybody gone into Whole Foods and seen the price of arugula?” another one of my favorite President Obama quotes. Michael’s arguments to the contrary don’t sway me in the least, but I’m happy to have this conversation as many times as it takes for him to see my point. I know there are lots of naysayers about my specific “brand” of Republican, but I have found that those types of Republicans are living in fear of the changing world we live in. The face of America is changing and the Republican Party needs to start evolving, not giving up the basic principles this party was founded on and stands for.
Eventually the topic turns to horror films, and we find plenty of common ground before going back to our hotel for a couple of hours to relax until leaving for our next destination.
When I get up to my room, one of my close girlfriends calls me to check in.
“How’s everything going with the comedian?” she asks.
“It’s going actually really great, but it’s only a matter of time before I really freak him out,” I say. It’s true, I’m just waiting for the time when I will drink too much and say too much, and Michael second-thinks this trip. I’m hoping that my impression of Michael being the kind of guy who rolls with the punches is holding true. Nothing has really shocked him so far, and he’s been awfully amiable about guns and strippers. Maybe he’s more understanding of my point of view than I realize. I tell my friend that I wish I could be more like that, and promise myself to try.
Michael: The fastest growing party affiliation in America is “independent.” People no longer wish to identify with either the Republican or Democratic parties because many of us feel like those parties don’t identify with us. Party loyalty, in my opinion, is a joke.
Why should I be loyal to one party over another? These are businesses, pure and simple. The business they are in is the big-money business of government. Any company that wants my patronage has to provide a better product than the other guy. For me, right now, that company is the Democrats. I like their product better. Not much better, but better. I think of it like this: Pizza Hut makes a better pizza than Domino’s, but they’re both pretty shitty pizzas. Well, what if Pizza Hut and Domino’s were the only two pizza places in the whole country? That would be awful, and that awfulness pretty much describes our political system right now.
The two party system seems antithetical to our whole notion of a free market. The game has been rigged in such a way that it’s almost impossible for a third (or fourth, or fifth) party to get off the ground. We wouldn’t stand for that in business, yet we don’t seem to have too much of a problem with it in our governance. Monopolies (or duopolies) are bad in the private sector and they’re also bad in the public sector.
I wish we had more political options. I wish the “marketplace of ideas” was really that, a marketplace. The problem is, even if we had a third party, it would be co-opted by big money just as fast as the first two parties have been. Money is the toxin running through our political bloodstream. Everybody knows this but nobody who can do anything about it is doing anything about it because they are the beneficiaries of all of this radioactive cash.
One of the things I will always admire Meghan’s dad for is that he tried. The McCain-Feingold Act of 2002 attempted to regulate the use of money in political campaigns. The bill was challenged in the Supreme Court and largely upheld, but it hasn’t achieved anything. What we’re left with now, ten years later, are Super PACs and ever-growing gobs of greasy money flowing into the system like raw sewage.
Why are all these big money donors giving so much? I don’t think patriotism is driving them. The only thing driving them is big, fancy cars. And big, fancy private jets. And trophy wives with big, fancy tits.
So, no, I’m not loyal to the Democratic party. I’m loyal to my beliefs. Right now the Democrats come closer to embodying those beliefs than the other guys, but I don’t trust them because I don’t trust power. At the moment, the only thing I trust is that Cargill and Jessica are going to show us a good time.
Meghan: Later that night we all go hang out at a bowling alley/ bar/karaoke place called Highball. It is one of the better places in America to have multiple kinds of good clean, albeit drunken, fun. Before I met Michael he insisted that he didn’t drink, and when I first met Stephie she said the same damn thing. I told them that I had spent two years on the road on my father’s campaign, and if there was one thing I knew about a good road trip, it’s that at some point everyone starts drinking.
When we get to the karaoke place with Jessica and Cargill and a few of their friends, I know that drinking is on the agenda if we are all gonna get up there and sing. I am, without bragging, the worst singer in the world. Truly, no one should be subjected to my singing, but when in Rome, one must partake. About two beers in, I am ready to get my Lenny Kravitz on, and get up to sing probably the worst version of “American Woman” in the history of bad karaoke.
More rounds of Bud Light are ordered, and Michael sings a hip-stery Radiohead song that I think was popular in the nineties, mostly showcasing just how different he and I are, though honestly we have quite a bit in common on the tone-deaf front. Next up, Cargill does an insanely fantastic rendition of Digital Underground’s “Humpty Hump.” But I am most pleasantly surprised when my girl Stephie lets her karaoke hair down. She even starts drinking a little, and kills on Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” with me. She is awesome, and I think finally really getting comfortable with me. No one should let Stephie’s adorable, innocent, Nermal good looks fool them; this is a girl who is down to have a good time and play. She’s like Michael, rolling with every situation. I look around at them and tilt my beer towards a toast, happy that our little crew is starting to feel like a family. Buzzed off beer, in a sweaty karaoke lounge with some film nerds in Austin. Is there really any other place this could happen?
Michael: The thing about Austin is that it’s the kind of town that would have an all-in-one bowling alley/cocktail lounge/performance space featuring a mentalist/poker room/karaoke emporium. If that sounds like hipster nirvana, it is.
The Highball is populated entirely with guys sporting ironic facial hair, and girls in vintage sundresses. Needless to say, everybody has clever tattoos. I might be the oldest person there, although to be fair, I am still very good looking, even at my advanced age. Actually, now that I think about it, I might be the oldest person in all of Austin.
This is definitely a young city. Cities with big art scenes usually are. The average age is 31.2, as compared to 35.5 for the United States as a whole, which is impressively young considering the state government is located here and politicians, as everybody knows, are old farts.
The Cargills have invited some of their Austin buddies to join us at the Highball. We occupy one of their seven karaoke theme rooms and get to the serious work of belting out off-tune versions of the greatest hits of the ’70s, ’80s, ’90s, and today. Meghan, of course, sings a spirited version of “American Woman.” (“Spirited” =terrible.)
I sing a note-for-note, perfect, heartbreaking version of Radiohead’s “No Surprises.” When I am finished, not only does the entire karaoke room stand in unison to applaud, but so does everybody within the entire state of Texas.
That isn’t true. What is true is that
I am a horrible singer and were it not for the enormous quantities of Bud Light in my system, I would not have the courage to sing at all. If you’re wondering how many Bud Lights it requires to get me to sing Radiohead at your next function, the answer is two.
Yes, I am a lightweight, a source of considerable amusement to Ms. McCain, who drinks her Bud Lights with a sense of purpose. Until this trip, I almost never drank beer at all because I do not like the taste, and I certainly never drank Bud Light because it seemed kind of Whisky Tango to me. But here’s the thing I discover at the Highball: I like Bud Light. In fact, it might be the only beer I actually do like. Meghan only drinks it because she has some family allegiance to the brand. She is the one who gets me into the stuff and I have to say, if you’re only going to drink one watery kind of shitty beer that will still get you buzzed, Bud Light is definitely the way to go. I love it.
After hours of pitiful rock ‘n’ rolling with Austin’s least talented singers, we finally tumble from the Highball at closing time. Cargill and Jess drop us at the hotel and I doze off, excited to meet up with Cousin John the next day.
Yes, tomorrow is finally the day we pick up our RV and driver. No more flying. No more soft living. From here on out, it’s the open road for us, every single mile. Hard road living, that’s what we’re going to do. I mean, not so hard that we won’t spend every night in a comfortable hotel because sleeping fourwide in a rented RV when your driver likes having orgies with famous comedians is taking things a little too far.
The RV place is located on a depressing strip of highway somewhere just outside of Austin. We drive past it twice before realizing the used car outlet we keep passing is the place. There they are: a short line of white Cruise America RVs aligned along the baking asphalt.
Cousin John is already there, standing next to a particular model and patting it like a dog. He flew in from Aspen this morning, and he greets us as we get out of the car. He’s a big guy, probably about six feet, 220 pounds, dark wavy hair, and a broad round face.
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