Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
PART ONE
PART TWO
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - JANUARY: SET UP STRATEGY
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - MID-JANUARY: RALLIES
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - FEBRUARY: ON THE ROAD
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - MARCH 2: THE MASSACHUSETTS PRIMARY
PART THREE
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - APRIL: FINALIZING A PLATFORM
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - MAY: LARRYFEST2
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - JUNE: ON THE ROAD—AGAIN
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - JULY/AUGUST: CONVENTION SEASON
PART FOUR
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - SEPTEMBER: LEGAL AT LAST
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - OCTOBER: THE PRESIDENTIAL DEBATES
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - LAST WEEK IN OCTOBER: THE FINAL PUSH
ELECTION COUNTDOWN - NOVEMBER 2: THE BIG DAY
PART FIVE
Epilogue
Notes
Copyright Page
For Janine
Prologue
“No way,” I told the young man standing in my driveway.
“Come on,” he said. “You have to.”
“I already wrote that book.”
“Technically, you didn’t write it. I wrote it.” He smiled. “But I’ve got another story to tell.”
“You’re the best person to tell your story. I told you that last time.”
“But you did such a good job getting the word out with The Gospel According to Larry.”
“Sure, but when the book was published I couldn’t find you. People couldn’t tell if it was a true story or if I made it up … .”
“Are you asking me to feel bad for you? You got the best reviews of your career!”
I pulled Josh aside. “I looked everywhere. You obviously didn’t want to be found.”
“I’ve been through a lot since I saw you,” he answered.
“I know you have—do you think I live under a rock?”
“You’re mad at me,” he said.
“I’m not mad. I’m just …” As I looked at Josh’s unshaven face, shoulder-length hair, and Sea-Monkeys T-shirt, it was hard to stay mad for long. “You did a lot of good—again.”
“Yeah, after some serious false starts.”
“We all have those.”
He reached into his pack and handed me a CD.
“Is this music?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Data.”
“Oh no,” I said. “Is there a sign hanging around my neck that says SECRETARY?”
“You owe me.”
I tried to find a technicality. “I write young-adult books. It’s more than two years since Larry; what are you now, almost twenty?”
“Pretend I’m a fictional character. You can make me seventeen again, easy.”
“Well, I live in the nonfiction world,” I said.
“Make it up! Isn’t that what writers do?”
I told him it was a little more complicated than that.
I stared at the disc in my hand and wondered what I’d be getting myself into.
“I realize the world changes every second,” he said. “But everything in here is accurate as of today.”
“We’ll fact-check anyway. But there aren’t footnotes, are there? The typesetters went nuts last time.”
His huge grin reminded me of my son’s. “So you’ll do it, right?”
Visions of my own work came and left. I nodded and told him I would.
“You can’t call me,” he said. “I’ll call you.”
I looked at this boy—part stranger, part intimate friend. “So what’s new?” I asked.
His eyes sparkled and he grinned. “Everything.”
PART ONE
“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Boulder was beautiful.
Nestled in the Rockies, with clear, comfortable weather and lots of college students, it was the perfect place for me to settle into a semi-normal, anonymous life.
I rented a room in a Victorian-type bungalow north of the University of Colorado campus, where the hundred-year-old architecture and tree-lined streets reminded me of my home back in Massachusetts. My three housemates were nice, all students at C.U. If the media circus two years ago hadn’t forced me to disappear, I’d be at Princeton now, boning up on Kant and Nietzsche. But most days, I didn’t mind how my life and future had been waylaid because I never would’ve ended up in such a wondrous place.
Even though I’d been here for several months, the Flatirons still took me by surprise. Back home I’d been to New Hampshire and Maine to hike in the mountains many times, but living smack-dab in the middle of them was a whole different experience.
I wasn’t the only person who felt this way; pretty much everyone who lived out here engaged in daily outdoor activity, as if not partaking in the immense beauty would be a sinful waste. Even the biggest computer nerd1 hiked, biked, or canoed daily. Living in Boulder was like one prolonged recess.
Because enough time had gone by and the Larry furor had dissipated,2 I let my hair return to its original brown. When people asked where I was from, I said my father was a consultant and we’d traveled around a lot. I explained that my family was now in Chicago and I didn’t visit much. The name I used was Mark Paulson.
After dissecting the fall catalog on the floor of my room, I decided to concentrate my efforts not in philosophy as I’d always planned, but in the field of environmental, population, and organismic biology.3 The country’s flora and fauna had nurtured me for most of my life; it seemed like an area of study that made sense. And it only took a few days at the EPOB department to realize I wanted to focus on animal behavior. I’d read several books on ethology for fun and had to suppress my enthusiasm in class each time the professor posed a question.4 I carried around my textbook like some zoological Rosetta stone, making notes in the margins daily.
I’d been painfully vigilant about never using my real name and paying for everything in cash from my various jobs, but the thought of enrolling in an institution still scared the life out of me. Instead I sat in on classes and volunteered in the research lab without credit.
I had other projects, of course: the Inspirational Quote Word Search I’d created in fractals class and the Greek mythology flip-o-rama comic.5
I was living in nature and learning lots of new things. Life was good.
And when I met Janine, it shot straight to ecstatic.
I was trading three old CDs for new ones at my favorite used-record store on the Hill.6 I spotted her at the register—black sneakers, torn jeans, and earrings made from two fuzzy dice like the kind some people hung from their rearview mirror.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
She smiled but didn’t answer.
“I loved this Beck,” I said. “Hate to give it up.”
She nodded, still no words. I figured she was shy.
“Did the new Santana come in?”
She pointed to the rack of new releases.
“Do you … ?” I trailed off, not sure what I wanted to say.
She reached behind the register and held up an index card. PLEASE RESPECT MY SILENCE. IT’S MY PERSONAL STATEMENT TO COMBAT THE BARRAGE OF WORDS THAT ASSAULT US EACH DAY.
I held my finger to my lips. A woman after my own heart.
“Do you do this all the time?” I asked. “You can just nod if you want to.”
She turned the card over and wrote EVERY MONDAY.
I thanked her for the three-CD credit and left the store. Tomorrow was Tuesday, a much better day to pick out new CDs.
The next afternoon when we went for coffee, Janine wouldn’t shut up. She ta
lked nonstop about her poli sci classes, her family back in Seattle, the Hives concert she’d been to over the weekend. Turns out we both volunteered at the local PIRG office, canvassing and making phone calls for various consumer and environmental causes. She talked about how she’d been silent on Mondays for more than five years—a day to reflect without the distraction of speech. But after an hour and a half together, I came to the conclusion that the barrage of words Janine needed a weekly respite from was her own.
Still, she was adorable—great sense of humor, a slight stutter when she got excited, the most bizarre taste in clothes I’d ever seen. (She wore a yellow vinyl BMX jacket with splattered painter’s pants and cocktail swizzle sticks tucked into her streaked hair.)
Since I’d left Boston, I had barely gone out with anyone, but Janine seemed worth the risk. I asked her if she wanted to come over Friday night to watch a movie.
She did, then left three days later.
The next several weeks were filled with late-night conversations, hikes up Mount Sanitas, and silent Mondays. I walked her collie, Brady, on the nights she had to work. The last time I was this happy, I was sitting in my basement swing back home, composing Larry’s sermons. Now I was high on the mountains of Colorado and my first real girlfriend.7
“Come on! Come on!” Janine grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the Fox Theatre. The Samples were back in town and she didn’t want to miss one note.
Music was like oxygen to Janine; she couldn’t go more than a few minutes without it. She knew people at every concert site within a hundred-mile radius; she got tickets way before those babies hit Ticketmaster. And always the best seats. When she jumped up and down during a show, the look on her face bordered on someone witnessing a miracle. Lucky for me, her joy was contagious.
The simplicity of what made her smile was a welcome change from how much I’d always expected from the world. She loved to sit with Brady and watch The Planet’s Funniest Animals. Me? Not content till the world was at peace, till every worker earned enough to make a decent living. It was almost a relief to settle in after a day of classes to watch someone’s cockatoo walk across piano keys, trying to sing.
But even with our differences, we got along fine. I came this close to telling her about the whole Larry business but decided that was a piece of baggage no relationship could withstand.
Anyone who knew me growing up would look at her and marvel at the resemblance to someone important in my life—my no-longer-with-us mother.
Not just the dark hair and the big, loud laugh, but her open and slightly manic view of the world. Sometimes the similarities were scary. When Janine brought home CDs from the store, she might as well have lifted them from my mother’s album collection. Between the music and her retro clothes, the surge of memories almost knocked me across the room.
I felt like I’d come home. Except for one small thing.
Her favorite thing to do on Saturdays?
Shop.
These were the times I almost told her about Larry. Almost told her I’d had a Web site devoted to anti-consumerism, that thousands—then millions—of kids from around the world had joined me in my quest to be non-materialistic. That I’d kept my number of possessions down to seventy-five for almost four years now—didn’t she notice I wore the same clothes all the time? That I’d dropped out of society because I began to be consumed. That asking me to go shopping was like gnawing on a leg of lamb in front of a group of card-carrying vegetarians. That I just couldn’t do it!
At first I tried to reason with her: How could someone who volunteered ten hours a week for an activist organization spend her free time loading up on things she didn’t need? She’d say she earned her money and could decide how to spend it. She even felt that buying dresses at a vintage store was a form of recycling. I told her spending was spending; we even broke up twice because of our differing philosophies. But each time I left her apartment, the piece of me that still ached for some semblance of home begged me to call Janine back to patch things up. We always did.
So we reached a type of compromise: On those Saturdays I didn’t have to work in the bakery, she could drag me to her favorite stores.8 But I would not—under any circumstances—buy anything.
It was more difficult than I thought.
Here’s the part I’m almost too embarrassed to write about, that I’m revealing only in my quest to (a) understand myself better and (b) be honest with you.
I began to like going shopping.
Usually when I walked through the Pearl Street Mall,9 it was to enjoy the fresh air and the abundant opportunities to people watch. But once I actually went into stores, I realized how out-of-the-loop I was in pretty much every department of pop culture. So while Janine was trying on lipstick,10 I killed time by browsing until browsing became interesting in and of itself.
Some of the stuff was fun—T-shirts with witty sayings, aerodynamically designed kites, fountains that emanated tranquility.
The whole shopping experience was less painful than I thought it would be.
I was looking but not buying, an important distinction.
Yet it wasn’t the browsing that led to my downfall.
It was Janine’s thoughtful one-month anniversary present.
She walked into my bedroom carrying a large striped gift bag. Inside the bag were eleven CDs, straight from the late-night conversations we’d had about my mother’s musical taste. Jimi Hendrix, Joni Mitchell, Marvin Gaye, U211—all of whom contributed to my musical education. I thanked her profusely, then we stayed up all night listening to them. I was in aural nostalgic heaven, but one thought kept returning: You can’t keep these and stay at seventy-five possessions. You have to get rid of them.
But I couldn’t.12 I spent the next morning making a list of which of my old items to jettison. To keep the CDs, I’d be down to one pair of pants, three pairs of socks, two shirts, almost no books … .
And here is where I admit my crime, along with my deep sense of shame.
I kept the CDs.
And the rest of my possessions.
And that, fellow pilgrim, was the beginning of the end.
Ahhh, the physics of the downward spiral.
I mean, if you’re at eighty-six possessions, what’s a few more to get you to an even hundred? I’d been at seventy-five possessions for years, and where had it gotten me besides semi-deprived and out of touch with my peers?13
Advertising and consumerism creep up on you slowly, lulling you into thinking nothing is happening until it’s too late. Like staying at the beach all day without sunscreen; you don’t realize you’re burned till you’ve enjoyed what you thought was a fabulous day. Then, of course, you’re screwed.
It wasn’t long before I looked forward to accompanying Janine on her little outings to a vintage store or REI. And then, following the laws of physics, it was only a matter of time before gravity forced me to make my first purchases.14 The creativity I brought to justifying my new items was limitless. I needed that Gore-Tex windbreaker—didn’t it get chilly hiking in the mountains in the early evening? And if I had a few extra pairs of pants, I wouldn’t have to go to the Laundromat so often and could get more work done, right? The excuses and rationalizations for what I knew was excessive spending astounded me. It happened slowly, but it happened nonetheless. The final proof that I had completely abandoned all my principles was when I received my pre-approved credit card in the mail.15
Janine liked to talk about spaving money, a philosophy based on the theory that the more money you spent on sale items, the more money you saved. She’d march into my room with several shopping bags, bragging about how much money she’d spaved that afternoon. I’d re-wrap the items in their tissue and ask her how much she’d spent.
From the outside, I looked content and well-dressed.
Inside, I was dying—too depressed to even do my morning yoga.
Here’s what I thought about while I lay awake most nights: How can you take part in this vibrant culture of
ours and honor your principles? How do you balance the stimulation of the outside world with the tranquility of your interior landscape? Is that what life is—a constant tug-of-war between the external and the internal? And more important, have I become one of the people I despise?16
I guess the thing I thought about most was the formula for life’s happiness. It seemed to me there was a direct correlation between how happy (or unhappy) you were and how authentically you were living. I wasn’t being authentic to my beliefs, and it showed. But did that make me change my behavior, mend my so-called ways?
No.
I’m ashamed to say that I was so relieved to finally have a girlfriend that I continued to stuff my real feelings and beliefs into a metaphorical laundry bag stashed in the back of my closet.
Janine was worried.
“Mark, what’s wrong with you?”
Even though I’d been using the alias for months, I still had to remind myself to answer to the name Mark. I told her everything was fine.
“You’re not fine. You’re miserable.” She climbed into my lap and played with my hair. “This isn’t like you.”
I’ll tell you what isn’t me, I thought. It isn’t like me to be wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt with jeans that say Diesel across my ass. It isn’t like me to waste valuable Saturday afternoons inside stores that underpay their workers, to say nothing of the Asian slave laborers who made all this stuff. Of course it was like me to think it and not say it. That passive-aggressive, don’t-say-what-you-mean nonsense was buried in the DNA of the real me: Josh Swensen. And when I spotted Janine’s copy of Thoreau’s Walden on the table, I dove across the room to turn it over. My hero’s face staring out at me from the cover was too much to bear.
With every new purchase, I became more and more miserable. Instead of being honest with Janine, I did something cowardly, unthinkable.
I began to compare her to Beth.
Beth had haunted my psyche since sixth grade, why should she stop now just because we were two thousand miles apart?17 You would think that having a great girlfriend like Janine would dilute some of those Beth feelings, make her fade farther and farther into the background of my mind. But strangely enough, going out with Janine actually made my Beth-fascination worse. Beth would never make videotapes of her dog to send to a lame TV show. Beth would never yak on a cell phone while flipping through a rack of shirts at Urban Outfitters. These comparisons weren’t fair to Janine, but they ran through my mind like some lovesick ticker tape. And when December 5 rolled around, I had no choice but to succumb.
Vote for Larry Page 1