Being bathed in the crowd’s roar was one of the greatest moments of my life.
Until I realized the adulation was directed at Bono, who was walking toward me from across the stage. He shook my hand and hugged me; I waved to the not-paying-attention-to-me-at-all crowd and hurried off.
Bono started out by discussing the organization he’d founded called DATA.69 Then he motioned for Norah Jones to join him, Sting too. As the performers trickled in, they sat in with this hodgepodge of a band. Aerosmith hopped on the Boston/Portland shuttle and were there by noon. Moby set up a techno booth where kids got to use synthesizers and cut demo tapes. Eve ran a hip-hop karaoke station that was mobbed all day. Chris Rock flew in from New York to host. By the end of the day, the band on stage consisted of the most eclectic, imaginative group of musicians ever assembled in one place. And the best part? Watching Janine backstage with a look of sheer joy. There wasn’t another person loving the music more than she was.
As if it were possible to top that, Bono led the crowd in a chant of “202-456-1414!”—the phone number of the White House. He urged everyone at the festival to call and make their feelings known on everything from world debt to war. The all-star band wrapped up the night with a version of Neil Young’s “Keep on Rocking in the Free World” that blew the roof off the place.70 The crowd was a sea of signs—LARRY/BETH, peace symbols, and doves with branches. A day of music and sun transformed itself into a raucous peace rally,71 which Janine caught on video.
In the end, Larryfest2 was a giant success.
When I found Beth slumped against one of the makeshift rooms backstage, she looked fried.
“We have to talk about what happened today,” she said. “It could’ve been a disaster. We were lucky.”
“The question is, who sent the fax?”
Beth looked as if she were about to cry. “It wouldn’t be hard for either the Democrats or the Republicans to infiltrate our operation. Hell, a little bribe money would go a long way around here. Most of our staff is broke.”
“You’re not giving our volunteers and interns enough credit. They’re all working their butts off just because they believe in our cause. I can’t believe you’re being so cynical.”
“I don’t want to be,” Beth said. “But we have to admit someone is out to get us.”
It was hard not to think about another memory in this field last Larryfest. Waiting in line, toothbrush in hand, having a conversation with a friendly grandmother-type who would eventually destroy my life as I knew it. I scanned the crowd. Was betagold here again? Watching me at this very moment? Had she snuck into our headquarters early one morning and sent those faxes? Did she have people to help her—maybe a team? Were our opponents more threatened by our campaign than we thought? How far would members of the Establishment go to keep their giant slice of the Gross National Pie?
But as I looked across the field to the people pulling up tents and heading back to their homes across the country, I felt one thing—gratitude. We’d created something important, something real. When a young guy with a giant backpack spotted me and flashed a peace sign, I realized I was getting back more from the campaign than I was giving.
That thought almost offset the fact that we were being sabotaged, big time.
ELECTION COUNTDOWN
JUNE: ON THE ROAD—AGAIN
Our tour bus looked more like it belonged to a rock band than a presidential campaign. CDs, soda cans, comic books, makeup, and videogames littered the aisles. The mess—and how many possessions they represented—drove me out of my mind. After lots of nagging and impassioned pleas, I finally gave up.72 Beth didn’t seem to notice.
What she did notice, however, was Simon’s increasing popularity with the media. We all were happy with receiving mainstream coverage, but articles comparing Simon to Hugh Grant or describing Lisa as a “luscious lipstick lesbian” were not the kind of attention the campaign needed.
I looked out the bus window just in time to see a skein of Canada geese migrating in echelon formation. Traveling such distances is an enormous physical strain on the birds, but flying in a V lets them take advantage of the air from the bird in front of them. No such luck for the lead bird who has to wait for another in the flock to fly up and relieve him. Unfortunately, there was no such respite for me. The responsibility of guiding the rest of us to our destination sometimes seemed overwhelming and impossible.
Janine had joined us on the Albuquerque-to-Cheyenne leg, bringing along her videocamera to document our campaign. She ran down the aisle of the bus and collapsed into laughter next to me.
“Simon’s the best!” she said. “He’s singing ‘wasted away again in my gorilla suit’ at the top of his lungs.”
“Everyone on the planet knows it’s Margaritaville,” I said. “I think it’s all a giant put-on.”
“Oh, come on.”
Good old Janine, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt.
“He’s flying back to Boston after today’s speech,” she said. “We’re riding to the airport together.”
“I thought you were staying?”
“Brady’s acting up at the kennel. I’ve got to get back.”
“And Simon?”
Janine explained that he had to check in with his professor at Harvard.
I had been counting the days till Janine arrived, but now Beth was the one who would be around. Conflicting thoughts ricocheted through my head like hormonal pinballs. Beth/ Janine? Janine/Beth? I told myself I was being ridiculous. I was running for president; I had more important things to think about. Of course that didn’t stop me from fixating on the relationship dilemma all day.
When we stopped at a sandwich shop in Santa Fe before the rally, I was shocked at how many supporters arrived carrying LARRY/BETH signs and wearing Peace Party buttons. Same thing at the auditorium. Then it dawned on me.
“Flash mobs,” I told Beth. “They’re all on their cell phones.”
Sure enough, hundreds of kids were using their phones’ text capabilities to send each other messages on our whereabouts.
Simon reached the same conclusion. “People wonder how Prince Harry goes to buy a pair of shoes and there are suddenly a hundred screaming teenage girls at the store within minutes. Texting.”
“So this is good, right?” Beth asked.
“If you don’t mind the whole celebrity business.”73 I took the stage.
Top Ten Reasons to Vote for Me for President
1. Every workplace will have mandated recess. How can anyone be expected to make good decisions if you don’t spend any time outdoors?
2. Lobbyists will be outlawed. Corporations will be given tax credits equal to the amount of time and effort spent on mentoring.
3. No candidate can spend more than ten million dollars to get elected—no loopholes, no exceptions. Every candidate will be given the same access to television advertising free of charge.
4. World opinion does matter. I vow to work with the governments of other countries for solutions that make sense for all of us.
5. If kids under eighteen can’t vote, why do they have to pay taxes? From now on, people who don’t get to vote don’t have to pay.
6. Last time I checked, the airwaves belonged to the people, right? The government will no longer underwrite hatemongers who stir up negativity on their radio talk shows.
7. Ten percent of the defense budget will be spent on projects for peace.
8. To eliminate loopholes in the tax laws, all citizens pay a flat tax of 17 percent. Tax refunds are given only for time spent in community service.
9. Any country with human rights violations cannot do business with any U.S. corporation. No exceptions.
10. Since they’re getting free advertising, clothing companies with logos must pay people to wear their clothes.
My speech was followed by a terrific roar.74 Afterward, I shook hands with hundreds of students at the voter registration table. A group of Radical Cheerleaders kept up the momentum.
; “It’s time to clean house,” a young woman told me. “We need to get back to basics.”
“Don’t let them shut you up,” a guy my age shouted. “Keep up the good work!”
I talked to several more people before hiding behind some placards to catch Simon and Beth’s goodbye. I was happy to see there was much less groping than there’d been six months ago when I first saw them together.
When I turned around, Janine was watching me watching them. The sadness in her eyes pinched me with guilt.
“Call me,” she said. “Let me know how it goes in Wyoming.”
“You’ve been amazing,” I said. “I wish you could stay.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” She hugged me goodbye and climbed into the volunteer’s car with Simon.
I was loading the bus when someone came up behind me and covered my eyes. “Guess who?”
There was only one person who insisted on playing so many guessing games with me. “Peter?”
“Surprise!” He held up his garment bag. “Billy picked me up during your speech. I got sick of being at headquarters, wanted to hit the road for a few days and catch up on some work with you.”
Was this a cosmic practical joke? Beth was finally free for the night and Peter was here to work?
Peter dropped his bag when he saw the inside of the bus. “Josh, this isn’t professional!”
I told him I’d given up trying to organize the troops. He took over, handing out trash bags and paper towels. Maybe he should be our candidate.
At seven o’clock the next morning, Peter sat on the edge of my bed, shaking me awake.
“It’s a good thing you’re already lying down.”
I buried myself deeper into my pillow. “What is it—another lottery ticket?”
“That was peanuts compared to this. You ready?”
I sat up on my elbows, as ready as a person who’s slept only four hours a night for three months can be.
“Because of the bloggers and the flash mobs, yesterday’s speech is everywhere.”
“Good.”
“People all across the country are demanding change, demanding answers,” he said.
“It’s about time.”
“They’re also demanding a twenty-eighth amendment.”
“To lower the voting age to sixteen? People have been working on that for years.”
“No. To change the minimum age that a person can run for president from thirty-five to eighteen.”
“Get OUT of here!” I catapulted myself from the bed, suddenly charged with the pressure of 202 million eligible voters.
“Not because of me?”
“Of COURSE because of you! What do you think?”
“It’ll never get through the House. It’s not in their interest to pass it.”
“Every senator and congressperson’s phone is ringing off the hook. Their teenage constituents are demanding it.”
I climbed back into bed. “This will blow over by tomorrow.”
“Kids are involved, kids are voting. The people in Washington finally have to answer to them.”
“It needs to be ratified by two-thirds of the Senate and House, then three-quarters of the state legislatures,”75 I said.
“That’ll never happen by November,” Peter responded.
“Never in a million years,” I agreed.
Still, the gravity of the situation hit me like a truckload of cement. Not only was someone proposing an amendment to the Constitution, they were doing it because of us. But more important—much more—if the amendment passed in a reasonable amount of time, I could legally run. And if I could run, it was statistically possible that I could win.
I ran to the bathroom, missed the toilet, and threw up all over the tiled floor.
I thankfully cleaned up the mess before Beth walked in.
“How’d you manage without Simon last night?” I asked.
“Josh, don’t be a dope.”
But when Peter told her about the amendment, Beth went from wisecracking to catatonic within seconds. “Oh my God, oh my God.” She looked me in the eyes. “Is it wrong if I tell you I don’t want it to pass?”
“No, it’s not wrong. It’s honest.” I turned away from her gaze. (Not because I had just thrown up all over myself, but because of what I was going to say next.)
“Should we withdraw?”
“We’ve got so many people depending on us,” Beth said. “But forget it. The amendment will never happen.”
“It’ll die a quiet death. It was a nice gesture, though.”
I washed up, then sat on the bed while Peter brewed coffee in the tiny pot on the desk. Beth stood in front of the television, transfixed by the image on the screen. The we-interrupt-your-regularly-scheduled-program clip showed thousands of teenagers at the Capitol waving signs and banners.
WE WANT A SAY IN THINGS.
VOTE FOR AMENDMENT 28 OR YOU WON’T GET MY VOTE NEXT ELECTION.
WE WANT OUR GOVERNMENT BACK!
“This is more than a flash mob,” I said.
“Nothing flashy about them,” Peter added. “They’re organized and articulate.”
I was screwed.
ELECTION COUNTDOWN
JULY/AUGUST: CONVENTION SEASON
Logistically, Boston would have been the easiest city for the first annual Peace Party Convention, but it was already hosting the Democratic National Convention during the last week of July. So we moved southeast just a bit and held ours on the beach in Plymouth near the site where the Pilgrims first landed.76 I tried to block out the fact that the Sagamore Bridge was only a few miles away.
The normal pomp and circumstance of such an event didn’t apply to our “Peace Party Party,” which actually ended up more like a rave than a national political convention. Janine created amazing compilation CDs—each song bringing cheers from the crowd and building on the song before it. We had invited all the Larry/Beth volunteers and told them to bring their friends. Plus, every Peace Party candidate from across the country was in attendance. The crowd spilled out from under several tents onto the beach.
“I’m guessing four thousand people,” Beth said. “It’s incredible.”
I hated to interrupt the festivities with my “acceptance” speech, but knew it had to be done. “Testing one, two … testing.”
I spoke about the issues we’d been focusing on for months, but mostly I thanked all these committed, passionate people for their time and support. They were the ones changing the world, and they knew it too.
Four thousand people—give or take—cheered and partied into the night.
A few days later, Beth and I decided to sneak into the Democratic National Convention downtown to check out some of the competition.
It was as radically different from ours as you could get.
How are you supposed to believe a party that says it’s for the people, when its national convention is sponsored by corporations?
The Fleet Center showcased so many corporate logos, you’d think the Democrats were playing professional sports.77 In my mind, I ran through the speech I’d given a few nights before: I don’t want to vote for a candidate who’s endorsed by a corporation, do you? I want to vote for someone who’s fighting corporate greed, not sucking up to it.
The nametags might as well have read HELLO, MY NAME
IS_______ , CORPORATE LACKEY AND PUPPET FOR_______.
______________
FILL IN THE BLANK. But weren’t conventions created so delegates could come together and discuss ways to help constituents? (Or was I still being naive?)
Of course, the Republicans were just as bad. I’d read about then-Majority Whip Tom DeLay’s blatant pimping at the Republican National Convention in 2000. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was offering special-interest lobbyists different “packages,” charging from fifteen to a hundred thousand dollars for private meetings with the powers that be. It used to be that when politicians sold the public down the river it was behind closed doors. Now they were screw
ing us right before our eyes. All I could think of was Shemp from the Three Stooges going “nyaaah, nyaaah!” to the guys who chased him around the warehouse.78
“Do they think we’re blind?” Beth asked. “Or just incredibly stupid?”
“This is what we get when only a handful of people vote. We’re paying the price for years of inaction. It just means more work now, that’s all.”
“You’re such an optimist. People don’t give up this kind of power without a fight.”
We took our seats with the Massachusetts delegates, flashing passes two ex-Democratic interns had given us. The lineup of speakers was about as interesting as widgets going by on a conveyor belt.
“God, they’re insufferable. I feel like I’m in a death chamber being smothered with rhetoric gas,” I said.
Beth agreed. “I’m imagining them with tattoos and nipple rings underneath their suits. It’s the only way I can bear it.”
We got into an animated discussion about the electoral college with the guy sitting next to us. I told him that our rich, white, land-owning founding fathers hadn’t trusted blacks, women, the poor, or the young enough to let them vote, so they set up the current system.79 He said many people didn’t go to the polls on election day because they already knew how their state’s electoral votes would be cast. Beth argued that even though the system no longer worked, it would never be repealed because of the way it favored smaller states. Our private discussion was the only interesting part of the afternoon.
It was just a matter of time before our enthusiasm attracted a security person. When he realized who Beth and I were, he tried to escort us out.
“We have passes,” I said. “And every right to be here.”
“We’re not here to speak,” Beth added. “Just to listen.”
“Out!” The guard summoned four others to usher us toward the exist.80
Was the system so afraid of dissenting opinions that they’d violate someone’s civil rights? It suddenly became not only necessary but important to stay. Beth and I dug our heels in and grabbed the rail for support. We kicked; we screamed.
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