NEW HAMPSHIRE — Tuesday night the wind was whistling ferociously through the streets of Concord. The skin beneath my eyes turned to rubber like pudding in a refrigerator and it was hard to blink. I plodded on step by step towards the auditorium where 1960s radio mainstay Carole King was performing a “victory concert” for John Kerry. I had never really had much use for Kerry or King, but after walking a couple blocks in the subzero temperatures, I was warm to the idea of seeing them, together at last.
As I came banging in through the rattling theater door, an usher silently herded me into a room filled with college-aged Kerry volunteers. They stood around a long rectangular table, gabbing away. I walked up to the nearest young woman, who, despite my presence, soldiered on in her discourse with another volunteer.
“I love Brown University,” she declared, eyes wide, hands on her hips. “The library there is super nice, and in one of the restrooms, there is just this amazing feminist art. Have you ever seen it? It is just, literally, awesome.”
One of the other volunteers pointed me out to her, and she flashed the winning smile that no doubt landed her the job on the campaign. I told her I was with The American Spectator and was there for the event.
“Cool,” she said. “Senator Kerry isn’t here yet. The press have their own awesome little space. I’ll find someone to bring you down there.”
The girl skipped off to chat with another staffer, who returned in her place.
“Sorry, this is a closed event,” he said.
“But she just said someone would take me …”
“Yeah, well, we have to deal with fire codes like everyone else,” he said, with a bit of an edge.
“Can I buy …”
“Sold out,” he cut me off, and walked away.
I walked out the door just as the Real Deal Express pulled up, so I decided to go above Mr. Nasty Staffer’s head. Kerry, popped out of the bus with his expressionless wife clinging to his side like a barnacle on a ship.
“Senator Kerry,” I said, preparing to make my case. “I came to cover this event…”
Kerry looked at me, looked away, and then said to no one in particular, “I’m freezing my ass off.”
A staffer smirked at me on the way by and a moment later I was alone on the street again.
A man of faith in a godless age is hitting Americans where it hurts.
Mr. and Mrs. American Spectator Reader, let P.J. O’Rourke talk sense to your kids.
In Britain, defending your property can get you life.
The debacle of this president’s administration is both a cause and a symptom of the decline of American values. Unless Congress impeaches him, that decline will go on unchecked. An eminent jurist surveys the damage and assesses the chances for the recovery of our culture.
It won’t take long for conservatives to scratch this presidential wannabe off their 2008 scorecard.
The American Christmas, like the songs that celebrate it, makes room for everybody under the rainbow. Is that why so many people seem to be hostile to it?
Was the President done in by the economy, or by the politics of the economy?