Hot Flashes From The Campaign Trail: But really, it's my son Nicholas Brown
Two point five million. Now let's put it upside down with exclamation marks around it because nobody does emphasis like the Spanish: ¡TWO MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND VOTES! That's the mark Rock the Vote broke this last Tuesday. We have registered two-and-a-half million voters online and in person. Amazing. The registration deadlines have mostly passed by now, but two-and-a-half million new registrations mean that a whole lot of young new voters will make it to the polls. They may make the difference in this election.
It's been 45 days now that we have been on the road and nowhere is it more measurable than in our waistlines. We have, to put it gently, become a touch portly. Perhaps pleasantly rounded or festively plump. We have, in short, gained some weight. This isn't surprising. With some few exceptions, we usually stop in restaurants where you have to request silverware; the toast choice is between 'white' and 'Texas;' ranch dressing is served with your soup; and they would be happy to fry your salad if you asked.
Between stops, we keep ourselves well nourished with that same combination of jerky, soda, snack chips, and candy that has given long-haul drivers their robust good health. To supplement this diet, we encourage a strict regimen of no exercise. I myself do not do pushups every morning and I know that my sister, Willa, and the other members of the crew have made it a habit to get up early every morning in order not to jog, bike, or swim. It's difficult to maintain such total indolence with a schedule as full as ours, but somehow we manage.
We've reached that point in our road trip where our daily routine no longer astonishes us. We get out of bed at whatever wretched hotel is housing us for the evening, meet in the lobby for straight-from-the-plastic-wrap danishes and ten-day-old hard-boiled eggs, then split into one of two vans or the bus. The highway between places is beginning to look the same and even the places have started to meld together.
It's not altogether dissimilar from what the national press corps must feel. The reporters get on the plane, check the schedule to see where they're headed, get off and are herded into a press area for an event that looks awfully similar to the last event. The candidate repeats his stump speech almost word for word. The reporters struggle to find something that distinguishes this speech from the last one. Then they send a piece to their editors and hop on the plane to do it all over again.
I knew reporters on John Edwards' plane in 2004 who made chalk marks on the front wheel of the plane and then put $5 each into a cash pool. Whoever had the mark closest to the tarmac upon landing at the next stop won the pool. Plane-wheel roulette was the most exciting moment of most stops they made.
So thank god for rock stars and young people. Currently, we are doing concerts with Sheryl Crow, Santogold, and the Beastie Boys. And Jack Johnson, who is -- and I say this as a confident heterosexual male -- a total dreamboat.
These are heavy hitting bands. More so than most we have dealt with. The bus tour crew has not quite adjusted to dealing with major celebrities. We tiptoe past the Beastie Boys and stand staring at a spot near-but-not-too-near to Sheryl Crow. Yesterday, one member of our crew drove the Beastie Boys to lunch. He sat outside the restaurant while they ate. No one told him they already had a ride home from their manager. He just kept waiting in his van. They are terribly famous. He didn't want to disturb their famous lunch. He assumed famous lunches take longer than everyday lunches. So he waited for three hours before we called to tell him the band had left. This is how our brains have deteriorated. Our basic logic functions are melted away by the presence of big musicians. But we are acclimating slowly. We better. It's getting late. Five days left.
