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Young, Dumb, and Full of Shit
By Chris Fara1
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Stephen
Glass, the New Republic's prodigy turned liability, cobbled a
number of stories that existed solely within his fabulist imagination.
From Lewinsky conventions to high rolling hackers, he concocted
the type of nonsense that dinner table stories are made of. And
while Glass may have partly avoided the
research dynamic in a scheme to save time, any good writer has to question
his
inability to discover true stories that would push the same boundaries
that his fiction did. His piece on young Republicans strikes a particular
gong, since he chose to lie about going behind enemy lines at a CPAC gathering.
It's questionable why anyone would cook a story about America's conservative
youth, particularly when these guys host open monthly meetings in every
state with an electoral vote.
The homeless guy in front of Bowlmor Lanes had an empty cup several Tuesday evenings ago. His lack of change was perhaps a reflection of the number of "compassionate" conservatives that passed him up on their way to New York's monthly Young Republicans gathering; in fact only five lone Manhattanites showed up for October's incestuous summit, myself and another drunken operative included. With two broke, undercover liberals strategically mooching beer from three generous, ignorant neocons, the University Place cardboard box demographic didn't stand a Dukakis chance in a Bush Hell.
I find that Republicans are even more vile up close than they appear to be on Fox news. They carry with them a petulant stench, but the type that you smell in your conscious rather than under your nose. The problem is hardly a lack of hygiene - as I would assume that the average Repub races through shower products at a rate unfathomable to most Dems - but rather the shallow bullshit that unfortunately lacks the depth to go over anyone's head.
The
conversations were relatively elementary - meaning that someone with
absolutely no knowledge of Republican policy could assimilate into the
crowd
(assuming that they're white, male, well dressed, Rolexed, and straight).
My
cover wasn't watched closely, I assume as a result of the fact that the
other attendees realized my comrade and I could have kicked everyone's
asses - or at least bolted to Union Square for back up. By the end
of the night I'd questioned so many recent Republican decisions that only
a contingent in dire need of heads would have trusted my elephantitus.
The sparse attendance was surprising. This is the same party that gloats in its ability to form like Voltron and master the universe like He-Man. I showed up looking for striped ties and solid shirts, and found nothing but a pair of lonely unfortunates waiting by the bar. One of them proudly stuck out her tits to showcase an "I Love GWB" t-shirt, leading me to believe that she was impressed with her own ability to have found her way from New Jersey to Manhattan. The concept of openly displaying affection for George Bush so close to NYU was baffling, but her description of the shirt was enough to catalyze my Republican front.
As it turned out, she was the sole designer, producer, and distributor of the I Love GWB clothing line. They've got bibs for the babies and baby-tees for the girls, all of which can supposedly be accessed at IHEARTGWB.com. Not surprisingly, the Manhattan-based conservative couture has just one customer, a web site "under construction," and a photocopied business card. Elizabeth, who proudly claims IHEARTGWB as her brainchild, thrives on attacking the physical deformities of Democratic hopefuls. Which explains why I got such a howl for my comparison of John Kerry to Sponge Bob Square Pants.
The rest of the posse was even more predictable
than their beloved leader's
incompetence. Like most young scum, the attendees at this particular
event
hailed from either ignorant or selfishly rich households in towns where
either Poison or Kenny G could still sell out a concert. It remains
a mystery how this country's wealthiest and poorest contingents have used
intolerant politics to suffocate those of us in the middle of America's
socioeconomic sandwich. The large scale result of this teamwork
is a Christ-crazy millionaire in the White House. On a smaller scale,
I'm stuck hanging with low-lives and debutantes at a downtown bowling
alley.
Whether they're from Darien or North Dakota, New
York Young Republicans have
more in common than a lack of political know-any. Each one is disturbingly
obsessed with the clear reality that they're severely outnumbered in this
"tragically liberal" sanctuary. One young Midwesterner
had a cute anecdote about her disappointing arrival at Northeastern University
as an undergraduate. She had come east to be around "aristocratic
types," but found Boston to be full of nothing but "white trash."
Among the other bombs that she had no remorse in dropping were,
"I'm just proud that we have a President who wouldn't get a blow
job in the oval office," and "I'm convinced that Eminem is really
a Republican." Now there's a presidential candidate who would
put a couple of interns to good use.
Undressing "disguised" conservatives is a favorite activity among the neos. Marshall Mathers wasn't the only one called out, and debates over Dennis Miller and Chris Rock's grand old politics went on through the night. The smarter of the two women went as far as to claim Miller as the only Republican comic, even though his older material didn't meet their value quota. A notion so ignorant is typical of a group whose celebrity muscles consist of Frasier and the Terminator. Hopping on the post Monday Night Football Millermobile is like catching up with Jim Carrey at the Majestic, but with a disturbing fuck you twist.
And the bandwagon is what a lot of these nerds are after (Not pocket protectors nerds, but the socially awkward and vigilantly profound type that reside deep in the loser section of every high school lunchroom). Just like cultish groups with liberal causes, little republicans are largely in it for the look. The major difference between the two lies in the motivation, and what besides aesthetics brings them together to change things (or keep them the same). Even the most irritating liberals are in it for the cause, whether they're spray painting fur coats or planting grass roots in impressionable minds. Nobody's working for PETA to bulk up their portfolio, but GOP boot camp brings people together to start thinking about something they'll need to protect a few years down the line. United in selfishness they stand.
The next gathering is at the Auction House Bar, an Upper East Side conservative sanctuary that's had a "we don't sell French products" sign up since the boycott began. As courageous as it may be to tell a corporate client that you won't be pouring French brew in the near future, I'll be sitting out the next Republican drink tank. My local dive bar has enough stool-side preachers to last me until the next time that I blow enemy lines, and they could probably even get my girlfriend a decent glass of Bordeaux.
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Chris FARA1 has written for various underground hip-hop magazines, as well as some of the more audacious New York independents willing to publish his work. He can be reached at FARA1ANDONLY@netscape.net.
© 2003 Me Three