Bad Night in the Bunker

We here at the Great Hoboes are trying to give you as accurate a glimpse inside the political machine as possible. What follows is a tale of one of our epic strategy sessions for the Mark Hugo gubernatorial campaign. It's not all pretty, but we can guarantee that none of us has accepted soft money, and we will never launch a negative TV ad. Primarily because we can't afford to due to a lack of soft money, but such is the political world...

The Bear and I were soaking wet when we arrived at The Bunker - NYS gubernatorial candidate Mark Hugo's parental basement apartment in Connecticut. The northeast has been pretty lucky this year - every hurricane has petered out en route to us. Sure we miss the winds, but we sure as fuck get the rains. Ho, ho, what a weekend to have a wiper blade go on you.

I'm never sure what to expect when I arrive at Mark's. On occasion, there's been drunken debauchery raging like...well...a hurricane. More often than not, though, I go in expecting some sort of Mummenschantz play unfolding and instead find some comforting domesticity. And, after all, isn't that what we really want from a gubernatorial candidate? An exterior of madness and "don't-you'dare-fuck-with-me" attitude, coupled with an inner warmth and stability. God knows Hillary Clinton could learn a thing or two from this man...

This trip to the Bunker wasn't one of those warm fuzzies, though. The gubernatorial candidate was standing on a chair in his basement, holding what looked like a Franklin Mint replica of Excalibur, menacing some darting rodent on the ground. "Jeeeeeeezus!" he bellowed, "What the fuck is that thing? Can everybody else see it, too?" He was wearing a Davy Crockett Cap and a Guinness t-shirt. His official portrait artist, Great Hobo resident illustrator Jacob Chabot, sat off to the side, nonchalantly sketching as the final scene from some wild western unfolded in Mark's parents' basement.

"I see it," the Bear muttered, and he dove past a broken barcalounger in pursuit.

"What's going on?" I asked Jacob.

Jacob shrugged. "Mark's been sitting around mixing up Pat O'Brien's Hurricane Mix and Old Crow all night long. At some point or another a possum or wolverine or something crept in the open garage door, and he's been playing Great White Hunter ever since."

"It bit me!" shrieked the Bear.

In a flash, Mark was off of the chair, and alongside the Bear on the floor, poking under his couch with the faux antique sword. "Take that, you pervert!" he roared.

"Did you get it?" asked the Bear.

"Oh, yeah," Mark breathed, "I skewered the rabid little fucker real good...I..." he pulled his sword out from under the couch and realized that all he had done was skewered his Davy Crockett cap, which had fallen off during the struggle. "Shit," he whispered. Getting up off his hands and knees, he collapsed on the couch. "Do you see it around anymore?" he asked.

We all looked over our shoulders and along the floor. "No," the Bear said, "It must have gone back outside during the commotion."

Mark stood up and nodded thoughtfully. He moseyed over to the garage door and closed it. "Do you see, Mr. Carey?" he asked me. "When I am presented with a crisis, I handle it effectively. I'll make an excellent governor. I can just smell the power..."

"Handle it effectively?" I asked. "You nearly cut Bear's hand off! And all this power talk... You're starting to sound like Tom Golisano!"

Mark held up his hand and sniffed the air. "You smell that?" he asked. "That's riblets. I love the smell of riblets in the morning."

Jacob looked at his watch and commented, "It's 8:15 PM. We're missing The Simpsons."

And with that, we all scurried to the kitchen, where Mark had left a few bags of frozen riblets baking on sheets in the oven, in expectation of our arrival. We filled our glasses with soda and beer and crowded around the TV to watch Homer's pratfalls and Bart's catcalls.

After dinner, things got serious.

"So, explain this to me again," Mark said, adjusting his pith helmet and pouring himself another shot. We were now sitting in the basement once more. I was at his computer, working on a speech he was to give to a group of ironworkers in New York City. Okay, that's a lie. They were construction workers. And it was more like Plattsburgh than New York City. And while they were construction workers, they were all out of work. You might even call them migrant laborers. Mark was going to give a very clever, seemingly extemporaneous speech to a group of migrant laborers.

"Explain what?" I snapped. "It's simple. On Thursday, we'll drive out to a street corner in Plattsburgh, early in the morning, where migrant laborers wait for pick ups to go to various work sites. You'll just saunter up, hand out some cups of coffee and start talking."

"But this speech is in Spanish. I don't speak Spanish."

"Aw come on, you'll just memorize it phonetically. Like William Shatner did for that all Esperanto Shakespeare film he did."

"And you're sure these guys are all registered voters?"

"Well...uh..."

"Hi-yoooooo!" roared Jacob, doing his best Ed McMahon.

I hastily backtracked. "I'll double check the market research statistics and..."

"Market research statistics?" Mark asked. "Where are these research statistics?"

"I...I'll check with my contacts in Albany."

"You mean that guy who bartended for us when we stopped over on that trip to Ontario?" Mark asked.

"He's a font of information, Mark. I keep telling you that. He's got his finger on the state's pulse."

"Stop fidgeting," Jacob said. "I've almost got this."

"Am I going to look like Superman? I want the picture to look like Superman..." Mark explained. "This picture will be up in every courthouse in NY after I'm elected!"

"It probably is already..." I muttered. I printed the speech and handed it to Mark.

"You're sure this is proper Spanish?" Mark asked.

"Reasonably," I responded.

"Buenos Dias, senors y senoras!" he cautiously read. "Me llamo Mark Hugo y estoy el Gubernatorial Candidato de los Grande Hoboes de Nueva York!" Mark was silent for a moment and read ahead, flipping pages quickly. "Dude," he said, "This is gold..."

Vaya con Dios, Governor-to-be Hugo.

We hope to have more insights from the inner circle of this, New York's last best hope for a great governor, quite soon. In the meantime, please email your support and suggestions to: tyler@greathoboes.com. Remember, vote early, and vote often!

Tyler M. Carey
Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, The Great Hoboes of New York
Apparent Campaign Manager, Mark Hugo for Governor Campaign
October 2, 2002