The Great Hobo Party

2004 Campaign

!!!Mark Hugo for US President!!!

"Will you please stand for the singing of the national anthems," the announcer's voice boomed throughout the Continental Airlines Arena.

I frowned. "Do I have to put my nachos down, now?" I whispered to Presidential Contender Mark Hugo.

He shook his head, sickened. "Of course you do, you unpatriotic scum bag."

I put down my nachos on the seat next to me and stood up. "If that fat little fucker from the row behind us snags even one of those nachos, so help me..." I muttered.

"Goddamn it!" Mark said as the music started, "Can't you stop worrying about your goddamn...waitaminnit...that's not the national anthem."

"Oh, Caaaah-nah-daaah," sang the Billy Joel lookalike who stood in the center of the arena.

"That's the goddamn Canadian anthem!" Mark roared. A few heads in our row turned and looked at him. "We're in up shit's creek without a paddle. Where were you when this happened? Ok, no time to place blame. We've got to shift gears, totally change the campaign. First I've got to get in good with Canada's Chieftan or Chief Consul, or whatever they have up there. Got to learn French. Think I took that in school..."

"Mark!" I tried to snap him out of his rant.

"What?" He nearly spilled his beer.

"Listen, Mark," I said. "The New Jersey Storms are playing a team from Vancouver, today."

Mark wiped his brow. "Thank Jesus. For a second I thought we'd been annexed..."

"Shh," said a guy from down the row. "They're singin' my tune then, eh?"

"That gap-toothed frog-lodyte... I oughta..." Mark bristled.

"Temper," I warned. "You're a presidential candidate. You have to behave accordingly. Speaking of which, thanks so much for smuggling in enough beer for the rest of us."

"Easy there, nacho-boy... So, when is the Unknown Hobo getting here?"

I looked at my watch. "He and his daughter should have been here about a half an hour ago."

"His daughter? He has a daughter?" Mark asked.

"Sure. Why wouldn't he?"

"I don't know. I mean, I've never even met the guy, I just figured, y'know... He's kind of an institution, not a person," Mark said.

"You mean like when you'd run into your elementary school teacher at the grocery store and just kind of freeze in shock because you never thought of them as somebody who shops or eats?" I asked.

"Uh..." Mark muttered. "Yeah, something like that."

"Here come the cheerleaders, again!" I yelled. Out onto the field of the arena came about a dozen scantily clad women. They were wearing bikini tops and hip-huggers, and they were doing cartwheels, and they were doing splits, and... "Whoo-hoo!" I yelled. "Here come the girls!"

"Uh, Tyler," Mark said. "Isn't that your girlfriend coming towards us?"

"Oh, shit," I muttered.

"Geez, Honey, you seem to be having a good time," Marlene, my girlfriend, said. "I didn't think that you even liked lacrosse. It couldn't have anything to do with those slutty-looking cheerleaders, could it?"

"Uh...I...y'see...I'm really not into the game, so...any added distraction kind of...I...I was told that I wouldn't be held accountable for my actions in the arena," I explained.

"Really?" Marlene asked with a grin. "Hi, Mark," she said, looking over my shoulder.

"Hi, Marlene," Mark replied, extending his hand and shaking hers like a born politician.

"Mark, have you met my Dad?" Marlene asked.

"No, I haven't," Mark said. He extended his hand to the massively tall fellow who walked up the row towards us. He had to be seven feet tall, just striding forward in his Nehru suit, with a flowing gray ponytail falling down to his waist. "A pleasure, sir," Mark said. Turning to me, Mark asked, "So when are the Unknown Hobo and his daughter getting here?"

"This is them, Mark," I explained.

"Holy shit!" screamed Mark. "You're dating the Unknown Hobo's daughter?!? That's like dating the Pope's daughter! Marlene is the Unknown Hobo's daughter?!?"

"Mark," the Unknown Hobo said, "Stop spinning your wheels and enjoy the game." He took his seat. "Oh, and where did you get that beer?"

Mark grinned a beatific grin. "My goodness, it is like being in the presence of greatness..."

The game of lacrosse is a brutal angry sport. The fact that its audience is mostly young families might seem a bit contradictory at first. However, when one goes to a game and sees all of the sideshow carnevalia and random stimuli tossed in, it becomes the staggering product of an unholy union. It's like the circus, the Super Bowl, and an acid trip all rolled into one. I couldn't keep it all straight, so I borrowed Marlene's Hello Kitty pen and pad to keep track of everything that happened. I think I may have been the first man using a Hello Kitty implement and pad to keep score and take notes at a lacrosse game. I'm the first who survived, at least.

As the cheerleaders rode into the arena on the backs of outlaw bikers for another dance number, and the DJ played the Ramones' "Bang on the Brat", Mark commented, "Man, it looks like they took a page from Vince McMahon's playbook."

"Yeah," I said. "It's kind of disgusting, isn't it?"

Mark smiled. "It's beautiful. This is what we need for our campaign."

"What? You mean hookers and bikers?"

"And dwarves!" the Unknown Hobo added. "Oh my!" We all turned to look at him. "What?" he asked. "Y'know, like The Wizard of Oz. Lions and Tigers and... Man, I can't believe they don't serve beer at this thing. You didn't smuggle in any more for the rest of us, Mark?"

Mark didn't hear the Unknown Hobo, though. He had that gleam in his eye that I've only seen when he's planning a political maneuver or getting horribly smashed. "Yeah," Mark continued. "We'll need beer. Lots of it, too. Motherfucker, we'll need lots of beer at my campaign rallies."

"Language, Mr. Hugo," I said. "A presidential candidate always carries himself in a presidential fashion."

Mark shook his head. "For fuck's sake, Tyler, we're at a lacrosse game discussing strategy. I think I can get away with saying 'fuck' and 'motherfucker'."

I nodded. "Well, you can say 'strategy' without stumbling, so you're a step ahead of our main opponent. Carry on?"

"Yes," Mark said, "We'll need a king hell amount of beer."

"Besides beer, what do you see as being present at one of your campaign events?" I asked.

"Ideally?"

"Ideally."

"Well," Mark said, "I think the Unknown Hobo might have had something with the dwarves."

"Thank you," said the Unknown Hobo. "I, too, am a firm believer in the presence of beer at whatever the hell it is that you're planning."

"They're planning a campaign event for Mark's presidential run," Marlene explained to her father. Marlene ran her finger around and around in a circle next to her temple - the international sign for 'cuckoo'.

The Unknown Hobo grinned. "I ran for President once," he said.

"Really?" Marlene asked. "What party?"

"Hmmm..." the Unknown Hobo ruminated. "I'm not sure we even had a name. Give me a minute..."

"Basically, I want this," Mark said, spreading his arms open wide towards the arena full of pyrotechnics and gap-toothed onlookers. "I want to have something so kitschy and visually staggering that folks can't help but associate me with whatever far flung fantasies they have. I want to be the man who makes their dreams come true. I want to be their candy man, their P.T. Barnum, their..."

"David Khoresh?" I asked.

Mark shook his head. "I was thinking more along the lines of Elmer Gantry."

"Okay," I said. "So, we've got 'beer' and 'dwarves'. Anything else?"

"I think he's talking about a bigger picture than a shopping list, dear," Marlene said.

"Honey," I said. "You can't buy dwarves."

"Once upon a time you could," Mark said. "And if you still could? Well, outlawing that would be part of my platform."

"That's a heck of a niche constituency," I commented.

"How about celebrity appearances?" Mark said. "We're living in a time when everybody's got waaay more than fifteen minutes of fame. I'm sure that we could find tons of folks to introduce each other, give testimonials, and so on."

"This is sounding more and more like the first Wrestlemania as we go along," I said.

"That's not a bad idea," Mark said. "How about we try to get some of the following to appear: Danny Bonaduce, M.C. Hammer, the guy from Greatest American Hero, Natalie from The Facts of Life..."

"Weren't we thinking of trying to get her to be your running mate?" I asked.

"Oh, brother," Marlene said.

"Was it the Subliminal Surrealist Party?" the Unknown Hobo asked himself. "The Pragmatic Utopianists? The Lonely Solopsist Party? Damn..."

The bikers came back in to do figure eights on the Astroturf and growl menacingly at the giggling cheerleaders. Mark grinned wildly. "That's it. They're it. We've got to recruit these guys."

"What?" I asked.

"I need an army of heavy dudes to travel around the country wearing not outlaw biker colors, but my face on their backs. I want this bizarre crippling image of me rolling through every town in this country. They won't fuck with folks, they'll just show 'em that there's a man about who's willing to strut his stuff, take names and kick some ass, just for them."

"You're starting to sound like Charlie Manson," I said.

"But where would we get a group of guys just like these ones?" Mark mumbled to himself.

"After the game...game...game..." the announcer roared, "join the bikers and cheerleaders at the Houlihan's on Route 1-9 in Elizabeth...beth...beth...for ribs and fun...fun...fun..."

"Was it Satan's Beefeaters?" the Unknown Hobo asked aloud. "Nah, they weren't much of a political organization...more of a gang, really...eesh..."

"Dude," Mark said, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"What? Recruiting outlaw bikers at the Houlihan's on Route 1-9 to be campaigners for your presidential bid?" I asked.

"You just want to go to meet the cheerleaders," Marlene said with a wink.

"I don't want to go," I said.

"Oh, come on," Mark said.

"No," I said. "They don't get to be outlaws without breaking some sort of law. I think I'll pass."

"You honestly think that the guys on bikes down there are really outlaws?" Marlene asked.

"Well, no, I guess... I mean, they don't even serve beer here."

"But I bet they do at Houlihan's," said the Unknown Hobo. "We're going."

"We are not going to recruit bikers. That's final," I said.

"Maybe, Tyler," said Mark, "But we will have beer, and beer is what fire's the furnace of my political mind. That and pork products, both of which are no doubt present in abundance at this place called Houlihan's..."

"Yeah," said the Unknown Hobo. "And I hear that that's where the cheerleaders are going, too. Come on! Hyah, mules! Hyah!"

After the game (a horrible crushing defeat for our hometown heroes), we caravanned down to the Houlihan's on Route 1-9, near where they split into Routes 1 and 9. This is Thunder Road, real Springsteen country. If there was going to be a place where we could form a blue-collared industrial machine for Mr. Hugo, I had thought this would be the place. As Mark and I pulled into the Houlihan's parking lot, though, our hearts sank. "Is that a bike on a trailer?" Mark asked. "One of these 'outlaws' trailers his bike?"

I clucked my tongue. "Kind of takes away from the whole Easy Rider thing, huh?" I asked.

We pulled into the lot, where we saw little kids playing with the bikers, who suddenly seemed less tough. A guy who hadn't been circling around in the arena pulled his bike up to the crowd, and cut the engine. "Yes, yes!" he said into his cell phone, "If the stock hits eighty, then sell half my shares. I want to put a buy order in though, if it peaks back up to one hundred. All right? All right. Ciao, baby."

"Ciao?" asked Mark.

"He wasn't with the crew in the arena, Mark," I said.

Marlene and the Unknown Hobo walked up to us. "Can you believe this fucking circus?" the Unknown Hobo asked. "It's more PG than the arena was."

"Well, they are gathering at a Houlihan's," I said. "I mean, can you think of a more watered down middle-Americanized version of a roadhouse eatery?"

"TGI Fridays," said Marlene.

"Touche, O daughter of the Unknown Hobo," Mark said. "I'm a-thinking we ought to get the hell out of here, though. Know anywhere where there's some good grub?" he asked.

We stood around for a moment or three in the parking lot. This wasn't any of our neighborhoods. I used to live a bit south of there, though, in South Amboy - one time Guinness Book record holder for the most amount of bars in a square mile. God bless that town... There were so many great divey joints there and in the vicinity, and... "I've got it," I said. "Follow me. There's a road house on Route 34, just south of Matawan that I think might be to our liking."

Once more, we piled into our cars and headed further on down the road. The oil refineries and light pollution of Middlesex County faded as we passed on into rustic Monmouth County. Old Monmouth - that hodge-podge of beautiful country homes and holes in the ground filled with tobacco juice and anger... Just south of a dilapidated farm, on the East side of the road sat "Maude's". Two rows of Harleys and American-mades sat out front, illuminated in the flickering light of a Yvengling sign. We parked our cars on the far side of the lot, and walked over.

As we neared the entrance, the rickety door flew open and a long-haired stranger went flying out on to the gravel. "And stay out, you lousy cornholing mother-jumper!" roared the bouncer. He glared at us. "ID, please! Oh...well...you guys look harmless. Come on in."

Mark happily bounded up the concrete steps and took a seat at the bar. "Four Yvenglings and four shots of Jack Daniels, please!" He grinned ear to ear. "They've got Willie Nelson on!" he whispered to me. "I think we may have found that last stronghold of America, my good man!"

For a moment, I thought we'd have trouble. "I'd like some French fries," the Unknown Hobo said. Everything stopped. People looked up from their frothy, hoppy beverages.

"What did you say?" asked the bartender. I hadn't noticed until he opened his mouth that his teeth were all lined with silver.

"Oh, shit," said Marlene.

"Oh, shit," I said.

Things were silent. The bartender leaned across the bar to breathe in the face of the Unknown Hobo. "What was that that you wanted?"

"I think my friend said he wanted some Freedom fries, Mack!" bellowed Mark, from the end of the bar. He leaned over to me, put his hand next to his mouth, as if to keep his comments clandestine, all the while forgetting to lower his voice.

"You just got to know how to talk to your people. Give it a new name and it's a whole new animal. Politics, my man." Mark looked up and down the bar, stealthily, completely unawares as to how much attention he had attracted. "The food should be good though, I mean look at the size of these people."

The bartender glared for a moment and everything seem to stop. Suddenly he grinned and started pouring beers. "You're a crazy motherfucker, but when you're right, you're right. We got the best fucking ribs in the state."

"I've found my people," Mark whispered. A small tear glinted in the corner of his left eye. "I'm home..."

THE MARK HUGO ARCHIVE
The Article That Started it All - Mark's Gubernatorial Campaign Announcement.

Bad Night in The Bunker - Strategy Gone Awry.

Strike A Pose - Image Consultancy in the Post-Carville Era.

An All Time Low.

A Tape Transcript.

Mark's Concession Speech.

The Beginnings of Mark's Presidential Campaign.

We hope to have more insights from the inner circle of this, our last best hope for a president, every other week. 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 President '04 Campaign