This is fiction. Once again, this is fiction. Mr. Hugo is a larger than life figure, and this story grew in the telling from a hint of an idea, to a full blown story, to the rampaging bizarro homage to Dr. Thompson that you see below. We'll never say what's true and what's not. Well, maybe. I mean, buy us a few beers and we'll see what happens.

Black eyes...pin-up queens...engine lights...cocktails at Friendly's...opening the party at the Hynes Convention Center for Senator Kerry...failed transit in and around the city that made fried dough famous...Mark's greatest cosmic freakout ever...The city that begat Aerosmith meets its match...A campaign manager on the run?

There he was - our last best hope for president - drunk off his ass, leaning out the window of a train car, singing "Conjunction Junction." Had Mark been in motion, on an Amtrak train to New York, this wouldn't have been nearly as embarrassing, but there we were, on the floor of Boston's Hynes Convention Center, at the annual American Rail Lines Expo. Mark had climbed into a prototype first class porter car that Grumman had on display. Security had him cornered, but he was fending them off with a fire extinguisher. ("Jesus, bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing - intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out. The weasels were closing in. I could smell the ugly brutes. Flee." - Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.) As I shook my head, waiting for my career to officially end, I wondered how I had gotten here.

"You expected somebody else?" I asked.

"No," Mark whined, "It's just...look at those two... They're slicker than dicks in a whorehouse!"

I laughed at Mark's simile. "I doubt that 'slick' is a word that has ever appeared in a sentence with John Kerry's name. The same probably goes for whorehouse."

"We're doomed."

"Huh? Why?"

"Kerry's got Edwards, and all I've got is Karl. Edwards is all charming and youthful..."

"Karl's about fifteen years younger than Edwards, Mark."

"Little Eddy is known as the best stumper the Dems got. The only thing my veep is known for is the time that he kicked a man in the balls for no good reason."

"And that's just the kind of man we need in Washington, Mark!"

Mark nodded sagely. "So, tell me more about this tradeshow..."

My heart sank. I remembered the last business trip that Mark had tagged along on. It was during his failed gubernatorial campaign. I was working in healthcare publishing at that time, and was headed to a nursing conference in Santa Fe to sell boxes of pamphlets - those disgusting ones that tell you how to self-diagnose all sorts of skin ailments; it was the worst job I ever had. Mark was going to enjoy the sites. Unfortunately, that included having playing naked Twister in the hotel lobby at four in the morning with a bunch of the nurses and some hippies who he had picked up in my rental car, just outside of Taos.

I was reliving how I thought I'd lost my job at that point in my life when I finally heard what Mark was saying. "Supplies! We're going to need supplies!" He was busily running around his bedroom, grabbing all the half-empty bottles of booze. As I began to object to his joining me, I saw him begin to funnel all of the bottles into an empty plastic gallon milk container. The dark brown concoction of whisky, tequila, stale beer, and Bailey's was nauseating to behold. "This isn't going to turn out well," I thought, but I was too weak to object. What was the worst that could happen? Nude twister again? Heck, my boss never even found out about that, last time.

As we drove up, Mark sipped his milk jug with a plastic straw. He frequently offered me some, but I think I was already too staggered with fear to add alcohol (let alone while driving) to the mix. "Y'know what I'm gonna do when I get up there?" Mark asked me. I trembled to think. "I'm going to look up some of those Suicide Girls. Y'know, the nakked goth chicks with the nakked website. Heh heh. 'Nakked' - that's a funny way to say 'Naked'. Heh heh. I wanna meet the one who paints a black eye on herself with eye makeup."

"Most of the Suicide Girls are in the Northwest, Mark, and I doubt any of them would want to respond to your emails, even if there were a bevy of them in Boston."

"Bevy beantown Boston... Wow, man. That was like poetry." Mark giggled some more, and sipped at his zombie. This was the man I was backing for President. "Seriously, we should call Karl when we get to Boston." He was rambling now. Nothing was connecting at all.

"But, he lives way the fuck out in Western, Massachusetts, Mark. Nowhere near Boston."

"Come on, Karl loves to party!" Mark said.

"And kick people in the nuts," I thought...

Checking into the hotel was easy. I left Mark, now quite asleep/unconscious, in the parking garage, while I handled things. After I'd dropped my bags off, I went downstairs and got the poor fella. I left him, half-asleep, on the extra bed, and went downstairs to get some coffee. It was now after midnight, but I'm a midnight coffee drinker. Believe it or not, it helps me sleep. When I returned to the room, the deadbolt was across the door. I heard Mark groaning inside. "Mark? Are you okay?" I asked.

"Is that you? Or are you one of the wee folk?!?" Mark bellowed. I was certain that everyone on our floor heard him. I saw Mark's eye come to the gap in the door. "Phew. It is you. Okay, come on in."

Entering the room, I saw that what had been a perfectly tidy hotel room a mere ten minutes earlier was now completely disarrayed. Sheets were everywhere. A pillow was floating in the tub. Somebody, well obviously Mark, had poured the mini-bottles of shampoo in the toilet. At least, I hope that's what that was. "What the fuck is going on, Mark?" I asked.

Mark sat on the edge of what I had wanted to be my bed. That is, until he had dumped a bucket of ice on it. "Jesus. Did you see that bathroom? It's got tiny soaps, tiny shampoos, tiny towels, and I just found a tiny complimentary bottle of water on the bed stand. Goddamn it, Tyler, they gave us a room that's infested with leprechauns! And it looks like they've been drinking out of wee little bottles. I don't want to be defenseless when they return. I'll stay up." It was obvious who had been drinking from the wee little bottles scattered around the mini bar.

Shortly after that comical but deranged outburst, Mark fell asleep in one of the armchairs, his feet up on the AC, looking out the window at the Charles River. When I awoke in the sunlight about seven hours later, he was in the exact same position, but now he was wearing the free shower cap that was in the bathroom - probably the last of the freebies, ruined.

I got up and showered, without soap, as it had all been whittled into tiny unusable chunks. While I got dressed, I told Mark that I was going to the Friendly's downstairs to get some breakfast, and that he could come if he wanted to. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," he said, rising and putting clothes on without opening his eyes.

Inside the Friendly's, I ordered the 2-2-2 breakfast - two eggs, two pancakes, and two pieces of the breakfast meat of my choice. I decided to wash this down with some OJ and coffee, and an extra side of hash browns. Living on the company's dime, even if it is just at diners and the like, is grand. Mark decided on a liquid breakfast. Why stop now?

Mark eyed the menu, skeptically. "I'd like to just see the wine list," he said.

"Uh, sir," the waitress said, "this is a Friendly's."

Mark sighed. "Fine. May I please see the wine list?"

She looked at me, very concerned. "Uh...well...we're..." She looked at me again. I shrugged. "Not allowed to serve wine before noon," she said, trying to end the situation right then and there.

Mark nodded. "I see...I see...okay...then...I'll have...a glass of OJ and one egg over easy."

"No toast or nothin'?"

"Nah, I had a big supper," Mark said, still belching up some of that cocktail of the damned. Following the burp was a stench that slowly moved around the table like fog over a swamp. The waitress moved on.

"What're you talking about?" I asked. It was only then that I realized that I was standing outside my hotel room, and there was a cacophony of carnality inside.

"Well, whatever floats your boat, just don't put it on the company credit card." He then guffawed. "Wait'll I tell the guys about this. Hoo hoo!"

There was indeed the sound of raw ape-like sex coming from my room. I tried the door, but the deadbolt was across. I pounded like a maniac, but as there was just as much pounding going on on the other side, my pleas went unanswered. Furious but at a loss, I went downstairs and up the block to get supper on Newbury Street. A fine meal of pad thai and a few Sapporos later, I headed back upstairs to try my luck. If the door was still bolted, I planned on getting security, having them break down the door, and then denying any relation to the man cavorting in my hotel room. Instead, there was no more bizarre sound coming from the other side of the door. It was absolutely silent inside as a matter of fact. I tried my key, and the door creaked open.

The room was dimly lit by candles placed all about the room. Housekeeping had obviously done a serious clean up job. I hope that Mark had been around when they came, and tipped them generously. I sniffed in the aroma of the room. "Lemon," I muttered to myself. Rounding the corner, I saw Mark laying "nakked", as he would say, on the bed. Sitting on top of the radiator was an old woman who looked like Estelle Getty from the Golden Girls. She had a pad of some sort on her lap, and pencils and pens scattered about the top of the AC. My copy of The Big Lebowski soundtrack that I'd brought along was playing softly in the background. I sighed, and got both of their attention. "It's been a long fucking day, and I just want to go to bed. Can you...can you two just..." It then occurred to me that Mark had been having sex with Grandma Moses on one of the beds in here just moments before, and that I had to guess which one before I turned in for the night. "Mark...this is just two much, can you..."

"My names Dolores, toots," said the old lady, extending a wrinkled liver spotted hand. "My friends call me 'Doll'. So Mark says you run a publishing company?"

"Uh...no, I sell contracts for a prin-"

Mark cut me off. "Yep, he publishes art books, Doll, and I'm sure he'd be more than happy to publish a book of your prints. Right, Tyler?"

'Doll' spoke up. "That's great, hon. Y'see, I do nude portraits of Justin Timberlake, and this lil' fella here looks just so much like him that I had to sketch him."

I nodded. "Uh huh...I see. Very good. Say, Mark? Could I see you outside for a moment?"

"Hon, he's busy posin' for me right now," 'Doll' informed me. "He's the closest thing I've ever gotten to the man himself, mistah timbahlake, posing for me!"

"Oh, we'll be back in just a moment, ma'am," I said.

"Ma'am?" 'Doll' asked. "What, is my mutha here? Just call me 'Doll', toots."

"Okey, dokey." I closed the door behind Mark and I. He stood in the hall right now, with only two bed pillows hiding his nakedness. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!?" I asked. "Not only have you defiled my only sanctuary while I'm in Boston on multiple levels, but now I'm a coffee table book publisher?"

"Tyler, Doll has plans for her career that go far higher than a mere coffee table book..."

"I don't care if she wants a gallery showing - this has nothing to do with me! All I want is a goddamn nap!"

"Calm down, Tyler," Mark said. "You'll upset her."

"Mark, I'm going to go back down to Newbury Street, have a few cocktails, and then come back up here. I want both of you gone. I need my rest. I'm here to work."

"What? Gone?"

"Go home, Mark. Unless you plan on doing campaign appearances while you're up here, go home."

"Sheesh, some campaign manager you are..."

"Mark, I need a nap. Can you and Granny find another place to crash?"

"Sure, I'll take her back to the bunker."

"Alright. See you later. Sorry about this, but, y'know..."

"Nah, it's all cool," Mark said. "I'll catch you on your way back down to New York."

I was awoken from said slumber six hours later. The phone beside my bed rang furiously. The leprechauns that Mark had feared pounded hammers in my head with each ring. "What?" I asked. I thought it was going to be Mark. Instead it was Karl.

"Tyler, uh, not to be rude, but what the fuck did you do to me?"

"Huh?" I asked, still very bleary from all the sleeping I was trying to do.

"Mark arrived on my doorstep a few hours ago with some reject from the senior center art therapy program, and he says that you sent him out my way to crash for a few days."

"What?" I asked. "I just told him to go home for a few days."

"You had nothing to do with this?"

"No, I just threw him out. I don't want to see him for a week or two."

"Then why did you lend him your car?"

I dropped the phone. That fucker. Scrambling out of bed, I turned on the light, and looked in the drawer where I'd left my keys. Gone. That son of a bitch. I picked the phone back up. "Tell him to come back, sans Angela Lansbury, with my car in one piece as soon as he's able." I hung up, and fell into a fitful angry sleep for the remaining one hour before I had to get up.

As I was wrapping up my pitch, my cell phone rang. The prospective customer took her opportunity to flee as I looked down at my phone. Everybody hates a salesman. Even worse than a salesman? A salesman about to gab loudly on his cellphone. I didn't recognize the number on the Caller ID screen on my phone, but I answered anyway. "Hullo?"

"Hey, Tyler. It's Mark."

I scanned the crowd to make sure that I could curse safely. No one was nearby. "Where the fuck are you, you asshole? It's been five goddamn days!"

"Philafuckingdelphia!"

"What?!?"

"Yeah, there was an extreme wrestling show, last night. Pretty good. One guy went through a flaming table of glass!"

"What about my car? You mean you've just been taking my car on interstate joy rides for five days?"

"What are you talking about? I dropped your car off in Boston on Tuesday. The keys are in your bed stand."

"What?!?"

"Yeah, Karl drove me right back the other morning. We left Dolores at a bus stop in Worcester. She's on her way to see a Justin Timberlake show in Atlantic City. Crazy battleaxe - there is no Justin Timberlake show in Atlantic City. Hearing her yammer on about N'Sync and Timberlake was getting on my nerves, though... Anyway, I still had my key to our room, so I let myself in, dropped the keys off and skeddadled. Got the feeling I was getting under your skin a little. Sorry 'bout that. I had a great time, and I hope you did, too."

I shook my head. I wasn't sure if I should be angrier at him that he did return my car, or that I had been left under the delusion that he did not return my car. There was something presidential about Mr. Hugo, though - something that almost assured him of continual forgiveness in the face of such misadventures. Something Clintonian, you might say. "Are you coming back up here at all?"

"Yeah, if it's not too much of a problem. Don't sweat it. I'll behave."

"Sounds good. I found a barbecue place nearby."

"Awesome. I'll be there around seven. Let us consume mass quantities."

"You got it."

$1800? For only two guys? You're full of shit, you might say. Well, I seem to remember something about Mark inviting a bunch of girls from Delta Delta Delta over to our table for a few drinks. And, then I seem to remember him reluctantly inviting their very butch frat-boy boyfriends over to our table, so that he didn't get lynched. Man, I wish I still had my job so that they'd pick up the tab... I wonder if there's a "You don't have to pay this bill because you were drunk" clause in my Visa card contract...

The only other thing in my recollection was the repeated blasting of Ram Jam's 70s motorcycle rock hit "Black Betty". I don't know why, but I felt in the interests of full disclosure, I should mention that.

It was the next day that the now infamous "Mark-as-stationary-train-conductor" incident took place. I had awoken early that morning in a sea of crushed Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, and chewed a few Advil for breakfast on my way down the elevator to the convention floor. The day went without a hitch. Despite my memory loss and crashing hangover, I actually did pretty well on the sales floor. All of that fell apart as I saw security rushing towards the parked porter car, towards the end of the day. I had packed up my booth already - I was planning on leaving in the morning. When I rounded the bend, heard Mark's dulcet tones of "Conjunction Junction", and saw him fending off the guards with a fire extinguisher, I realized that all was lost. The presidential campaign, my job, my credit rating after dealing with that $1800 bar tab...

Instead of rushing to the rescue, or at the very least telling the authorities that Mark was a loony train fan who had just gotten a little out of control, I slowly back-stepped out of the convention hall. How could they pin it on me, after all? Mark wasn't on the hotel registry in my room - it was just me and "Guest". There was no way I could catch a fall off of this.

"Hey, there's my friend Tyler Carey! Heyyy, Tyler!" I heard Mark shout as the authorities closed in. Heads turned my way, but I kept walking, an anonymous silhouette in the crowd. "Tyler?" he asked as I walked away. The heads kept looking for me, but I kept walking. I was all wired into a survival trip, then. No more of the hucksterism that had fueled the campaign. This was solidly about preserving ones own existence. "Tyler? Hey, come back!" What would happen if I hung around was far worse than whatever would eventually befall me from abandoning Mark. That said, I didn't look forward to that. You can turn your back on a person, but not on a politician. Especially not Mark Hugo. He's an Eagle Scout, after all.

It only took ten minutes to get all of my stuff out of the hotel room, and to escape down into the parking garage. God bless instant check-out. I sped away on the Mass. Pike, hoping to put this whole incident, and my work on the Hugo campaign, in the past. I turned on the radio to get some tunes and some distraction. Nelly? No. Good Charlotte? No. There had to be something on.

Some local college radio station was playing Johnny Cash's version of "The Man Comes Around." Nice. My favorite of the late great Man in Black's songs. Come to think of it, it also was Mark's. Poor bastard. He was probably on his way to a cell in Roxbury, now. Dang it to heck.

I picked up my cell phone and contacted the right people. I explained Mark's actions away as a political spectacle gone awry. It took a terrible amount of effort and bamboozlery, but eventually we got him released on bogus charges that would disappear by morning. Deus ex machina and a little Irish sweet-talking are a campaign manager's best tools after all. I picked Mark up at a holding pen in Roxbury, and drove off towards Northampton. We'd see Karl, have a few beers, and put this to bed.

"I wasn't going to hurt anybody," Mark said after 30 minutes of silence. "They acted like I was some goddamn al qaeda member. I was just goofing around."

"You're lucky you didn't end up there," I said, pointing off to the side of Route 2, at the Fitchburg Correctional Facility. "Most folks don't know politics when they see it."

Mark nodded. "Thanks for saving me."

I shrugged. "Fair 'nuff. I saved you, now you save America."

Strange memories on that last nervous night in Boston. Eight weeks later? Ten? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a temporal nexus - the kind of peak that never comes again. Hopefully, politics in the early part of this decade will be remembered as a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe what we strive for means something. No, I'm not talking about the bullshit marches that piss people off and fail to affect change; I'm talking about the humble pleas the young politicians are levying on our government - give us health insurance, get us our jobs back, even better give us jobs that are full time with benefits so that we don't have to work until we're eighty-goddamned years old like our Depression-era great-grandparents. Maybe our attempts to revitalize politics won't mean anything, not in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were here, alive in this corner of time and the world. Whatever it means. There is madness in any direction, at any hour. If not in the beer pubs of the Bowery, then up in Allston, Boston, or out in the Ironbound district in Newark. We can strike sparks anywhere. There is a fantastic universal sense that what we are doing is right, and important, even if we aren't winning. Unlike our hippie forebears of the Sixties and Seventies, a bitter cynicism instead of a bullshit idealism is what drives us. Maybe one day, we snarky assholes will be making the calls in DC. Maybe not. Worst case scenario, we'll be sitting in our barcaloungers, in our sad pathetic basements, raging at the news on TV, and remembering how we gave it a shot.

[please note: much of the last paragraph was blatantly adapted from Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Any genius there is strictly his; I've just updated the sentiments for our age, and from my perspective. And if you didn't catch the gigundo-disclaimer at the beginning, this story is fiction - horseshit - lies. It's the perfect synthesis of politics and reality.]

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 Gubernatorial Concession Speech.

The Beginnings of Mark's Presidential Campaign.

Angry Sports, Elmer Gantry, and Freedom Fries.

Orange Alert, Again.

Mermaid Parade Invitational.

American Idols.

The First Parade.

Independence Day.

California Dreamin'.

Where Do You Go When the Lights Go Out?

DER GOVERNATORRR!

the dossiers...

Everybody Needs a Campaign Song

We Have Nothing to Fear, But...

A Radical Departure

Can I Get an Amen?

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