The following is the unedited version of a piece I had published on Paul Tough's OPEN LETTERS, one of my favorite lit sites on the web. If you got to COMMONPLACE via Mr. Tough's site, please take time to read this version of the Al Gore thing. Though it is rougher, it's also a bit crazier, dirtier, funnier; less about politics and more about defecation. Thanks to Paul Tough for his faith in me. It freaks me out but also puts me in a fantastic mood.

Dear Paul,

Monday night I closed The Hub downtown. It's a little bar with famously, almost undrinkably strong drinks. During the day the place is filled with problemed people and the smell of urine. But at night cheery, horny college kids join the crowd of depressed daytime drunks and the bartenders have to turn the lights on at 3 a.m. to scare everyone out. But at 3 a.m. I was having a great conversation, I think, with this beautiful woman who was about a foot taller than I was.

Before the lights came on we, of course, had been talking about the election tomorrow and instead of admitting that I really didn't care, I overcompensated by talking about it loud enough to get others involved, for when I ran out of bullshit opinions and jokes.

A guy with a mullet haircut (there are so many of those in Florida) said, "Y'know, Al Gore is giving a speech or something in Tampa at 4 a.m."

"He must want to catch the people coming out of bars; trying to capture the drunkard's vote. Where's the rally at: a bottle club?" I asked. The tall woman laughed.

"No, at the University." Said the mullet. "At the cancer center." Everyone stopped laughing. The word 'cancer' will do that.

Trying to get the laugh going again I went on a tangent about how I'd never vote for Al Gore because a week earlier he'd held some rally a couple blocks from the newspaper where I work, and Jimmy Buffet performed.

That's really all I know about Al Gore. Last week in fact, I reluctantly entered a conversation about the election and realized half way through that I had been referring to Al Gore as 'Bob Dole'. And nobody corrected me. I'd also watched Al Gore four years ago, introducing President Clinton when they won their second term. They had choreographed hand gestures: when Gore mentioned "family," Clinton pointedly grabbed Hilary and Chelsea's hands for the camera as he waited in the wings. It looked like a scene from Walt Disney World's "Hall of Presidents" animatronic exhibit and it scared me away from caring about politics. And now this Jimmy Buffet thing?

I fucking hate Jimmy Buffet. I used to work in a beach-style restaurant across the street from the stadium and the people who ran the restaurant were Parrotheads (official Jimmy Buffet fans) and I had to listen to Buffet constantly. And when he'd play at the stadium across the street, the bar would turn up the Buffet even louder and hire a Buffet cover band to play on the outside patio and the Parrotheads would all take the day off from their corporate jobs and gather and drink and puke on each other (i.e. be laid back for a day) per Buffet's musical suggestion. When I see a group of drunk Parrotheads with their hands in a prayer position on top of their heads, all pantomiming the "fins to the left - fins to the right" routine (and I have seen this ritual too many times) it looks like a classroom full of kindergartners singing along to Barney the purple dinosaur and I hate them.

"I developed Buffetitus while working there." I said to the mullet. "There's no way I could support Gore if he likes Buffet." I said. She laughed again. I was doing great and avoiding the issue. But I was almost serious. And then the bartenders turned the lights on and everyone ran outside real quick before the people they were trying to sleep with saw their drunk, red faces under the unflattering fluorescence.

"So, you wanna go to my house and drink a bit more." I said, looking up into the woman's face.

"We should go see Al Gore." She answered.

You do what you gotta do I guess. So, we got in my truck and smoked a joint as we drove across town to the University. On the radio Fred Durst was shouting.

"Now I know you be lovin' this shit right here!
L. I. M. P. Bizkit is right here!"

"Now that's some lyrical genius." I said, passing the joint to her. "Not many artists realize that words rhyme with themselves. Y'know? Any time you're stuck for a rhyme, you can just use the same word twice: it always works. Bon Jovi does that shit too."

"Bon Jovi played on behalf of Al Gore last night in Miami." She told me.

At that moment I hated Al Gore. "Oh god, you're fucking kidding me. And he might be our president?! A Bon Jovi fan?!"

We drove onto the campus and found the parked motorcade of limos, police motorcycles, six busses, an ambulance and about 75 supporters standing on the curb with Gore signs across from the cancer center. A fraternity was drunk and taking group pictures with a sign reading: "Phi Delta Theta supports Al Gore."

So, so far, we have Jimmy Buffet, Bon Jovi and meathead frat boys.

Within five minutes a fairly sexy woman in some kind of uniform without any badges or patches came over and told us we weren't aloud to congregate. "This is State of Florida property, you can't stand here." She said, meanly. Even I realized that we pay taxes for the University and we're allowed to stand on the sidewalk, but no one argued with the lady.

One old woman with a Gore sign said, "It said in the paper he was going to be here at 4 a.m."

"He is, he's inside but you can't see him cause it's not for the public. There's a public appearance later."

The old lady asked kindly, "Where will that be?"

"I don't have to give you any information, O.K." the fairly sexy guard-type lady shouted. "I'm here to protect Al Gore. You have to leave."

The pack dispersed and I thought it was funny that these people, who were so into politics that they'd stay up till 4 a.m., would do exactly what some anonymous woman told them too, without question, just because her clothes were dark and looked like a uniform. My tall date and I defiantly stuck around alone until a male police officer came by and asked us what we were doing.

"We just wanted to see the Vice President."

"Are you with the press." He asked. I could have said yes since I am a member of the press. But I'd get fired for flashing my press pass around when I'm wasted and trying to get laid, so I said. "No, we just wanted to creep around and see if we could get a look." Halfway through the sentence I realized that "creep around" was not the best choice of words when trying to get near a possible President.

"No. He's just visiting people in the hospital." Said the officer. "It's gonna be televised but you're not going to get to see him here in person. After this he's holding a public rally at democratic headquarters downtown at 5:30." He gave us the address and smiled. He was very nice.

Back in the car I thought of ways to get out of going. "5:30 a.m.?" I said. "That's an hour and a half. By the time Gore speaks our hangovers will be taking effect. And there's no where to get more alcohol. I have beer at my house." But she still wanted to go, and I still wanted her, so we headed back downtown.

"If we get to talk to the Vice President," I told her. "We should ask him what his policy is on selling beer past 3 a.m."

The scene at Tampa Democratic Headquarters, across the parking lot from Jimmy's Sod, looked like an indy rock concert was about to start: small P.A., small crowd of 150 people gathered in front of a small outdoor stage while another 200 lined up outside the gate to be frisked. Security weeded out the possible protesters and let campaign volunteers, the converted, in first, as 'Love Train' blasted over the P.A.

Three eight-year-old girls ran weaving in and out of the line screaming about Gore, more impatient to see the man than their parents. "When can we see Al Gore?!" The girls yelled. Hearing their little voices say his name reminded me about having called Gore 'Bob Dole'. The girls were too excited and their mother said. "Calm down. Remember when you waited in line all that time for N*Synch concert tickets?" Putting things in perspective.

The crowd was smiley and happy and young and old and white. Not one black person. I mentioned this to my tall date and she said. "Well, if we were at a Bush rally it'd be all gross, white, middle-aged assholes."

On the way in the gate, they handed my date a sign. I declined. John Cougar Mellancamp was singing, "Small Town." Then Stevie Wonder: "Higher Ground." Then John Mellancamp again with, "R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A." Which was funny given Tipper's whole anti-rock thing. That's one of the few things I know about politics: Tipper Gore hates rock music. And I like it. So fuck her.

I lit a cigarette, then noticed I was the only one. I looked around for other smokers while waiting to be shot by secret service who were creeping around with those curly wires coming from their ears. I saw a 40-year-old guy with a glow stick around his neck which was ironic since Tampa passed some law recently making glowsticks nearly illegal: supposedly they incite ecstasy use or something. I'm dead serious.

I finally spotted a stream of smoke across the crowd and followed it to the mouth of the sound guy, whom I knew from hanging out in Tampa rock clubs. His name is RatBoy. He has a mullet too. I left my date to go talk to him.

"Hey, how are you doing? Cool gig, yo!"

"Yeah," said RatBoy. "But the secret service guys won't let me take a shit."

"Huh?"

"I'm being blocked by the secret service at every shitter around here, man."

"Did they tell you why?"

"No, they were just assholes. And it sucks cause the Gore campaign supplied Cuban food earlier and I ate all these meat pockets and I gotta go bad." He did look pained but at the same time he seemed to think it was kind of cool that secret service was stopping him from doing something. "I even asked the head secret service guy and he said, 'go across the street to that restaurant'. And when I got there his boys were blocking THAT restroom and they said 'no' too." Another John Cougar song started.

"Good choice of music" I said to RatBoy.

"I didn't pick it. They brought a CD."

"Music inspired by the Gore campaign?" We laughed. "I wonder if you can order Gore mix tapes from TV like, 'MTV Party to Go!'? This is pretty inspiring stuff"

"Yeah, they told me to turn it up louder in…" He looked at his watch. "Two minutes: at 4:00 a.m."

I asked why and he cranked the P.A. two minutes early to demonstrate: the crowd began talking louder to be heard over the Mellancamp and the pitch and mood heightened noticeably: it suddenly seemed like a happening scene.

I left RatBoy and on the way back to my tall date I ran into one of my co-workers from the paper. He wasn't writing about it either. He just wanted to be part of history, he said. "This monumental battle is seeing it's end not three blocks from my house!"

"Did you know Gore likes Bon Jovi?" I asked, watching the light drain from his eyes. It made me feel good.

A dark-haired seven-year-old boy, covered in Gore stickers from his face to his feet, climbed up on stage and held up a Gore sign and began a chant of, "Gore! Gore! Gore!" and I wondered if that's what the crowd chanted in the coliseum when the Christians were being fed to the lions. The Gore crowd waved their signs frantically and the music ('B-b-b-baby, You Just Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet' or whatever it's called) was loud but I heard someone behind me ask if the boy on stage was Elian Gonzalez.

I looked for my date and spotted her stretching her arms up, holding her sign high in the air, standing on her tiptoes, looking about 9 feet tall. Her long, flat stomach was exposed as she stretched and bounced on the balls of her feet in rhythm with the Elian kid's chant and I was a little embarrassed for her so I went over to talk to her so she'd stop being so enthusiastic about politics.

By 5 a.m. the crowd was losing it's wind a little. By 6 a.m. and about a dozen John Cougar songs later, they seemed to have gained it back. Amazing. The sky was getting lighter and I couldn't believe I had stuck it out so long. And then came the cavalcade. I was blinded by a forest of 'Gore/Lieberman 2000' signs.

Even after the signs laid down the crowd was still mumbling going nuts. I would have been going nuts too: if it were Prince up there. If it were Prince there'd have been thousands out to see him instead of 350, despite the impending sunrise on a workday.

Florida Congressman, Jim Davis introduced Lieberman, who sounded a lot like a baseball announcer; like Harry Carry, drawing out his vowels: "If we can win it heeeeere, we're gonna win it eeeeeeverywheeeeeere."

As Gore spoke I paid attention to the sign-language interpreter, who, judging from his enthusiasm, was a Gore supporter. His exaggerated hand signals and body gestures made him look like he was doing an Eminem impersonation.

The three politicians didn't talk much about the issues. They just kissed Florida's ass, which was striking because we really are the bastard state; we rarely get our ass kissed. But I have to say that Gore and company seemed pretty real. Maybe I'll vote for him, if I vote. I was way too tired to tired to care a whole lot. I was so over it that I had even lost interest in my date and as soon as Gore said his last word and John Cougar started again, I offered to take her home.

On the way out I ran into RatBoy again.

"Hey! Are you O.K. Did you get that taken care of?" I asked him.

"Yeah." He smiled. "I finally just went to my car to go back to my house and go to the bathroom but the car was blocked in. " He smiled wider. "So I had to take a shit over there in the parking lot…by that cop car." He was proud. And I can't say I wasn't proud of him.

"The only thing that sucks." He continued. "Was that I had to use my two brand new socks to wipe. I had just put them on tonight for the first time. So, the way I figure it: I'm owed a pair of socks."

tired,

COMMONPLACE

CLICK HERE TO LEAVE ME SOME ADVICE