Primary Journals

Second installment of the primary journals, this one featuring the end-of-summer events I covered. This is around the time things started to feel real, like there was an end in sight and campaigns were really kicking it up — both with the events and with the rhetoric.


Here he is. The guy everyone liked yet no one thought would win. I don’t think you could have had a more perfect day for an event, though I couldn’t tell you one thing Obama said. It was hard to hear and I remember thinking his speech was kind of boring. All I remember is that Michelle was there and that I was psyched I got close enough for a good shot.


Oh, John Edwards. So many people put their faith in you. When I handed this photo in to my editors, they joked that the gesture was an attempt on Edwards’ part to show how big his balls are. What we all didn’t realize is that they actually are that big.



I’ve told this story a zillion times to my friends, but it’s definitely one of my favorites. I was all dolled up for my event with Rudy and it happened to be one of the hottest days of the summer. I followed him all over the Seacoast to finally end with Hizonor doing the whole hold-up-the-lobster bit at Brown’s Lobster Pound in Seabrook. Guiliani was a good sport and after, he decided to have a little lunch. Apparently it wasn’t enough because he then went around to every table in the restaurant asking for bites of food. A little fried clam here, a little lobster there. When he got to a table filled with three generations of seafood lovers, Guiliani noticed there were steamers on the table.

“What’s that?” he asked

“Steamers,” the man said. “Have one.”

Guiliani then took the clam and sucked it down oyster-style, hood and all. I will never forget the look of horror on the family’s faces as they watched Guiliani gobble back what must have been a revolting mouthful without batting an eye. He thanked the family and moved on. At which point the eldest member of the table, a lovely women, looked at me and said, “You’re not going to see that on the nightly news.”



After that scene, I decided I’d had enough for the day and headed back to the car. Across from Brown’s is a cute ice cream stand with a giant soft-serve cone sign beckoning me.

I trotted my high heels across the street and joined the bathing-suit clad beach-goers in line. In front of me was a crew of revolting 12-year-old boys who swore like sailors and were covered in dirt. They were paying for their jumbo cones strictly in coin, which made their swift exit impossible. When they FINALLY got out of there, I hopped up to the counter for a small swirl.

As I headed back across the street to my car, I notice a dirty white minivan slowing down and pulling over toward me. The passenger asked me where I got my cone and I sheepishly pointed to the giant ice cream sign behind me. Then suddenly the back door slides open and I see the crew of dirty rugrats in the back. The slimiest of the bunch yells to me, “Can I get a lick!” and the boys laugh hysterically.

Now I’ve had a shitty day. I’m standing on the beach in heels and a dress. It’s outrageously hot. Something that moment in me snapped and all I could think to do as the boys sped away was yell, “Faaaaaaaaahk you!”

Yes. I admit it. I felt bad yelling at those kids. Not because I swore at those demon children, but because I showed them they had pissed me off.

At least I got the lobster shot. And some delicious ice cream.

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