Pre-Debate Hawthorne Heights Performance at Kent State University

DSC_0062, originally uploaded by Rock the Vote 2008.

Friday, September 26th

Young voters registered yesterday: 19,441
Miles travelled today: 86 so far

7:14 pm - Somewhere between Kent and Cleveland - The debate is just around the corner and there is precious little time to write a thing before we arrive at the Hard Rock Cafe in Cleveland in order to watch. I’m predicting a blazing duel of charisma and policy that leaves both candidates winded and scarred. There’s too much nastiness on air for things not to get a little testy when the candidates meet in person.

We don’t get a lot of that hostile tension with the bus. This afternoon’s performances by Ben Taylor and Hawthorne Heights were pleasant and fairly mellow. When Taylor broke out his folk songs some of the students sat on the grass and leaned back on their hands. You could imagine it was an earlier era and we were sitting back in Northern California with flowers and good intentions. Fury and conflict are pretty foreign to this tour; most people pretty much agree that registering voters is a good thing.

Come to think of it, about the closest thing we have had to hostility came last night on the bus when we parked outside of Cleveland’s House of Blues. It went like this:

A grizzled old man dashed up onto the bus. He stepped uncomfortably close to me and demanded “Do you work here?” I watch movies, so fantasies of what happens next are not hard to come by. Maybe he is mad at our parking job. Perhaps he had an old grudge against one of the musicians whose pictures are printed on the bus walls. Maybe he has a gun. When I am alone, I imagine myself reacting like an action hero in these situations: a quick karate chop and this nefarious stranger is on the floor clutching his throat. In reality, I stand paralyzed.

“You work here?!” he asks again, stepping closer. There are two staffers in the entryway to the bus. We’re both over six feet in the prime of our youth. Maybe we are little out of shape but we are certainly physically prepared to defend our turf.

“... I take pictures,” I stutter. I am about as intimidating as Stuart Little.

“Who works here?” He demands again with a little forward jerk of his head. This man has tattoos. And a hat. And white, dry whiskers. He could probably eviscerate me with his thumb.

Kim - a 5’6”-tall perky midwestern redhead and our political director - steps forward.

“I work here,” she says. It is a glorious and heroic moment.

The stranger pauses. He stares her up and down. I tense up, prepared for sudden violence.

“I’d like to register to vote,” he says.

There is another long pause, as if someone had just announced to Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday, and the Clantons that thanks, but no the OK corral gunfight will not be necessary this afternoon.

Then, of course, things calm down completely and I feel like a buffoon.

If anything, I am feeling a little too accustomed to good will and good intentions. So tonight’s taste of presidential fisticuffs is probably good for us. I’m looking forward to it.

-- Nick Brown