“Is there a candidate that doesn’t suck?”
I didn’t know.
“Is there one that sucks less than the others?”
I still didn’t know. Not a problem. What did it matter? Prime directive: Get drunk, fuck up signs. Sign me up. I’ll bring my own camo. Any real partisan statement? No. No political statement. Hard to make those when you’re ignorant. It was theatre. Colouring the blank spaces and blanker stares of the election signs.
My only regret is not getting mix for my vodka.
Pre-drinking was the best part. Hanging out. Gallows humour. Imagine the kind of conversations you’d have on the boat to Normandy. Now imagine the boat is a shopping cart and you’re only going across the street. That’s how we talked.
Oh, we talked. Yelled. Threw expletives around like firecrackers. Argued. About shale gas? Not really. Job security? Barely.
We talked semantics. Bravado and booze got all mixed up in pop-culture and pseudo-philosophy. Goku and Kierkegaard. But with substance. “Big” issues. Euthanasia. Genetic modification. Crippling student debt.
That’s what we’re in conversation with. Nothing prominent in the Fredericton South election. Barely the provincial level either.
“Big” issues. To us, the election is about “small” stuff. Who dances the best around direct questions? Who’s clearly Satan? How well will Craig Leonard’s shining forehead light the way to NB’s future?
“I think we should talk about what we’re gonna do.”
“Inspiration will hit us when we get there.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Confidence faded. Seemed more fun to keep laughing and shouting. Departure time encroached. Couldn’t back out. I’ve been taught it’s important to be involved in the political process.
Six of us start. Three left at zero-hour. I’m writing. One is taking pictures. Only one is strictly artist. Our true rebel. I hide in my “greater role.” I hold the markers and veil cowardice behind leadership. A general inconspicuously absent from the front.
We start off on a busy intersection. It’s apparent how little we’ve planned. Our best idea—to turn Gallant into Two-Face-era Harvey Dent—evaporates. Markers start to flow. Prematurely effacing. “David Poon.” That’s the biting social commentary we come up with.
People see us. One guy chuckles as he passes. Big surprise: no one gives a shit. Sweet revelation.
The closest we get to a statement is “David Soon to be out of a job.” Killer. Where’s my Pulitzer?
The Liberals don’t escape our political malaise. Roy “Ender” Wiggins; “Roy Wiggin’ Out”. That’ll show ’em.
It’s a bust. We blame shoddy equipment. Poor preparation. We decide to get more liquor. A nice lady talks to us about school while we pet her dogs. Not only do we fail to make a stand, we didn’t even make decent art. So ends the pitiful political theatre.
Empty action. Perhaps we should have attended a rally. Watched the leader’s debate. Just as meaningless.
What did we see of politics growing up? Scandals. Liars. Promise breakers. Rhetoric. Tailor-made faces on laminate cardboard.
Elections are parades. Ritualistic nonsense. Whoever wins will matter. How important are they? Hardly worth a pun. We’re told to join in if dissatisfied. Hold our ideals in our hands. Walk into the political arena. Politics makes politicians. Politicians are guaranteed scum. Not their fault. You have to ditch your beliefs. You need both hands to cup the corporate scrotum, hoping it’ll rain golden showers down on your riding.
Disillusioned? Apathetic? Maybe. Maybe we’re not yet inoculated by the spectacle.
But drinking that night, sitting around talking about the “big issues,” I saw something. Wild gestures. Spit. Volume. Passion.
