The plural of “chad” is “chad”?

I watched the HBO movie Recount last night, about the 2000 Presidential Election. At first, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to watch it. I know Sage didn’t want to at all. Why? I guess I could explain it best this way: How many Patriots fans went back and watched the 2008 Super Bowl game tape after the Giants beat them 17-14? Exactly. When your team loses a heartbreaker, it’s tough to go back and revisit it. But the movie got great reviews, so I talked Sage into watching it last weekend. Personally, I loved it. While I would say that it’s written and filmed from the Democratic point of view, I think it equally and fairly shows both sides of the debate over the disputed election. On one side you see the Republicans, led by Jim Baker (shrewdly played by Tom Wilkinson), portrayed as tigers out to eat the Democrats by any means necessary. They are prepared to fight tooth and nail to make sure “the democrats don’t steal this election” -- and why shouldn't they. As they say in the movie, Bush never trailed in the Florida Election: Not in the initial votes, and not in any of the recount tallies. On the other hand the Democrats are shown scatterbrained and split down the middle. Some, led by Warren Christopher, want to keep a low profile and to be portrayed as somehow superior to the Republicans by fighting a “respectable” campaign – they’d rather lose with dignity than win at any costs. The other half of the Democrats are led by Ron Klaine, played by the wonderful Kevin Spacey, who want to take up the fight to get the recounts done before Florida Secretary of State Katherine Harris implements her arbitrary deadlines for the recounts to be completed. Spacey portrays Klaine as someone who doesn’t really know if Al Gore should have won or not – he just wants to make sure EVERY vote is counted. The main “villain”, if you will, of the film is Harris, greatly portrayed by Laura Dern, as someone who is completely ill-equipped to be thrust into the spotlight, and totally inexperienced (and completely biased in the proceedings) to have the responsibility to determine who the next President of the United States would be. Just like All the President’s Men, we know going in to the movie how it’s going to end, but the filmmakers are still able to create incredible tension and suspense leading up to the final coup de grace. I really loved the movie.

But that’s not why I’m writing this blog. When watching Recount, it reminded me of one of my proudest moments ever in my life. Bear with me as I “recount” the events that led to it.

Let me set the scene. It was early December 2000, and our department at National Geographic was having its annual holiday party. The holiday party for our group usually consisted of going out for a large, fancy lunch at a local DC restaurant, then having the rest of the afternoon off as a bonus. The 2000 party was no different, and the luncheon was over around 2:00 pm. Afterwards some of us (or maybe just me and my friend Shawn – the details begin to get hazy after 8 years) went to another bar for more drinks and general holiday merriment. A little later on, and I’m not sure exactly how this happened, I remember walking down U St. NW with Shawn, drinking malt liquor out of brown paper bags. I have a feeling that it just “seemed like the thing to do” at the time. We ended up at his friend Nick’s apartment off 13th St. NW. Nick was known to only watch 2 things on his TV: The Simpsons and porn. I can’t remember which exactly was on that night, but I’m positive that more drinking ensued. At some point, I’m guessing sometime after 8:00 pm but before midnight, after having been drinking since the first bottle of wine was opened at the luncheon, my body told me: GO HOME. So that’s what I attempted to do.

(By this time I’m sure many of you are saying, “What the HELL does this have to do with the presidential election recount? Patience, young grasshoppers. Patience.)

So I leave Nick and Shawn and walk around the corner to the Green Line Metro Stop. The trip was going to require me to take the Green Line to the Red Line, then the Red Line up to Rockville where Sage would have to come pick me up. I get on the train, sit down, and as soon as it begins to move I realize that there is no way I’m going to be able to ride the train all the way to Rockville without puking my guts out, and that would have made for a VERY long ride home. After one or two stops I realize I can’t go any farther in this hot, swaying train and I get off. I have no idea where I am, but I now realize that the only way I’m going to get home is by taxi. It’s possible at this point that I might have called Sage to gauge her thoughts on driving all the way to DC to pick me up or not. If I did, I’m guessing it didn’t go over well, and I probably said, “Don’t worry, I’ll get a cab”. So I get up to street level and start looking for cabs. I’m not sure where I am, but luckily I end up next to a hotel where there’s a line of cabs waiting. I go up to the first one in line and ask him how much to take me to Rockville. “60 bucks”, he replied. Even as drunk as I was, no way I was paying that much. So I tried a different tack – I went to the LAST cab in line, thinking that he might be more apt to take me to Rockville for less, since he has a longer wait for a fare at the hotel. I ask him, and he replies “50 bucks”. I said, “How about $40?” He says get in, so I get in.

So far it’s obvious to the fair reader that I probably wasn’t in the state of mind of thinking 100% clearly. If I was, I would know that sitting in the backseat of a cab is hardly better than trying not to hurl while sitting on a moving subway train. However, I was able to roll my back window down and get the cool fresh air in my face, which helped a lot. (Since it was early December, I’m guessing it was probably around 40-45 degrees out, which might not have made the cab driver too happy.) The cool air on my face only helped me for so long, and at one point we pulled up to a stop sign and I couldn’t hold it any longer. I opened the door, leaned out, and puked into the gutter. At this point I’m fairly certain that the cab driver is going to do one of two things: Either a) Throw me out of the car, or b) Kick the shit out of me, and then throw me out of the car. (The last thing a cabbie wants is to be cleaning puke out of his back seat.) Luckily for me my benevolent cab driver did neither option. Instead, he turned around and kept saying, “Are you okay, man? Are you okay?” I’m sure I muttered something like, “I’m fine, I’m fine” in-between the splattering of the street. So I finished, shut the door, and the cab driver kept going. I determined I would now definitely have to tip him.

(Again, I doubt many of you are seeing any relation between my immature drinking habits of yesteryear and how this relates to the 2000 election. I can only reiterate -- Patience.)

So he’s driving me to Rockville, and the route he takes is straight up Massachusetts Ave. (And now we begin to get to the point of the story.) As many of you know, on Massachusetts Ave, one can find the US Naval Observatory which is the official home of the sitting US Vice President. At this time in history, the current sitting Vice President was Al Gore, who also just happened to have run for President and was in a court battle with George W. Bush over the Florida vote count. So as we’re driving up Mass Ave, we get to the Observatory circle, and I hear a lot of noise. (My window is still open, of course.) I manage to raise my head a couple of inches (which probably hadn’t moved a muscle, since the last bout of vomiting had rendered me as useless as a whimpering baby) and look out, and I see dozens of people all standing on the side of the road, holding up big signs. I remember one saying something like, “Give it up, Al”, and I could tell, even in my state, that these people were protesting Gore’s protest of the election results. (Lots of protesting in DC.) So as we’re at the stop light, someone beeps their car horn somewhere and I hear a big shout go up in the group. I then hear a person ask, “Was that a Bush supporter?” And another person replied, “Everyone who honks is a Bush supporter!” And it was at this point where I performed my proudest act: as a Liberal; as a Democrat who voted for Gore; and as an American. I opened the door, puked all over the sidewalk in front of the protesters, and croaked out, “FUCK BUSH!” At that point the stop light turned green, I shut the door, and the cab driver took off in a screech of rubber. And as he did, I can’t help but remember a twinkling in his eye and a wry smile on his lips.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, as that last batch of ralphing outside the Vice President’s house seemed to clear my stomach of anything left that was foul. I made it to Rockville, threw some money at the driver (could have been $30, could have been $80, I have no idea), and walked into the house, where I’m sure I went straight to bed and passed out. (Note: Thankfully for all involved (mostly Sage and my liver) I don’t drink like that anymore. I think.) I have no idea how much pain I was in the next day, though I’m guessing it was pretty bad. But nothing could take away the joy and happiness I felt by exercising my First Amendment rights for something I was very passionate about – and to do it in tandem with retching all over a Republican’s loafers.