I spent Election Night at The Union League, and sat beside the head of John McCain’s finance team for Pennsylvania, watching the election, and wracked with anxiety. Like much of the country, I was drinking, considerably. My psyche has been twisted by eight years of an unending cacophony of rabid right-wing nonsense, courtesy of the Bush Administration. Christ on the cross, it was every day. With an acute recollection of the gerrymandered election of 2000, and the bitter consequences of 2004 still smoldering in Baghdad – dear waiter, won’t you find, my dear Old Grand Dad?

The entire room fell silent when his phone rang at 9:11 p.m. (oh, Ms. Irony, your perfume tickles me pink). His grimace was slim, his announcement brief. That was headquarters, and they had lost Ohio – which meant they lost the election. It wouldn’t be announced on CNN for another 15 minutes. And the room stayed silent.

The lion in charge doesn’t have to roar, and it was with such righteous condescension that I quietly reveled in the news, save for a few handshakes with some fellow, clandestine liberals in the room. It was a subtle, though tremendously palpable, sense of sweet relief. Providence ruled the day, finally, and the country resoundingly declared to Mr. Bush, “Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.” Amen to that.

I always admired Bono’s admission that “I’d have a drink with the devil, but I wouldn’t go to bed with him.” Rightly or wrongly, it is a way to live, and one I recommend. You can imagine the conundrum presented though, when three weeks later, an invitation arrived in the mail from the Union League. To have breakfast. With Dubya.

After the jump, Conor Corcoran muses from the not-very-cheap seats.

It was, I believe, for a good cause. Ticket prices went to a foundation, housed by the Union League, that supports the preservation of Philadelphia’s vital role in the Civil War, as well as a few other philantrophic activities. What the hell, I thought, it’s not for the RNC, it’s for a good cause. “Champagne Breakfast Buffet,” claimed the glossy invite. Bubbly with Beezlebub, says me.

It was as cold as a witch’s tit at 8:30 on Saturday morning, as we lined up some 700 deep to pass by the Secret Service for a superbly delivered cornucopia of simple breakfast staples. One hour later, we were ushered to a massive ballroom to take our seats and wait for His Nibs to arrive.

The first person I found in the room was Arlen Specter, who, quite frankly, does not look well. Cancer is a pernicious disease, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Even the man who prosecuted Robin’s Bookstore for selling Tropic of Cancer, in the avaricious pursuit of his own political career.

There’s no other way to put it – the crowd was entirely white, if not in ethnicity, then certainly in aspiration. The President was late, and a black-tied marching band played aural patriotism to pass the time. His arrival was confirmed by the unmistakable rumble of police-issued Harley Davidsons, just outside on Sansom Street.

He was there for eight minutes. C’est tout. No handshakes, no kiss-my-ass, no opportunity to reenact his utterly embarrassing photograph with some college athletes from Texas, where Mr. Bush flashed “the shocker” along with the rest of the team.

The man is a sorry referendum on conservatism. It had once staunchly stood for such righteous principals as separation of church and state, isolationism, and limited government for the common good. Instead, its face, today, is a man of stunted intelligence, who wraps himself in the flag with a cross in his hand, leaving office with a devastated military, and proudly boasting financial bailouts, which are really a new era of colossal fiscal socialism. I can’t tell if he’s a fascist or the reincarnation of FDR.

I pitied the poor man burdened with the job of introducing the President. He praised Bush for his work on education (polite applause), the economy (incredibly, loud applause) and the WAR ON TERROR (at which point, the whole room thundered to its feet with tremendous Hallelujahs of praise). It was like a fundamentalist revival.

Because, of course, that’s what it was. The room was packed with true believers, a dangerous demographic, regardless of political stripe. The absurdity of such vocal allegiance to a man who has shredded the Constitution rendered me dumbstruck. I didn’t get out of my seat. My lady remained beside me in mirthful allegiance, even though she feared somebody would throw something at us.

As the event also involved the presentation of an award and a portrait, Bush began his remarks by saying “Welcome to my hanging.” What appeared to be superficially good natured self-deprecating humor was, in fact, a passive-aggressive confession of shame. He then drew comparisons of himself with the first recipient of the award, Abraham Lincoln, as a fellow believer of “one nation UNDER GOD” and “like Lincoln, I TOO BELIEVE IN THE ALMIGHTY.”

It really speaks for itself, doesn’t it? As Garrison Keillor recently penned:

“(t)he Union is what needs defending this year. Government of Enron and by Halliburton and for the southern Baptists is not the same as what Lincoln spoke of. Not even close. This gang of Pithecantropus Republicanii has humbugged us to death on terrorism and tax cuts for the comfy and school prayer and flag burning and claimed the right to know what books we read and to dump their sewage upstream from town and clear-cut the forest and gut the IRS and promote the corporate takeover of the public airwaves and to hell with anybody who opposes them. Their crusade against government has given patriotism a bad name.”

The Union League would do well to heed such insight. Here, here, for Omelets with Obama.

Here at Philebrity, we are no strangers to reaching for the telephone in a cold sweat, fingers trembling in fear, punching in a few numbers and asking as soon as someone answers, asking “Fuck! Are we gonna get sued for this?” Always, on the end of the other line is one Conor Corcoran, Esq., our resident go-to guy for all things scary and legal. Read more of his missives to Philebrity here.

Previously: From The Desk Of Conor Corcoran: I’m Not Certain, But I’m Pretty Sure I Might Have Made Out With Tina Fey In The Seventh Grade

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 9th, 2008 at 3:58 pm.