Looking back now, it was June when I concocted this odd and opportunistic socio-anthropological safari into the wilds. I was stationed at my keyboard, hungover, nursing a freshly fractured rib, and going another day in the air-condition-less heat provided by the finest digs a grad student, SOFREP writer, and freelance any-task can afford in my fair city. Perhaps, I could retrospectively scoff in pretentiousness at a poor decision that led me down at a path full of the odd, and often uneventful. But I’m not a damned fool, or a new-media, nor an on-demand slop-slinger. These things take time, and in loving regard to those, now past anthropologists who went forth, often alone and under-equipped. They who stepped into the unexplored for a chance experience the inner workings of unknown tribes, which played host to once mysterious cultures. I got to walk in their shoes a bit this summer – well, for about three months, but I’m not complaining.

Even now, I’m not certain that I have my head completely wrapped around every aspect, cultural subtext, communication structure, and quite possibly their language. The Hillary Clinton camp and the Democratic Party is a bewildering zone of multi-tiered structures that roost upon and support the collapsed structures of the fallen ruins to the left and right of the other. In some aspects, the organizational chaos holds a bit of beauty, at a distance, much like when you first glances upon the Acropolis or the Great Pyramid. That is until you approach, and can reach out and touch it with your hand to feel and see up close the withering decay of a failed history. In perspective, the grand messages broadcast to the world are much like one would consider from Athens or Cairo, and that is in a classical sense. The ruins of failed messages, bygone husks of what once was, cities currently in turmoil, which are now only a whisper in time and are irrelevant by modern standards. Other than in the study of the past, and that study rests heavily in the hopes of not repeating the same mistakes in the future.

Yet, we’re here now and observing the quite tired and in my opinion, boring and repetitious rhetoric spewed in every presidential campaign. The communication of the candidates, delivered in short bits and shock point, on key infuriating issues meant to drive us simple plebeians into hysterical skirmishes with the opposition. As there are, after all, only two parties in this cash-for-play media driven system that is the freak-circus of the election of the leader of the free world. Sorry Gary Johnson, but you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell when the bullet meets the bone on election day. The Libertarian Party simply lacks the buying power to properly influence coverage and orchestrate civic propaganda on their own behalf.

Into that depth, I chose to drive in headfirst, bitter, broken, and maybe a little bit drunk at the time. I had asked Jack and Brandon to go into that fray and they most fortunately allowed me to do so. I’ll always recall the heat from what I assume were the opening gates of hell on that sweltering June morning. For I was in a special mood that morning, and my plucky antisocial, yet resourceful whims dosed with a bit of charisma followed me for a great majority of my time within the campaign. My desire to know facilitated the special curiously-driven rage that fuels me from time to time, and then I bounced between three states in an attempt to obtain cascading insights. Although, the insights were essentially blanket, once laid out – just a few different personality types, but all ominously on track with the same narrative.

Perhaps if I was weaker in the head, I may have fallen within their rank and file. There were, of course, pretty girls and often something to drink with a collective and conflicting internalized narrative that remains bottled and directed like a bursting champagne bottle at terminal velocity. The unified tribes of the Democratic Party, who are often at war with one another have rallied for unified conflict. I was ready for war when I went in, and am quite honestly about the same now, but my rib has since healed. Wherein that injury, from what some may perceive as a barroom brawl, but I clearly recall as a remedial on-the-spot corrective action for poor manners. Nevertheless, my injury aided me, as I was on my own when I earned it, when it got ugly, and I was to be on my own for my walk into the Hillary Clinton campaign and the Democratic Party election committee mutation called politics.

As this story unfolds and for all of this to somewhat make sense from my head to yours, I’ve broken this beast into eight articles, with video. The video is there to expand on my thoughts and provide key insights as well as expanded explanation and connections as to the points I’ll make as this series rolls on.