Viva la r3VOLution! Can’t talk (hoarse from screaming: “End the Fed”), can’t walk (soccer injury after Monday night’s Nation Celebration—you should see the other guy, well, she was an eight year-old, but all’s fair in love, war and r3VOLution), can’t believe the MSM coverage (USA Today, September 3, 2008: “Ron Paul Hosts Alternative Event… Hundreds of people…” Hundreds? What, are they blind as well as stupid?), can’t get the Aimee Allen song out of my head.

Ron Paul! Save our constitutional rights. Ron Paul! We’re not gonna give up the fight! Ron Paul! Start a r3VOLution. Break down these illegal institutions!

Twenty-four-and-a-half hours in a white Windstar decked out with Ron Paul stickers and decals racing from New Hampshire to Minnesota. Five Freestaters, four drivers, three pillows, two video cameras, one cooler. Opening the Atlas for the first time: Holy crap, did you know Minneapolis is half way across the country? 1,442 miles, if you’re counting. And, trust me, after a while, you’re counting. Or at least, Red is.

Red is our GPS. She will murmur sweet nothings to you all through the night. “Keep to the right, in,” pregnant pause, “two miles.” When Red demands, “Keep to the left” in Chicago, she will mean it, and when you don’t, she will punish you with an extended silence as exits flash by while she takes her own sweet motoring time ‘calculating route.’ She will seduce you with Pavlovian dings that, somewhere in Ohio, will make you flap your hands like flippers and bark like an otter. By the way, Ohio is, like, motherfrakking H-U-G-E, and nothing happens on the I-80 except to stretch and stretch and stretch, black asphalt, forever. What’s the state after Ohio? Delirium.

Every few hours, we break. We smoke, we drink guarana-and-vitamin-laced coffee, we go potty. Worst break: somewhere in Pennsylvania at a rest stop with a massive black-and-white sign listing what we can and cannot do. You cannot toss a Frisbee, you cannot walk your dog on their well-manicured lawns, you cannot pick or destroy any plant or vegetation or any part thereof, you cannot engage in lewd sexual conduct or prostitution. Gee whiz, thanks for telling me, Uncle Sam! Can’t I just take a bloody leak? Our best break: 4AM-ish, somewhere in Wisconsin, star-gazing. The universe is so beautiful. A shooting star arcs across the sky. I make a wish: Can’t all the bad guys just disappear?

Twenty-to-Midnight, somewhere on the Interstate, don’t even know where we are, we realize Minnesota is a dry state on Sundays. We are arriving on Sunday. And a dry state on public holidays. Monday is Labor Day. The situation is dire. Screeching into the next available rest stop, we discover you can’t—see a theme here? You can’t, you can’t, you can’t—buy booze at rest stops on the freeway. [Aside: should be called Tollways, or Taxways.] The cashier directs us to a convenience store in the next town, off Highway Robbery Road. We stock up.

Freestater: Are we there yet?

Driver: Don’t make me come back there.

We arrive at our hotel at 6:30AM, red-eyed, cranky, making off-color jokes. Some need to shower in order to leave for the Real Politics Training session. The rest of us will hang out, rest and ready ourselves for the r3VOLution. The Front Desk informs us we can only book in at 3PM. In eight hours? Sorry, shrug, but we’re fully booked, what with the convention. We’re here for a convention too, the Ron Paul Rally. Really? Right on! I’ll see what I can do. Go have breakfast and I’ll call you the minute someone checks out. Breakfast at Perkins: do not, under any circumstances, order the biscuits and gravy. Extra gravy: 50 Cent.

We’re in our room by 9:30AM. We crack a few beers. We laugh, we argue, we debate. Da Kidz, young Freestaters on their way to Ronstock, arrive in the late afternoon, interrupting our pizza-beer-movie moment. No hot water at Ronstock, a campsite for Paulians about an hour from Minneapolis, so they have come to use our shower. Da Kidz drink our booze and leave wet towels everywhere.

On Monday, we plan to arrive early for the Ron Paul book signing in Roseville. Red has other ideas. Every exit she directs us to is closed. Detour, detour, detour. Why are we heading South on the 35W? (Why would anyone with half a brain use the letter W to denote a route that was not, in fact, heading in a westerly direction? Oh, right, city planners. Genius). Red is insistent: When possible, make a legal u-turn. When possible, make a legal u-turn. When possi… Shut up, wouldya!

Hoards of Ron Paul supporters—not a one marauding—are already lined up, snaking around the mall. We get our colored bracelets—purple—and head to the end of the line. Back, and back, and back, and, check this out, even farther back. An amazingly long queue for six spammers in a basement.

As we wait, I hand out Free State flyers, chatting to freedom freaks: geeks, bikers, a dude with dreads, a Russian émigré with a thick black mustache, a Mormon family of 13 who look so identical it is uncanny, a young married couple still holding hands, three old geezers with hearing aids and wicked senses of humor—war veterans excited to see how many young people have come—a hipster Asian guy with square-framed glasses, and even a man and a woman dressed in colonial garb. Liberty lovers, Ron Paul fans, curious, skeptical, smart, informed. My kind of peeps.

As I work the line, someone stops and asks if she can take a picture. A security man materializes—surprisingly Ninja-nimble for a numskull—and, as he sticks his hand in front of her lens, barks: No photography allowed. Being r3VOLutionaries, we thrust our copies of The Revolution out like shields and chant: I consent to being photographed! I consent to being photographed! He fades to black.

Two hours later, it’s finally Purple Time. We make it to the Border’s entrance where six or seven armed coppers mill about. Into the signing machine we go, supporters spilling in, roiling through the ropes before being spat out on the other end, The Revolution duly signed. I want to ask Dr. Paul if his hand is cramping, he must have signed almost a thousand books by now, but the machine churns on, and I move to make room for someone else.

Red takes us on back roads—take that, city planners!—to the Nation Celebration at an outside complex in Blaine. Once past the Water Confiscation and Privacy Invasion Area—are these venues getting their tips from the TSA?—we set up camp near the stage, and near the bar. (Told you we’re a smart bunch.)

When Rick Ellis, decked out in his suit and fedora, sings “Ron Paul, Ron Paul” to the tune of Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” we form a long chorus line and high-kick for freedom. These neocon blues are melting away! Marc Scibilia reminds me of a young and passionate Dylan. Would you listen to a poet, or a prophet journal all this world’s injustice or try and stop it... Can you feel the com'n change, though hell is here today… Hope is on its way. For a moment, I’m saddened that we don’t have a million people here. Yet. Aimee Allen’s set blows me away. And the Ron Paul song twice? Bliss!

The booze line swells, spanning almost the entire length of the field. Thirsty, I decide to use my wily charms and my Free State Project bookmarks to jump the queue. Sneaky? Yes. Free drinks? Yes. Mission accomplished? Never say never. Soon afterwards, I discover the best thing about being a chick in the libertarian movement: No lines at the ladies!

The alcohol acquisition system is very successful. A sweet handsome Mormon buys me a glass of wine after accidentally knocking over mine. A red-shirted Texan buys me a beer—Support Our Activists! I buy him one back later: Support Our Supporters! The last thing I remember is sticking a blue oval “RON” tramp stamp on the small of someone’s back. Okay, I don’t remember that either, but so I’m told.

At Clubhouse Jäger’s after-party: Yup, the same night. Pizza delivery, I’m saved! A woman clutching a red wig snatches my arm, places the wig on my head, and snaps a photo. She repeats the process with the other woman. Red wigs for red whigs, she says. When I see her in the loo at the Campaign for Liberty the next day, she says she almost got a shot of the wig on Tucker Carlson. An image of the Wendy burger guy with his red braids pops into my head and I laugh.

My. Head. Hurts.

A. Lot.

And they took my water. Again.

What’s with the Aqua Rent-a-Cops? Ma’am, you will need to leave your water here unless you have a medical reason for taking it in. I do, I tend to get thirsty after a while, Jackass, and I prefer to not pay $4 for a teeny bottle of H2O. And backpacks? Fuggedaboutit. The memo is out: terrorists carry backpack, and all guilt-by-association ’packers are relegated to the bowels of the building to have their bags checked. But my handbag—which could easily hold a small child—no problem.

When we go for a smoke break, our tickets are scanned by a solitary “Exit” Rent-a-Cop. Outside, people mill on the sidewalk, smoking, chatting, chanting. Cool t-shirt. Hans Herman Hoppe, right? You an anarchist? Choosing the lesser of the two evils is still evil. I’m not going to vote. I’m going to write in Ron Paul. Bumper stickers, business cards, flyers, DVDs zip from hand to hand. To return to the stadium, we have to be searched again, this time by three security personnel. A handful of cops stand around, making their presence felt, dark clouds observing.

Security in aggressive voice as Freestater approaches entrance: Can I help you?

Freestater to security: Yeah, don’t treat me like a criminal.

Puffed-up pohleece: You don’t need to be commenting to him.

Freestater to pohleece: And you don’t need to be telling me how to comment.

First Amendment, Second Amendment, Third, Fourth, the speakers cover them all. The dudes from the Mises Institute—Tom Woods, Lew Rockwell—really float my boat. People cheering for Austrian economics? Now that’s hot. Jesse Ventura surprises me with his eloquence. I like how he raises questions about 9-11 without sounding like a kook. Aimee Allen plays again. A break, and then it is the moment we have all been waiting for…

RON PAUL!

I’ve heard Dr. Paul speak before and Youtubed him plenty, but this speech is his best. He is speaking beyond this arena, he is speaking to every American, speaking to the world. He hits on the usual suspects—the Fed, inflation, the military industrial complex, the fascists on the Right, the commies on the Left—but it is the part about the Universal Soldier that moves me most. Dr. Paul specifically asked Aimee Allen to sing the song: He's been a soldier for a thousand years... And he really is to blame, His orders come from far away, no more, They come from here and there, And you and me and brothers, Can't you see, This is not the way we put the end to war. Dr. Paul says: Where would the dictators be if there was no Universal Soldier? There would be no more wars. When Dr. Paul says we must destroy the Universal Soldier and replace it with the Universal Champion of Liberty, I have tears in my eyes.

Wednesday, September 3, 8:10AM, time to go home. The Windstar is locked and loaded. Red is ready. The five of us embrace in a group hug before we embark, because, as someone puts it: We are all going to hate each other soon enough. The road is long.

Mile 1,442: We’re off! I have an important work meeting at 4PM on Thursday, and we reckon we’ve factored in enough time to make it, with plenty to spare for me to prepare before the meeting. The trip in took twenty-four-and-a-half, we have over thirty-two out.

Mile:1,321: Whoop, whoop.

Damn, he’s got me! 

Video cameras out.

Officer Walsh: Was there a reason you were speeding today?

Freestater: I didn’t know that I was.

Walsh: In Wisconsin the speed limit is 65.

Silence.

Officer Walsh exits stage left with driver’s license.

Us: The speed limit is 65? Well, bully for you! My, how average! Wisconsin, the ordinary state.

Walsh returns and demands a full physical description of our driver for the ticket. After staring soulfully at our driver, he leaves again.

Walsh returns with ticket: Do you have any questions?

Freestater: Negative.

A Homeresque Doh!-look crosses our officer’s face.

Freestater: What was the average speed of the other vehicles?

Walsh: I couldn’t tell you that, Sir.

Freestater: You can’t tell me what the average speed was?

Walsh: No, because in order for me to do that, I would have to compute the number of vehicles that have passed and divide them with the speeds I have recorded.

Backseat chirp: Look! He knows math.

The Price Of Going A Safe And Reasonable Speed Your Public Servant Don’t Likey? $236.

We drive and drive. We’re Goose to Maverick, wingman to pilot. We stop a lot too. At every rest stop, we run into Paulians. We buy cheese, salami, bread, crackers and pickles in Wisconsin, picnicking under the trees.

Mile 1,207: You gotta stop, my stomach…

Mile 1,113: You gotta stop, my stomach…

Mile 961: You gotta stop, my stomach…

Mile 803: Man, we’ve been driving for sixteen hours and we’re not even halfway yet.

Mile 837: Why are the miles going up?

Mile 803: Great, that took us an extra forty minutes. Try listening to Red next time, Jackass.

Mile 789: Store window sign in Indiana: ‘Flowers, gifts, caskets.’ I want one.

Mile 702: You awake up there? Try driving on the road, why don’t you?

Mile 688: At TA truck stop—Tits and Ass?—political gems drip from our waitress, Shirley Osborne's lips (she's been waitressing for forty years): You put Obama and McCain in a bag and shake them around and pull 'em out, and all you got is more of the same thing... What happened to the land of the free? You can't smoke, you can't drive without a seatbelt, you have to have insurance, you have to have this and that, you can't do this and that... Doesn't take a rocket scientist to see this country is in a world of hurt. Not McCain, not Obama are going to save us They'll take us further down the toilet. It scares me. We're at the point where we need to keep our nose out of the world's business. They are making us look bad in the world. Why spend money over there when people here are hungry and homeless? What kind of sense does that make? They are running our dollar so thin, you can see right through it... By the way, she voted for Ron Paul in the Primaries.

Mile 564: I’m so screwed. Never going to make the meeting.

Mile 563: It’s not funny.

Mile 487: No, you shut up.

Mile 293: You’ll make it.

Mile 292: Maybe.

Mile 129: Homemade sign on an overpass in Pennsylvania: ‘Impeach Bush & Cheney, Com’on, Nixon did less.’

Mile 96: Put on the Ron Paul compilation CD.

Mile 95: Again?

Mile 94: Again!

Ron Paul! Save our constitutional rights. Ron Paul! We’re not gonna give up the fight! Ron Paul! Start a r3VOLution. Break down these illegal institutions!

Mile 0: Thank God.

Group hug, I insist before hopping in my car to race to the meeting. The five us throw our arms around each other and stand huddled together in silence for a moment. The sun is warm on my back. As I let my friends go, I think, Let the r3VOLution begin...