I've written a few stories involving, either directly or peripherally, the political force of nature that is Obama Girl, yet very little is actually known about her. There are conflicting reports and mixed messages about her true political leanings.

One video, in particular, aroused my suspicions. In it, Ron Paul Girl has nightmares about Obama Girl, and at one point, the supposed "Barack Booster" refers to the Illinois Senator as the "Democrat Candidate."

This set my tin foil a-tingling, and I knew I had to get to the bottom of it. Luckily, Obama Girl's creator and Founder/Creative Director of Barely Political Ben Relles, had months earlier provided me with just the opening I needed to infiltrate this nefarious conservative cabal. He emailed me to thank me for featuring his videos in my "Videos of the Week" column. Sucker!

We had spoken often of getting together to shoot the breeze, or at least taze it, but he being a flighty creative type, and I being a leeberal, of course it took months for my plan to come together. But come together it did, last night.


I hopped into the "whip" (2003 Caravan, baby!) at about 6:30 and headed into the City that Never Sleeps for my first foray into Gonzo journalism. No, not that Gonzo. I had to get myself psyched up for my descent into the madness of King Ben. The pungent aroma of menthol smoke and the taste of my last hit of LFT (Lipton Frickin' Tea) on my lips, the din of "Waltzing Matilda" crankin' from my laptop into the factory sound system, combined with the sudden, violent urge to pee had my head swimming like a schoolgirl on her first carousel.

As I emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel like a Nerf cannonball, the GPS navigator on my phone started singing, "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do...," and I was left to the tender mercies of the 6 pages of Mapquest directions I had printed. The fuzz pulled up behind me and tailgated me for a few blocks, so I was getting' a little paranoid that he'd seen me checkin' my maps. If he pulled me over and saw that laptop on my passenger seat, it was all over, I'd be doing 15-20 (dollar fine) for "Distracted Driver." I kept my cool, though, shot him a little salute, and he drove on.

I finally got to the offices of Next New Networks, purveyors of Barely Political, Veracifier, and a bunch more. Look, Gonzo journalism means you only have to report shit that you notice. So, when I get there, I find Ben, and he's, like, nine feet tall. "Geez, you're taller than I thought."

"Tommy, great to meet you. This is Rusty...," he said, motioning to an auburn-haired gent of mortal height.

I shook Rusty's proffered mitt. "You're a little out of practice, huh?"

Quizzical look. "Rusty..." Annoyed recognition. Score! Rusty is a "Producer," whatever that means.

Ben took me for a tour of the place, including a space that I kept referring to as a "writer's room," but which he kept saying was "just a conference room." Argumentative f#@k, I thought.

I got to see them working on their next new video, which I can't tell you about because it's a secret. Luckily, I don't really remember much about it anyway, and since Gonzo journalists don't take notes, the next opus is safe.

I met Obama Girl. Well, half of Obama Girl, the half that does the singing, Leah Kauffman, who did the vocals on the original "Box in a Box" video. She was either a little under the weather or a lot annoyed, since I tried my best to say exactly what the 12,000 previous people who recognized her had said.

There was a weird tendency toward guys with 2 first names, which I wondered if they had done to lull me. Clever. Michael Stevens was a freelance editor in for the week from Chicago, hometown of Reverend Wright, which obviously made the guy a PLO supporter. Then, there was Mark Douglas, comedian and star of the "Sex Scandals" video.

There was a writer named Tom, who had that, "Oops! Does my hair look messy?" look that took him an hour and half a pound of gel to achieve, who watched an episode of BallWitness News, my homemade news parody show, with me. I'm glad he didn't insult me with polite laughter, we're too classy for that.

I got to see the studio, which was, surprisingly, only slightly bigger and better-equipped than my garage. I actually have a better green screen than they do. But, hey, it's like I told Rusty, it's the writers that really make the magic happen.

I also met Marc Boxser (the "S" is apparently silent), who is the Network Manager and oversees 4 of the company's networks. Later that night, I would offend the British ex-pat with a hackneyed joke about English food, but for now, I had made a valuable contact.

The plan was, we would shoot the shit for awhile at the office, then head out to a comedy show at 9. To help me blend in with these urban hipsters, I cleverly attired myself to look like their Secret Service detail.

So, at quittin' time, Leah and the other hot girls whose names I didn't get all fled the joint and left us to tramp over to the comedy show ourselves, a moveable sausagefest. As we swaggered out into the misty night, we engaged in the banter of creative geniui, tossing about the bons mots like a mobile Friar's Roast.

Almost immediately, I began to distribute cigarettes to several of my younger companions, at their behest, as though my punk energy had infected them and pulled them into my own hellward spiral. We got to the subway station, and Mike was having trouble working the Metrocard machine. As the train pulled up, Mike was still trying to reason with the machine, and we all bolted for the train, the natives swiping the interlopers through.

I got to the car ahead of Ben, just as the doors closed on my forearms, freezing me in the Wonder-Woman-Blocking-Bullets pose. As I struggled against the doors, Ben body-checked me into the car, and we embarked, the peril vanished.

When we got to the bar, the bouncer was studiously checking ID's, with the exception of mine, which he gave a mere cursory glance. "Nice." I intoned.

So, the place, Jimmy's No 43, only served beer and wine. I can't stand beer, but I couldn't decipher the wine list, so I ordered a beer called "Chimay", and hoped for the best. As I waited for my comrades to get their drinks, a sweet-looking honey sat down next to me. She looked like a blonde Tina Fey. So I said, cleverly, "Y'know, you look like a blonde Tina Fey."

"Really? You think so?"

"Marc, back me up here. Blonde Tina Fey?"

Marc, still stinging from the English food crack, decided to throw a block. "Yeah, the glasses."

She looked up at me and said, "Sometimes, I get Anna Farris."

I could see that. Good combo. I took a swig of my beer, which Mike told me was made by Belgian Monks, and made a face usually reserved for electrocution victims. Anna/Tina smiled, and I said, "I don't know what's worse, ordering a Smirnoff Ice or making that face."

She laughed, and I strode off coolly into the comedy room, leaving her broken heart in my wake.

The show was funny, as I worked my way most of the way through that beer. As usual, I laughed when nobody else did. On one of our periodic smoke breaks, I regaled the fellas with my journalism war stories, and made really helpful suggestions for videos they could do, which is probably awesome for them. They probably can't wait to come to my job and suggest ways for me to pile my claim forms.

Eventually, I confronted Ben with my suspicion, and he laughed. Well-played, Relles.

After the show (and a quick New York slice), I took a cab back to the lot where my car was parked. I asked the driver who he liked in the election. "Whoever the Democrat is, We don't 'ave a nominee yet."

Good man.

Obama Girl never showed up, but it's my understanding that she gets nervous around edgy, punk-rock Gonzo journalists, so it was probably for the best. As The City disappeared behind me, and Jersey loomed ahead, I thought, "Nice work, Tommy. They never knew what hit 'em."


Here's a playlist of some of my favorite Barely Political videos. Hope you enjoy them.