Blind Allegiance to Sarah Palin Read Online Free PDF

working for the campaign, my naively sincere offer struck the right chord. With little more than this brief introduction, Sarah invited me inside the campaign. As I’ve learned since, only in Alaska is it possible to be invisible one day and in the middle of a political movement the next. After all, I’m just an amateur musician and former airline manager of average height, balding, with a hefty build. I have a wife, whom I love deeply, and two wonderful children, along with a German shepherd named Shiloh and a cat named Kalsin (named after a picturesque bay in Kodiak). I have a hankering for burgers, fries, shakes, and most anything sweet and salty. We live modestly in middle-class South Anchorage, about twenty-five minutes from downtown. If Sarah were an unlikely political icon, my future intimate role—in her election, governance, and resignation—was even more so. As I made plans to turn my life inside out at the age of thirty-five and devote massive amounts of time in pursuit of landing Sarah Palin in the governor’s office, I felt light-headed. What an adventure lay ahead. I walked away convinced that if my future boss applied her potential to running the state, better days lay ahead. This woman from Wasilla had a down-home charisma, a laudable work ethic, and she would
never
lose her ideals.
    In hindsight, I guess I forgot the adage “Never say never.”

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    Rag Tags: On
Your Marks, Get Set, Go
    Part of my message is to let swing voters know I recognize
the Governor’s job is to serve all Alaskans, all parties,
not just members of the party in which I’m registered.
    â€”SARAH PALIN, EMAIL TO VOLUNTEERS,
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2005
    I n November 2005, driving my weary blue 1997 Isuzu Trooper SUV, I barreled along the Seward Highway under a white canopy of a sky that blended in with the snowcaps of Sleeping Lady Mountain and distant dormant volcanoes. I was armed with a five-gallon bucket of tools, including a paintbrush, toilet bowl cleaner, and a hammer, and there was never a man more ready to roll up plaid sleeves, get down on denim-covered knees, and do “work unto the Lord” than me. Window washer, painter, gofer deluxe, whatever it took was more than okay.
    I was on my way to Palin campaign central in Anchorage. After passing an Avis car-rental dealer and an adult bookstore, I pulled up to the curb in front of the ground-floor office. White butcher paper covered the windows as if to hide whatever went on inside, casting back my reflection. Short of breath, I felt goofy and reminded myself,
Don’t forget to smile, be confident; let Sarah know how grateful you are
.
    A pessimist might suggest that the building’s grimy exterior, cracked cement and brick, and rusted railings foreshadowed a future with crumbling dreams, but as an incurable optimist, I saw the reverse. To me, the disrepair of the headquarters, which was the formerhome of the Alaska Aces minor league hockey team administration, symbolized the current sorry state of Alaskan politics. In a moment, I’d enter and meet a team of people who had the heart and soul to fix ’er up into a shining jewel. As I surveyed the chosen building for launching a governor, I decided that—modest digs aside—this location had merit. On the corner of busy West Fifth Avenue and B Street, the eventual campaign banners would attract plenty of eye contact from pedestrians and drivers. The offices were set within a building that housed the well-worn 5th Avenue Mall parking garage, the far end of which had a sky bridge leading to the trendy shopping area anchored by the Nordstrom department store. Traffic noise and busy streets were perfect for campaigns operating on a shoestring.
    As I’d soon discover, we were a half lace short at that.
    I yanked open the metal door, which stuck against the base plate before yielding. Water-stained overhead tiles and spotted blue carpet led to an elongated lobby with a