What I Saw Trailing Candidates for 5 Months in New Hampshire

From Esquire

That temple of democracy, that maker of presidents. Iowa, that fraud-anyone can bus old people to a school gymnasium to "caucus." Flash 'em a nice box of crullers, they'll follow you anywhere. President Santorum won Iowa. President Huckabee, too. But we are not a herd, we don't caucus (what even is that?), and it is in New Hampshire where we as a people at last stride alone into a somewhat private space and vote. Where we give the imaginary presidents a spoonful of reality, where we dash a lot of dreams and send them back to cable television where they belong.

But those dreams must have been based on something. At least at the beginning. Every one of these people woke up one morning, did some complex calculations on a napkin, and said, "Yup, there's my path to victory! I'm president!" So everyone has a rationale, everyone has at least some fuzzy math to set them on the great adventure of asking strangers in bait shops and strip malls for the most power in the world. Or more like it, everyone does a lot of magical thinking. As Democratic strategist Paul Begala says, "Their mommas shoulda just told 'em no, but they didn't have the heart."

Which leads to a question: Just what kind of nutjob thinks of him- or herself as president? These kinds, that's who.They are brave, these nutjobs, admirable, these nutjobs, for subjecting themselves to us, the people. And they all had their reasons, too, some of them better than others, as they descended on this beautiful state of small towns where, on February 9, the populi will vox. It is here that they stooped to conquer. But most of them just stooped.-Mark Warren