On our first morning in Taos, Altheimer discussed the filming of the filming of Don Quixote—and specified the flood scene…which practically begs for disaster to strike this campaign. That may be the contemporary equivalent of saying “Macbeth” in a theater, but Altheimer is sure that if he ever goes to hell, it will look like Taos. “The people of the red willow” turned him into a childish monster. Within the first waking hour of being in this crafty town, we were already plotting our next move.
“Carol Hannah” (“Carol, I mean, Hannah!”) and I went out for a decadent Sunday brunch while the men figured out what they wanted to do. When we returned to the parking lot where Altheimer was meeting with Taos locals and tourists, his anger spilled in front of the camera. He criticized us, the two American females, for being incompetent and careless. “This town is a bunch of hippies! I don’t want to talk to hippies!” He blamed me for putting it on the itinerary. His disregard for his own role as “the decider” seemed to be absent from his criticism of the campaign crises. “This isn’t a campaign anymore! It is just a movie!” He kept throwing his precious ideas notebook at us or onto the ground.
At a nearby café, Altheimer ordered milk and retreated into his silent little boy shell—one I’d only seen glimpses of during the journey. He has reached identity crises with being a leader. When the kind teenage waiter asked Altheimer if he was from Europe, Altheimer just looked at him with a vacant expression. The boy pointed at Altheimer’s tag and slowly said “Europe for President?” Altheimer nodded slowly while sipping on his drink. “I don’t want to go conceptual when I’m having my milk.”
What we managed to squeeze into this dreary day was a campaign commercial filmed on Native American private property (yes, we trespassed).
You’re getting paid for posting this shit?
What shit are you getting paid for friend? Shall we air out our dirty laundry elsewhere?. Please, L.