By the time I publish my recap of RFK Jr.'s appearance in Philadelphia, it's been 10 days since his big announcement at Independence Hall. I don't expect the piece to do much since his independent shift is old news by now, but the images and the lively details from the trip are still worth a read. Quality comes before urgency in this space, even in current events.
After I post the recap, I head out for groceries to restock a barren fridge situation, relieved to have scratched this story off my list. This East Coast jaunt marks our first point of travel to track the election year the way I prefer it covered: a madcap mix of journalistic prowls, tracked with audacious fervor, to present weird, wild, and emotional chronicles of what is shaping up to be an especially savage election year. This plan—to hit the road sporadically—will require extreme spontaneity and constant flexibility over the coming months. My traveling crew involves a rotating cast of family members and friends, along with independent hires working with a combined effort to cover the campaign trail with gusto, from a woman's perspective—a vantage I see slightly subdued amidst the surge of male personalities that currently dominate the political arena.
Undoubtedly, the loud podcast guys can't carry the year alone.
"No one is writing about politics for women," I've been complaining for months until it occurred to me that I could try it myself—to approach the election in a way that engages my audience (who are still somewhat divided on the left and right), to scrape into print all the things I'm fascinated by that are missing from standard campaign coverage. A mix of substantial and frivolous musings to examine these candidates in depth, but also judge merchandise and fundraiser events, clock fashion, relay gossip, and revive scandals in hopes that we might lean into a renewed love of political fodder without the divisive injection that turns us away from mainstream coverage. Taking back the reins to override corporate media feels nothing short of revolutionary.
Leave it to women to make media wars look "fun."
In line at Trader Joe's, my phone is buzzing. Texts and email alerts are pouring in. Frazzled, I pay and rush out to my car to figure out what's going on, dropping a bag full of canned corn and cajun black beans as I do.
The messages are from various sources connected in multiple ways to Kennedy's team—all of them women, all hugely supportive of me—who are frantic because they assume the twist at the end of the Philly recap that hints at redirecting focus to Trump means they've "lost me" for good. They are convinced my interest in RFK is tainted because my interview was canceled. On top of the apologies, they're determined to find out "who did it." In each of these phone calls, I brush away their concern. "It's not a big deal," I tell them. "I swear."
Early on, I made a conscious decision not to take anything in this political season personally. A canceled interview is not going to affect my coverage of Kennedy. He's the most exciting guy in the ring by far. And for anyone burned out by the bitter political feuds we've been subjected to these past few years, he's the only viable alternative to consider to avoid a dreaded repeat of Biden vs. Trump.
I tell them that access (or lack thereof) won't hinder my interest in him.
Despite my reassurance, a few women vow to figure out what went wrong. Mind you; this is how passionate ladies on a mission operate, with cunning dedication to exposing "villains" if they sabotage something they want or believe in. I can't help but love them for it. I'd be the same way on the other end of this.
Their intensity is justified. They want Kennedy in the White House and know that he needs all the help he can get from independent influence since mainstream media has all but ravaged his reputation. Until he can set foot on a national debate stage, he's going to need an army of shrewd translators to break through the bullshit and the bias to amplify his visions. Basically, they want me to help shake off the "crazy" conspiracy guy image they're up against.
Their confidence in me is flattering. "Bobby will be the new Johnny Depp!" one of them writes. "You're the only one who can tell his story right," she insists. "When you do, everyone will understand him!"
The comparison is not entirely outlandish. My dedication to decided subjects typically entails obsessive investment. If I'm curiously absorbed, I want to know and explain everything about them. Obviously, Kennedy's heritage is an alluring hook. Months ago, I said I would not touch his role in this election until "it was time." I knew how his backstory would grip me. Prominent families in power have always been my forte. It's apparent in how extensively I've covered the Maxwells, the Windsors, and the Clintons, to name a few.
The Camelot crew, though, is unmatched. And RFK's presidential bid offers the ideal excuse to dive deep into the remarkably loaded saga of America's tragically fated royal family. It's also a fabulous excuse to shift public interest away from the fatal decline of our current fascination with, say, a vapid Kardashian empire. This is also always a driving motivation of mine. To steer interest away from what I loathe in culture. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
The only explanation for my cancellation was that I was maybe "too controversial." This, I scoffed at, considering I'm controversial for many of the same reasons Kennedy is controversial. "I'm only considered controversial because I believe in and defend most of the major topics he's running his campaign on," I tell the source on a call that day. "Only controversial people will cover him fairly, anyway." She agrees, laughing on the other end of the phone.
This whole contrarian notion is based on sexist standards used to hinder outspoken women in the media, anyway. Men with big opinions not only get away with being brash and unapologetic in their worldviews—they're applauded for it. When women do the same thing, we are mocked and judged harshly.
Later in the day, someone sends Kennedy the link to my Substack, suggesting the Philly review be added to their official media page. However, this person sends it to him before they've read the conclusion. When they do, they write him back immediately, saying never mind. "I didn't read the end."
Despite the brevity in this dismissal—or perhaps because of it—Kennedy ends up reading (and liking) the recap.
At the end of the night, folding laundry in my office alone after a long day of scattered communication to diffuse this unexpected issue, I see a message from an unknown number. When I pick up my phone, I see another contact I recognize introducing Robert Kennedy Jr. on text. He doesn't know why or when my interview was canceled, but he's writing to offer me a renewed invitation to hike with him again.
His consideration is refreshing. I accept promptly with thanks.
The Kennedy campaign ladies are delighted when things are mended. But now we only have a couple days to spare. They’re eager to help me determine what my content should include from this brief gathering. They’re wondering how much time I need for an interview.
“I don’t want an interview,” I tell them. “I’m more interested in this van I keep hearing about. The one he uses to transport the dogs to hiking trails?”
Interviews on hikes have been a reoccurring scenario in Kennedy’s campaign. In a Newsweek article in July, reporters also documented Kennedy on a hike with the dogs. The title: Newsweek asks Robert F. Kennedy Jr: Why Not Stop the Conspiracy Theories?
"You mean keep my mouth shut?" Robert F. Kennedy Jr. retorts when Newsweek asks him why he doesn't stop promoting conspiracy theories as he challenges President Joe Biden for the 2024 Democratic nomination.”
"My father told me when I was a little boy that people in authority lie and the job in a democracy is to remain skeptical. I've been science-based since I was a kid. Show me the evidence and I'll believe you, but I'm not going to take the word of official narratives," he explained."
“The way you do research is not by asking authoritative figures what they think. Trusting experts is not a feature of science, and it's not a feature of democracy. It's a feature of religion and totalitarianism," Kennedy said on a hike in mountains a stone's-throw away from his home in one of the pricier neighborhoods in Southern California.”
“Vaccines are a particularly emotive subject for Kennedy. Asking him about anti-vaccine activism is the one thing that stops him in his tracks on the way up the mountain.”
"I've never been anti-vaccine. I'm pro-science," he says. Kennedy said one of his catalysts for involvement in vaccines was a woman who provided him with a stack of research about a supposed relationship between autism and vaccines in 2005.
“Although the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) says vaccines do not cause autism, a vaccine court set up under a no-fault system awarded the woman, Minneapolis psychiatrist Sarah Bridges, $20 million for costs associated with caring for her son, who is autistic and suffers from seizures.”
“Kennedy also speculates over a possible link between vaccines and his strained voice, caused by spasmodic dystonia he got when he was 42.”
In lieu of an interview, I request a ride in the van, knowing the impact of an intimate visual on my following, who have come to expect and appreciate that as a steady feature. Surprise cameos are always a hit. Those new to Kennedy might not sit down to listen to him in a two-hour-long podcast, but I know the Internet well enough to be sure everyone will pause to watch him at the wheel or rolling up shirt sleeves on a dusty trail with a pack full of dogs in frame.
“The Van. Sure. Done,” I’m told.
Denise and I arrive early Monday morning and are gathered around his inner courtyard, talking with a small group, when a beat-to-shit taupe minivan shoots into the driveway without warning. Immediately, I wonder, "Who let this guy in?" I know all about Kennedy's safety issues, so seeing an abrupt intruder instantly puts me on edge until I see it's Bobby Kennedy in the driver's seat. He is the intruder. The van is uglier, older, and filthier than I imagined.
After he greets everyone and wanders upstairs to change out of a navy blue sweatshirt with the outline of a white fish on the back, the rest of us head into his home to use the restroom and grab a glass of water before we tackle the hike.
On our way in, we catch Conor Kennedy, fresh out of the shower, coming down the staircase. He introduces himself to each of us with a stern handshake and direct eye contact. He is stunningly handsome.
"Hi, I'm Conor," he says, with wet hair and kindly sloping brown eyes: his chiseled cheekbones and strong nose, both notoriously Kennedy-esque.
"Oh. My. God," one of the younger ladies in the group mouths silently, standing behind him, just out of view. On our ride over, she read aloud the lyrics to a song Taylor Swift allegedly wrote about Conor after they broke up. Like all her songs, the lyrics bore me to tears.
And we walked down the block to my car
And I almost brought him up
But you start to talk about the movies
That your family watches every single Christmas
And I want to talk about that
And for the first time, what's past is past
'Cause you throw your head back laughing like a little kid
I think it's strange that you think I'm funny 'cause he never did
I've been spending the last eight months
Thinking all love ever does is break, and burn, and end
But on a Wednesday in a café, I watched it begin again
Conor is one of four boys in this household. In the two times I've been to this house, tall, good-looking men appear around every corner at any given minute. Watching them enter and exit through white French side doors is like the best pages of Getty images coming to life right in front of you. The kind of mundane but dazzling domestic scenes I'm instinctively drawn to.
The back of the van is seatless. After Kennedy is mic'd up, he offers to grab my film guy a seat. When he does, I pray that the film guy (his name, I learn that morning, is Blaine) declines. Thankfully, he does.
On the ride over, I tell Bobby about my plans to head to the East Coast in the coming days to document the fisherman coalition his friend Keith, "the oyster guy" I met in Philly, is forming. My plan is to shadow him while he canvasses around surrounding towns on the edges of Cape Cod. We plan to visit New Hampshire for a local meet-up to watch how townspeople strategize on spreading the word to get Bobby on the ballot. The kind of grassroots efforts many of us still need to be reminded of in a digital era.
While explaining this, I'm noting everything in my peripheral vision. The van's interior is utterly wrecked and eroded by the dogs. The armrests are wrapped in duct tape, the seatbelts are chewed off, and the buttons on his dashboard are missing knobs. Weirdly, I feel at home in this setting. In our community, beat-up vans go hand in hand with surfers who typically live out of them. Up until two years ago, I drove one myself—an old Ford Econoline with springs pushing through the seat on the passenger side, no working AC, and mildly shredded upholstery. If anything, this rugged mode of transpiration, in my opinion, only adds to his appeal, especially for those of us who gag over the opposite version of him —a slickly polished politician like Gavin Newsom, whose car and home, I imagine are as sterile as his soul. Everything is in place—everything for show.
A few minutes into our commute, Bobby asks where I'm staying on this East Coast jaunt. I hesitate to confess that I'm not sure. The hotels recommended to us are all booked, but I tell him we'll figure it out soon. Without much pause, he offers his house as an option. If we don't want to stay at his house, he has another hotel he can check in on for us. The invitation is genuine. Surely, I think, he must be talking about a nearby rental he owns. The only house I associate with him is the one on the compound—the iconic setting of Camelot, where he kept Joe Hagen waiting an hour.
When we pull up, all the participating hikers are lined across the street waiting on us. He takes a sharp turn to secure the odd angle of the parking spot with a sharp jolt, the front wheel clipping a curb, and the film guy slides a couple of feet forward. Everyone across the street who sees it is laughing.
Bobby pulls a stash of treats out of the glove box for the hike, then unlocks the door to free three dogs who shoot out the sliding door and dart across the street with fury and no leashes. I snap a quick Polaroid of him crossing the road with the van in frame. The metal shovel in his hand replaces any need for plastic waste bags.
The trail is primarily uphill; no one told me this. I take one look and decide it is an "advanced" feat for someone who doesn't hike. I silently curse how much LA folk love to hike. I envision something like “Coffee with Kennedy” could be another option down the line. But because I read too much into everything, I'm wondering if the extra steep incline is meant to underscore his political plight, which is indeed viewed as an uphill climb by just about everyone (outside his team) that I talk to, who are still seriously doubting his legitimacy in this race.
Things I note on the uphill trek: I’m out of breath quickly. It occurs to me that if I expect to keep up with these candidates, Kennedy in particular (for a year), enhanced stamina will be crucial. He’s tall and has a long stride. The open-heeled hiking sandals he wears look straight out of a Ron DeSantis nightmare. He breezes up the track without growing winded. He wears Levis to hike and work out despite stretch restrictions. His sense of confidence is palpable in every aspect of his demeanor. His command over the dogs is impressive. They sit at his feet like loyal disciples when he talks about the $15 million it will cost to land his name on the ballot now that he’s running independently. In this explanation, he expands on the dirty games the DNC plays to keep people like him from gaining steam or threatening a corrupted two-party system.
“They’re the ones who write the rules, and their rules make it very very difficult to get on the ballot,” He says. “And they don’t want anyone who criticizes their corporate funders.”
At the top of the hill, he expands on how his lifelong love of falconry came about and what his family life and routine were like growing up. When I ask if all his siblings were “adventurous,” he answers it wasn’t an option but a way of life.
On the way down the hill, I am introduced to Alicia Silverstone. She’s down to earth and easy to talk to. She fills us in on her latest film—an erotic thriller—and catches me when I slip on loose rocks. When she asks to see the soles of my shoes, I’m embarrassed to reveal imposter sneakers. Wrong shoes for a hike, she confirms.
At the bottom of the hill, Bobby is in a hurry to make it to the gym before his next interview. His morning schedule is tight: he starts with an early morning sober meeting, then a hike to complete his meditations, then the gym, and onto a day of stacked events and appearances. At 69, he appears entirely unfazed by an increasingly grueling campaign schedule. But in combining weeks, hiking opportunities like this will quickly shrink away.
Alicia gives me a ride back to Kennedy’s house to finish up a couple of things. When she turns her head to the backseat to tell me something, her inflection is instantly recognizable as Cher Horowitz. This sparks a ridiculous urge to clap, but I refrain.
Back at the house, Bobby’s Godson, David, hands Alicia and me two cups of espresso. Standing at the island sipping it, I’m hypnotized by the woman at the counter meticulously chopping carrots and tossing them into a giant bowl of mixed raw vegetables.
Behind her the dogs are running wild around the house. They are amped up and wrestling each other on the floor, then the couch, then the entryway. No one seems to mind.
We are brought into Bobby’s office. He’s not there, so my nosey inclinations are unleashed. I scan titles on wall-to-wall bookshelves crammed with varied topics, perfectly cluttered by family heirlooms, framed photos, and textured taxidermy. Multiple desks in this small space are piled with files and paperwork, books, notepads, and a stack of posters for an old Hunter S. Thompson documentary. Everything looks worn, well read, well-loved.
After I record a quick interview with Landon Clements in the backyard, where bird sounds and butterflies are everywhere, I go to collect my things, but everything is missing: My sunglasses, stack of Polaroids, and my second phone. David kindly conducts a treasure hunt to retrieve them all. The fact that I’m sounding the alarm on the “find my iPhone” app at a presidential hopeful’s house is absurd, but also the truest testament to my aloof tendencies to misplace everything all the time, no matter where I am and who I’m with.
I find the phone, and we’re off for lunch at the organic market down the street from his house to discuss edits and trade gossip about the morning.
The next day, I call Keith, the”Oyster Guy,” to inform him that plans have changed. I tell him about Bobby’s offer: Our hotel issues have been solved. I don’t ask what house he’s referring to.
Later, though, when I need the address to ensure that my film is delivered, the one I am given is that of the compound. My heart swells. I have to text someone, anyone, to relay the thrill of it.
Late that night, I call another contact for details to determine guidelines for this visit. I know Kennedy is unfamiliar with me, my style, and my content. Is he aware of what someone like me might do with an invite like this?
“I’m just wondering,” I rephrase the question, “was this invitation because he’s a nice guy? Or does he realize I will stay there and write in great depth about every detail in that house and on that property?”
On the other end of the line, I’m met with a short delay.
“I’m asking if he knows that by inviting me in, he’s inviting a million equally curious people in, too?”
“Hmmm…maybe both,” the source says. “As far as I know, Bobby’s never allowed a journalist at the house overnight without a family member present. Honestly, you might be the first.”
The thought of it knocks at my brain. It’s hard to grasp how and why so many of my dreams are manifesting now as reality.
After we hang up, I sit unmoving at the desk in my office, staring blankly across the hillside that has fallen dim under a sinking sun, wondering how—and by what mystically charged twist of fate—I ended up here: ordering Polaroid film to the Kennedy compound and checking weather reports for Cape Cod. Bound for a weekend at an iconic American landmark with no rules, restrictions, or expectations attached.
Up Ahead
Pt. 3: RFK Jr at the Top of the Hill: A Short Video Discussing His Love of Falconry + Financial Obstacles that Plague Him as an Independent + His Family’s Homelife Growing Up
Pt. 4: Inside the Kennedy Compound
Pt. 5: A Look Back: Kennedy’s Childhood Told Through Excerpts of His Book
NYC: TRUMP IN COURT + other recent ‘on the road’ adventures
"My father told me when I was a little boy that people in authority lie and the job in a democracy is to remain skeptical."
Well, HELL, if that ain't relevant right now.
I've followed RFK on twitter during the pandemic because he was one of the few that made sense. My aunt was permanently injured by the MMR vaccine as an infant - the doctor said it was okay even though her immune system was down - she immediately had a seizure and fell limp. She's been a permanent vegetable ever since and cannot do a single thing for herself. That scared me as a child hearing that story from my dad and always have been skeptical of injecting/inputting anything unnatural in the body since. Also highly recommend his interview on Joe Rogan's podcast if you haven't listened to it yet. Anyways, I'm absolutely loving this series, Jess. Excited for your additional installments!