To me, the ultimate disconnect between the glamorous perception of running for Congress and the harsh reality occurred in the parking lot of a supermarket.

It was my first campaign, and I had spent the morning knocking on doors in an upscale neighborhood in the capital city of my state.

As I usually did in this town, I was staying at the home of some dedicated supporters.

NOTE: Supporters were always offering their homes b/c they thought it would save the campaign some money. Of course, it also meant I was always “on” with the host(s) home I where I stayed. After my first campaign, I decided going forward I would gracefully decline those offers and stay at a hotel instead, just to get some mental downtime.

Though the supporter’s home was only blocks from where I had been campaigning that day, I was both famished and bone-tired, too tired to even go back to their house, so grocery store lunch it was. After deep introspection and deliberation, I settled on the Chinese noodle salad from the deli department and a bottle of Perrier (what can I say? I like bubbly water). Back in the parking lot, I turned on the satellite radio to my favorite music station and settled down for some quality lunchtime.

Mid chew, with a lo-mein noodle stuck in my teeth (true story!), I was startled by a rapping on the driver’s side window. I looked up to see a middle-aged couple standing by the vehicle, with a slightly excited look on their faces.

I opened the window.

“Hi. Are you Joe Wypoxic? We saw the magnets on the side of your car.” Ah, the magnets, one on each side that identified my car as an official “Wypoxic for Congress” vehicle.

Mustering the best campaign smile I could come up with as grocery store Chinese take-out dangled from my lips, I answered, “Yep. I’m Joe.”

“Joe, we’re big fans and just wanted to wish you luck. It’s time for a change.”

“Thanks” I replied, doing my best to surreptitiously slurp the noodle into my mouth. “I really need your support and for you to spread the word. This is going to be a tough battle.”

“We will. Sorry to interrupt your lunch.”

“No problem.”

For a moment, we all stared at each other. They seemed transfixed. Finally, the gentleman mustered up the courage to ask the big question.

“Joe, are you really eating lunch in your car? Where are all your people?”

And there it was—the disconnect.

The perception was that I was running for the United States House of Representatives. I was important, so I must have people. Where were they? My newfound friends couldn’t quite grasp the reality of it all.

“This is it, guys. Just me.”

With that, they smiled, thanked me for running, and moved on.

Me?

In reality, back in my cocoon, all I could think of was a milkshake from the McDonald’s next door and some much-needed sleep that was still hours away.

All of my campaigns were deep grassroots and retail efforts. They basically had to be. As a “non-professional” politician who hadn’t chosen politics as a “career”, my first foray into running for high elected office meant I was basically a “nobody”. The first poll in my first race showed I had statewide name recognition of 3%. Yes - 3%. F*^K.

In a large, rural state, my small but experienced team of 2 people informed me that I would be running a full-on retail campaign. That meant door-to-door and immersing myself in small communities for days on end.

And so it began.

One of the staples of “community immersion” was to hold meet-and-greets at the homes of local supporters where neighbors were invited. All neighbors - supporters, skeptics and detractors alike. These events usually included home-cooked food, potluck bought by attendees, and lots of lubricating liquids - both non-alcoholic (soda) and alcoholic (beer).

I tend to be a bit - well maybe more than a bit - irreverent and my humor tends to have a bit - well maybe more than a bit - of a loving sarcastic bent to it (growing up, all my friends compared my dad to Don Rickles, and if anything, I am a clone of my dad. IYKYK).

At my first meet-and-greet in a small town, things were going swimmingly. Good attendance. Good atmosphere. Good opening talk from me and good questions (both supportive and confrontational) which I answered directly and honestly.

At some point during my talk, someone came up to me with a beer, which I gladly accepted. Even at this first event, I realized as a candidate that eating food was a no go; I was too busy meeting people, socializing and being the center of attention. So, liquids were a seemingly decent substitute until I could eat in peace after the event.

At that first event, I quickly finished the first beer and started on number two. And then the alcohol kicked in - not in any major way, but just enough to loosen me up and fully release my inner Don Rickles. Like I said, loving sarcasm. Of course, I thought I was killing it.

NOTE: I’ve never been a big drinker, but I have always been able to handle alcohol well.

Afterwards, my campaign manager pulled me aside and diplomatically - if giving me a stern, somewhat profane 5-minute lecture can be called diplomatic - told me that I needed to be careful with my words and my humor. That I was “on” and people were always assessing, even if it seemed very social. She didn’t specifically mention the beer, but I got the message.

From that point on, I basically stopped drinking alcohol during my campaigns. Oh - I nursed a beer her and there, but made sure I always had my wits fully about me.