Tuesday: Dems on Cells
Our bus makes its way to Staples Center through a neighborhood of squat white and pink houses and small shops with signs mostly in Spanish. The sky over LA is brown. Locals tell me it used to be worse, and I'm sure it was -- and that today is a bad smog day, and I'm sure it is. But the green hills and the blue sky barely shimmer through the grainy brown smog.
As we near the convention hall, we pass a row of police cruisers. Officers are sitting and standing by their cars, sipping water. Our bus stops. Far ahead I can see a line of protesters carrying green signs.
"Do we have to wait for the whole protest march?" the woman in the seat ahead of me asks. "Can't they stop it like the Macy's parade?" Since it's an orderly union rally, it turns out they can -- and do.
I get off the bus, pass through security, and enter the hall. A large table has been set up to sell Gore buttons and T shirts and bumper stickers. People stand in groups talking into cell phones. Other people rush to and fro. I buy an iced tea. One good way to seem important is to get four or five people to flank you (at least two of them talking on cell phones) and walk quickly through a semi-crowded area. Several people make good use of this technique as I stand, phoneless and flankless.
Halfway up the sides of the hall the network news booths, loudly advertising themselves, hang as if to remind us at whom the happenings on the floor and at the podium are really directed.
Reverend Jackson takes the podium and gives an energetic speech that stays largely "on message." He reiterates Al Gore's desire to fight for working families and refers to the Republican leadership as the "grisly old team": Lott (boo), Armey (boo), Barr (BOO), Thurmond (BOOOOOOO). He speaks of the Bush administration's failures and says, "I say, America -- stay out of the Bushes!" The crowd takes up the chant. At one point he calls for a moratorium on the death penalty -- standing O from the crowd -- and at another indirectly praises the protestors outside by listing historic changes that started as protest movements -- the end of segregation, the Voting Rights Act, the release of Nelson Mandela. He leaves the stage after leading his trademark chant, "Keep hope alive! Keep hope alive!"
My hope is for food. And I get it. After Jackson' speech I go out onto a terrace and eat a mini grilled Tuscan chicken sandwich. A group of protestors are in the lot, listening to a speaker who I can't hear. A few of the group have come to the chain link fence that encloses the lot at the point nearest the hall and are holding up signs that read "Iraqi children are not our enemies" and "Sanctions kill 200 Iraqis every day." On our terrace, two bartenders pour free drinks. Long tables hold sandwiches, coffee, veggies and dip, cheese and crackers, cookies.
"It took two hours to get to the hall last night through all the protestors," a woman complains.
Inside, a promotional video features a Harvard classmate of Gore's explaining the leadership qualities Gore showed while choosing up sides in touch football games. In another video, Gore's high school basketball coach explains that Al was the go-to guy on the team.
East Coast television prime time is getting close, and that means soon Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg will speak. The hall fills up. She makes her way to the podium amidst a prolonged standing ovation, her white dress, my sister points out, "a major choice." She tells the story that Al Gore's parents had been partly responsible for setting up her parents. People dab at teary eyes with tissues and handkerchiefs.
Blue signs with "Caroline" written in white shimmy over the heads of thousands of delegates. She is dignified and calm, hitting applause lines only a touch harder than regular lines, and she, too, is on message: working families, health care, the Supreme Court. At the end of her remarks, she introduces her uncle, Senator Ted Kennedy.
Senator Kennedy takes the podium to the blaring of the song "Still the One." He gives his niece an emotional thank you and tells the story of President Kennedy finding out he'd won the 1960 election by having three-year-old Caroline jump up and down on his bed saying "Good morning, Mr. President."
Bill Bradley speaks next, taking the podium to the loud strains of "Start Me Up." His entrance doesn't get people up, however. Bradley calls his run for the presidency a "joyous journey. . . I have the scars to prove it," and challenges America not to be conservative with its compassion.
When Bradley is finished, it's designated cell phone time. Harold Ford Jr., the keynote speaker, talks about young people getting involved in politics (at only 31, he is a young person involved in politics) and the magnificent moment at which America finds itself as a nation. It is definitely a magnificent moment for the Congressman.
When he finishes I go back out to the roof deck. The food tables have been cleared away. Across the street, a few lingering protesters lean against the fence chanting something I can't hear. Beyond the lot, eight or 10 klieg lights sweep the sky. Secure in the knowledge that Al Gore is fighting for them, people are talking about which party to go to.
I get three friends and exit the building walking fast, flanked by three people, two of whom have cell phones. The line of people leaving the convention area had to narrow to pass through a gate to leave, and as we come through there is a mix of protestors ("Corporate money owns our democracy!") and profiteers ("Lick Bush" T-shirts) meet us. "You're the cheapest people I've ever seen," the T-shirt guy yells at someone. I hail a cab and head to one of the parties.
[Top]
Wednesday: The Three-Convention Drop
I get on the bus outside the hotel hoping to nap a bit on the way to the hall. The sheriff's deputy who rides with us asks, loudly enough for about the front third of the people on the bus to hear, if anyone has watched the news for an update on the protests. He says we might have to take the long way around the convention hall to avoid delays. No one has seen the news.
My nap is thwarted by a couple, Florida delegates, who engage everyone in ear shot in three conventions worth of name-dropping. In '92, they got into a skybox with a Rodham. In '96 they crashed the hottest party. This year, Stephen Stills (or, as they call him, Steve) played at their hotel to a very small crowd and they drank a beer with him. The bus moves slowly in traffic. Others try to match them namedrop for namedrop.
The conversation turns back to protests.
"I know peaceful tactics," an earnest young man who has been soundly out dropped says. "Those weren't peaceful tactics I saw the other night.
"It's the Green Party trying to embarrass the Democrats. The protestors I saw all had Green Party/Nader signs."
I know I've been on the bus too long when the Florida husband repeats one of his wife's name-drops (re-drops) to another passenger.
Inside it seems more crowded than last night and the excitement level seems higher. I make my way to a seat up high, passing the mezzanine level, on which a lavish buffet has been set up. I get to a seat in time to watch people with big light green plastic bags move out onto the convention floor, distributing blue and white "Hadassah" signs.
Soon enough, Hadassah emerges. She refers to her husband as "Joey." The "Hadassah" signs shoot up all around the hall. In the Kansas delegation, a woman in an enormous sunflower hat nods vigorously at most of what Mrs. Lieberman says. The people with the light green bags emerge again, this time passing out red and white "Lieberman" signs on sticks. I am beginning to sense a pattern, and sure enough, soon Senator Lieberman takes the stage to a prolonged standing ovation. Every seat taken, people are now sitting in the aisles. Lieberman pumps his fist once and the hall bursts out in a chant of "JOE! JOE! JOE!"
During most speeches the hum of conversation in the audience doesn't let up; for Hadassah and now for Senator Lieberman people lean forward, intently catching every word. The red signs wave all over the place. I've learned to watch Lieberman's eyebrows: When he delivers a zingy line, he opens his mouth slightly and raises his eyebrows as if to say, "Hey, that worked out all right!" Poker players have "tells" -- I'd like to play poker with him sometime. "Bring it home doctor!" a man nearby yells. An elderly black woman calls out "Mmm-hmmm!" and "That's right!" at his good lines.
In the middle of a prolonged "GO JOE GO!" chant, which is accompanied by much foot pounding, I notice the big green bags again, this time full of navy blue and white "GORE" signs. I wonder if the pattern is being broken, since Gore isn't supposed to show until tomorrow night.
Lieberman leaves the stage with U2's "Pride" blasting. Around me, the younger folks sing along.
In a few minutes, the mystery of the Gore signs is solved, as the candidate himself runs out on the stage to wave at the crowd to the tune of "You Are The Sunshine of My Life." I ask the young woman next to me if Gore is the sunshine of our lives, or is his daughter, who seconded his nomination, the sunshine of his. Or is the message of inclusion really sunshine for all of us. She asks me to not speak to her anymore.
The roll call for Gore's nomination is coming up, so I decide it's time to wander the convention floor. I ride the escalator down. The buffet has been cleaned up; workers are carting trays and garbage about.
On the ground floor I enter the hall again. A narrow lane leads into the midst of the state delegations, and it takes a while to work my way down.
The people down here are covered in buttons, hats, and stickers; most of them have at least one or two of the signs that have been passed out. I begin to feel claustrophobic. Press people with pads are leaning into their interviewees, nodding. Staffers in orange vests beg people to keep the aisles clear. TV cameras are everywhere, their bright lights bleaching the faces of those chosen to be interviewed. A guy with a big, empty light green plastic bag rushes by. A woman with an enormous "No SOB" (Son of Bush) button pushes past me. I am pressed against a wall. People all around me are shrieking into cell phones.
I decide I must push further into the throng. Photographers with enormous packs and lenses hanging off every available appendage tread heavily through the narrow aisles, whacking people around with their equipment, pausing whenever they see a shot they like.
I make it to a wide hallway near the Massachusetts delegation, where several people have repaired to make calls. Staffers with walkee talkees pace busily, clearing aisles, telling people where they can't stand. Above me, at the podium, the roll call is proceeding. I decide to make one more pass across the floor before the nomination is complete, but the aisle it totally blocked; the entire CNN crew has decided to have a live shot just below the podium and people are stopping to look. Orange-vested folks are pushing us along. Behind me a bearded man says into a walkee talkee, "Ok, just tell everyone to cancel the last order and meet at Maine. Roger."
Back in the hallway a man in a stars and stripes yarmulke is talking into a cell phone. People are beginning to leave the hall in large numbers, many of them schlepping armloads of signs. Where are the good parties? Where can anyone get in?
For ten dollars you can buy a personalized Gore/Lieberman button -- your name above pictures of the candidates. TV monitors are showing the roll call. Lots of people have cell phones with earpieces, which lends a certain secret service quality to their rushing to and fro. Several people have commandeered big green bags and stuffed them with souvenir signs.
The big party tonight, I have heard, is the George Magazine party. I'm not even cool enough to be told where it is. It turns out the Massachusetts delegation party is in my hotel, so I stop in. The band is wearing shiny gold jackets and ties and black shirts. Free Sam Adams beer is available. A few people are dancing. I sip a beer and watch several elected officials, clearly not elected for their rhythm, boogie down.
When the band plays "La Vida Loca," it's clearly time for me to get to bed.
[Top]
Thursday: Babs on Politics
Everyone around me on the bus is from the Rhode Island delegation. They talk about parties, who gets in where, and about Bush and Cheney. They hope that the debates will be a big help to Al Gore, because they will show how much smarter than George Bush he is. I wonder, for the millionth time this week, what makes anyone think Americans are more likely to vote for an intellectual in a presidential race.
As we pull up to the hall we pass three columns of police, each about 20 officers, quick marching in the direction of the Staples Center. They are in helmets and many are carrying batches of what look like tear gas canisters. Others have thick bunches of the long strips of plastic they use as handcuffs. A woman sitting near me says that last night a delegate leaving the hall got hit in the head by a rubber bullet that had been fired several blocks away.
I decide to go to the press building tonight. It's right next to the main hall. The entrance foyer is like an airplane terminal, complete with a grouping of fast-food places and a long escalator. Banners for all sorts of newspapers and dot-coms line the walls: La Opinion, The Houston Chronicle, Wired.com, Voter.com, Womensnews.org. I run into a friend of mine who writes for a news weekly, who asks if it's true they aren't letting people into the hall for a while because of the protests. I tell him about the police outside looking loaded for bear, but that it looked like people were still being let into the hall.
In rooms off the long, wide hall small groups of people huddle around desks or over computer terminals. In the New York Times room one of the people answering the phones is wearing a Krispy Kreme Donut hat. As I return to the escalator I see a Washington Times banner and wonder why they bothered to come when they could just stick a reporter in front of Fox News, every night and get all the right-wing, Gore-whacking propaganda they need.
I decide to pay a Cheney's ransom for a cup of coffee in the Food court and then make my way outside. Reporters start running past me, so I figure the Vice President must be on pretty soon. I pass through security, through the piles of cell phones. Just inside the main hall a large policeman is calling out "Enjoy the last night of the convention" to anyone and everyone.
I ride another escalator, up and up. The hall is very crowded tonight; every time I try to get a seat I find the aisle crowded three-deep with people. American flag ties, dresses, hats -- not to mention actual American flags -- are everywhere. I'm still in the hallway when I hear the crowd erupt as Gore enters the convention floor; it's just like being at the hot dog stand at Fenway when Nomar hits a home run and you can hear the crowd and feel it all around you but still you're looking at the hot dog guy. I walk quickly to one of the sections behind the stage, where there are still seats.
Outside, on a deck, a buffet table is still very busy. A kid rushes past me with a plastic nacho tray, licking his lips. I am rescued from the cheap seats by a friend who gives me a Suite Level pass, which means I can go down two flights of stairs and sit in a private box. I make my way to one and force my way in. It's overcrowded already. Gore's speech is being shown on three televisions. The room has a couch and a few chairs and a coffee table, which is covered with soda and beer cans, a bowl of chips, and lots of little bowls of dip. I can hear Gore better from the TV but the crowd better from the hall. Someone opens the small fridge and I see it's filled with Budweiser and Evian.
The speech ends and people are high-fiving; the consensus in the room is Gore nailed it. I have procured a ticket to the Nomination Celebration Concert, which is to take place at the Shrine Auditorium, where the Academy Awards or some other awards are given out. When I get there I stand around looking for famous people because the guy who gave me the ticket asked me to tell him who I saw. I don't see any. A lot of older heavy guys with young beautiful women; one of the guys, I am told, owns a major fashion company. I see someone who looks like William Macy but isn't and I see one of the actors from the Usual Suspects, not Kevin Spacey. Someone introduces me to "the guy who produced American Beauty."
That's it, I've let my friend down. The concert, scheduled for 8:30, finally starts at 10:30. Whoopi Goldberg is the host. She wears a blue and white button that says "Gore-Lieberman" in Hebrew. She looks at Gore and says, "Al, the speech kicked ass." The fans go bananas. The first musical act is Boyz II Men, who come out in matching red three-piece suits. During one number one of them walks off the stage, right up to Tipper, singing "I feel you here, Tipper" as he pats his heart. He serenades her and then gets on one knee in front of Hadassah Lieberman. More bananas. Joe smiles.
The different acts sing a lot of slow love songs, though it feels like people want to boogie a little. Enrique Iglasias sings "La Bamba" and people jump around a bit.
Roadies have set up a small table with a red tablecloth and one red rose in a white vase. A curtain rises to reveal a large chorus. At long last, with much fanfare, Barbra Streisand comes out, singing "On A Clear Day You Can See Forever." Somehow, in the middle of the song, she manages to say, "Now all we have to do is get our message out, which you did so brilliantly in your speech" to Gore. After the first song she complains about the camera angle and then explains to us that this will be on TV sometime and camera angles are important. She launches into a long political speech about why we should vote for Gore. I feel that that point has been made already, though I'm glad she has an eye to the eventual TV audience. (Especially later, when I get back to my hotel and hear commentators blasting Gore's speech, which seemed so effective at the time.)
After Babs's last song, Gore comes back on stage and thanks everyone. He asks us again to remember how important this election is and tells us he'll need us to work our hearts out if we're going to win this fall.
Dick Gephardt passes me on the way out. I wonder if he's famous enough to mention to my friend, or if anyone not in LA this week really notices the differences between him and, say, Newt. It's going to be a long fall, I think as I head back to my hotel.
[Top]