Good advertisers find a clever tie-in for any event. The Trojan condom company has an exhibit on the grounds, believe it or not. They set up a small igloo with a movie theater inside, and an unnervingly perky young lady said it shows a short film about a roller coaster. I’m sure it does. If you’ve seen the end of “North By Northwest,” you don’t have to wonder how they tie the product to the movie. Jack Daniels has put up some handbills:
Cities bid for conventions for the prestige, the honor, the worldwide glory – it’s like the Olympics without the suspiciously underage gymnasts. (There are rumors that the adorable Obama children are actually in their 30s, but no one is taking them seriously.) The conventions could take a page from the Olympics, though – ratings are horrible, and have reached the point where only beach volleyball can save the networks. Bill O’Reilly and Andrea Mitchell in speedos, spriking hard inflated balls at each other’s heads – that might help. At least the outcome of that event might be in doubt.
We’re also told that the conventions are a tremendous economic boon. For hotels and restaurants and bars and taxi drivers who don’t think you know they’re taking the long way, sure. But a tour of downtown Denver off the 16th street mall reveals a downtown unaffected by the event. I’m sitting in a food court at the moment; it’s noon, and the place is mostly empty. Why? It’s three stories above the mall, and tourists can’t be bothered to take an escalator up when there are so many ground-level options.
The manager at the suburban restaurant where I dined last night said the impact of the convention was, and I quote, “Zero.” Freeway traffic seems smooth – the hellishly fast run downtown this morning went as quickly as possible, except for the moment when the driver nearly put us all through the windshield when he hit the brakes to avoid a blue barrel in the middle of the road. Downtown traffic is remarkably smooth, considering that they’ve routed everyone away from the Pepsidrome, and you couldn’t get through the barricades with anything less than an M-1 Abrams. So let me make a prediction:
Traffic between Minneapolis and St. Paul will be slightly worse, since 94 is not set up to handle too much additional traffic, but it won’t be horrible. The warehouse district will be busier, but that’s it. You will still be able to get a table at the Olive Garden in Roseville. (If you must.) Finally, the fellow who spent a lot of money to buy a WELCOME CONVENTIONEERS banner for his coffee shop six blocks off Grand Avenue will be cursing the expense next week.
At least the honor, prestige, and worldwide glory are free.
“The convention people are getting me down,” the waitress said to the bartender. “They’re in such a mood.” I was seated at the bar having supper, and, keen on soaking up Local Attitudes, said that I was a convention person and was not in any mood other than a good one. What was the problem?
“Oh . . .” she frowned, and said “I’m not saying it has anything to do with their politics –“
“There are jerks on all side,” I said, helpfully. “What’s their problem? They want extra mayo?”
She gave me an odd look. “No, they want more towels.”
For a moment I wondered what was going on in the back room, but then I saw the waitress’s uniform: she’d come from the hotel across the street to pick up an order. I had met an unhappy delegate the day before; her luggage had fallen off the cart just as the elevator arrived, and she uttered a heartfelt curse, but she was smiling by the time the elevator reached her floor. (Third.) I had met one in the morning, when the Denver Visitor’s Assistance Bureau assured him, and me, that no shuttle buses were coming to take us downtown, but we could take a city bus if we wanted to walk half a mile. “Is this not an official DNC hotel?” he asked with the cool, civil disdain of a Prussian diplomat.
>“We’re just volunteers,” the lady said, explaining nothing. I noted that I’d been given three different answers on the quarrelsome Shuttle Situation, and ended up taking a cab every time. I was not pleased, but unhappy? This is simply too much fun.
Of course, the more holy access juice you have, the more fun it is. There are varying levels of access. General Citizen Access: forget it. Wire fences stretch around the Pepsi center, and the Secret Service lets in only those who have the proper badges. Minimum access is a Perimeter Pass, which is grey. A Hall pass lets you into Pepsi Proper, and I learned on Monday that some in the Guild of the Hall are quite protective of their turf. I wanted to get up to Blogger’s Row – which is not as exciting as it sounds – and when a nerdy fellow asked the nice information lady the same question, I asked him if I could follow along, since I didn’t catch the elaborate details. He looked at my pass, said I shouldn’t be in the hall, walked over to a security guard, and pointed my way. Of course I did have a Hall Pass; it was on the other side of my credentials. Upon seeing this, Mr. Stick Up His Blog declined to press the issue.
It’s airtight and solid and there are no appeals, and occasionally it’s just ridiculous. A security guard forbade a member of Team Strib from entering from the left side of the press area; the right side, fine, go on in. I observed a famous national talk show host attempting to enter the press area inside the arena; the guards waved him off. (Literally: there were five guards, and four were hearing-impaired, and communicated the harsh truths with definitive gestures.)
He was sent off to an Access Upgrade point, but no one was optimistic about the matter.
So it’s all an onion, peeled – the city beyond, reveling in the reveling, the groundling media permitted to roam the plaza outside the event, the select & elect who can penetrate the hall and behold the mysteries of the interior, and the odd combination of ultra-important media types and ordinary folk who inhabit the floor. Beyond that, there’s stage access.
Don’t even think about it. I asked. Can I take a shot to show the view Mr. Obama will have? Said the Secret Service lady, with her eyes: no.
I could have been carrying an apple, you know.
Who cares if you can’t get down on the floor? The merriment is outside. Not the news; there’s a scant amount of that. Everyone’s outside or hanging around the concourse, and seven-eighths of all people in the concourse are busy taking pictures of something. You cannot help but spoil someone’s shot just by walking to the bathroom. Everyone is so saturated with the moment that it’s hard not to have fun - as we will see in an upcoming video, it’s difficult to resist an event when a giant Captain Morgan starts wading through a staid crowd of delegates, commanding them to follow him to the Playboy mansion.
Doesn’t mean everyone’s ecstatic, of course. When I told the waitress some people might be churlish because they were Hillary supporters who still felt miffed by the way the primaries turned out, she gave me a look I’ve seen a few times in my life:
She had no idea what I was talking about.
Back inside the Pepsi Center. En route from the press area, I ran into a fellow who bears a remarkable, if unfortunate, resemblance to Barack Obama. He was talking to a cop; a camera crew swooped up and started filming, which made everyone else think he was Barack Obama, but eventually everyone realized that Obama probably doesn’t have a press pass. The poor fellow is going to be the subject of double-takes every 30 seconds for the rest of the week. Or the decade.
Inside, delegates and observers are experiencing up-close the thrill of approving the recommendations of the rules committee. You’ve never seen so many people enthused about rules. But it’s more than that, of course; every speaker takes the dais the approval of his own claque, reads an encomium for someone else, and that prompts another delegation to erupt it whoops and applause. Theatrical as these conventions may be, the enthusiasm is always genuine, and it’s a pleasure to see people whoop and cheer for the most mundane aspects of the democratic process.
Howard Dean is back on the podium, and has asked for a second:
“SECOND” shouts some leather-lunger twenty rows up. He’s Tivoing this at home, and will play it for this kids.
That’s me! I was the seconder!
“Is there any discussion?” (Half-nanosecond pause) “Hearing none, I ask for an aye.”
The ayes are duly bestowed. Gov. Dean introduces Nancy Pelosi to great tumult; she introduces someone else in turn. Everyone introduces everyone else in an endless round of praise and thanks; periodically, the speech segues into a video, and the room falls silent for a while before the music kicks in and the Voice of Goddess introduces the next speaker. It’s all seamless, and it rolls over you in endless waves; if someone introduced Cruella DeVille from the Great State of Wyoming she’d get a hand. It’s the polite thing to do.
The hall is mostly empty, though – the Minnesota delegation appears totally absent. What if they ran away? What if their bus was hijacked? What if you had a delegation from a really irresponsible state, and they just decided to bag it and hang out somewhere for the rest of the week? Wouldn’t effect the outcome, but it would be embarrassing on nomination night. The camera would swoop over to the delegation to hear their votes, and there would be 35 empty seats and an usher on a cellphone. What? You cast all your votes for the one who’s ahead so far? Okay, man, I’ll tell them.
There’s a media “spa” and free lunch next to the StarTribune’s media center booth - cold soda, chicken ironed flat by the finest procedures available to modern laundry, the obligatory squares of cheese, a phlanx of ignored celery jutting from the ice, and meatballs so stiff the plastic fork bent in half attempting to cut one. There’s also US Senator sitting three feet from yours truly; he’s using the Strib’s office across from the Media Spa for an impromptu interview. The Senator is Chuck Schumer, I believe - looks like him - from the back, anyway - sounds like him, and many gladhanding folks have either called him “Chuck” or “Senator.” Here, then, is a picture of the back of the head of a powerful member of the United States Government: 
More news as it develops.
Today the security check-in tent has expanded to Ringling dimensions. Same rules: remove everything metallic and electrical. You cannot even think of the concept of steel or even the lesser, more malleable metals, or you will set off the detectors; they’re calibrated to beep if you’ve listened to Iron Maiden in the last 24 hours. All electronic devices must be turned on - but of course by the time you get to your place before the Inquisitors, everything has shut itself off. You hold up the line as you struggle with your STUPID CAMERA, which has a balky button; it will turn on only when pressed for a second, but if you press it too long it turns itself off immediately. Behind you, professional camerapersons fume: rube. I made it through without alarms - or so I thought.”Got another Apple,” said the screener. I actually wondered if they were talking about the make of computer, and were all Mac fans themselves, but no. The secondary screener team plowed through my bags and came up with . . . an apple. ”Can’t bring these in,” said Officer Apple-taker. I asked why, instantly regretting it: Don’t cause a scene, idiot, just move along and accept the loss of an apple as one of those things that happens, unless you really want to wear the plastic bracelets and she said “it could be thrown.”Yes, it could be thrown; it could also be eaten. That was the plan, long ago.”I had to take a peach and a pear too,” she added. Somehow that made it better. A simple, soft, gentle peach was now considered a weapon? Arrr. No roughage, no peace! No roughage, no peace!Once inside I made my way to StarTribune HQ Central; passed Talk Radio Row, where dozens of talk show hosts in the country are seated, in hell. Talk radio is usually performed from a nice comfy booth where everyone takes pains not to make noise; here you’re talking in a hallway with people milling around laughing and talking. Blogger row is different, I imagine - and now I’m off to find it.
Naughty sign at the strippery near the Pepsi center:
. . . or day six, or four, or ought, depending on how long you’ve been here. Officially, Day One. For most, the fun begins today, and the hangovers begin tomorrow.
Or so the National Journal’s special convention edition warns us all. A special editorial tells Denver n00bs that it takes impossibly long to get intoxicated at this altitude. Apparently the body metabolizes alcohol more slowly up here, so people keep pounding ales wondering when they’ll kick in. Eventually, they do, of course, and then spins and moans of regret, followed by the blacksmith’s chorus in the morning.
>We should come up with our own variant for the RNC – warn people that our northern latitudes make the body metabolize beer so quickly they will have to buy two instead of one. It’ll do wonders for the trade.
>I can vouch for the usual effects of coffee, though. Coffee works just fine.
Denver is an impressive city, and to tell the truth I’m somewhat nervous about how the Twin Cities will compare. Turns out Denver has a pedestrian mall as well. It was jammed. Picture the Nicollet Mall twice as long, packed, and full of actual stores and restaurants from start to finish. Since the RNC won’t be anywhere near the Mall, it’s going to look rather thin. And there’s nothing around Xcel in St. Paul that compares to the dining and drinking options near the Pepsi Center. Why did we bid on this? What were we thinking?
Yes, I know, calm down. We’ll do fine.
Sunday was interesting – between the roving protest down the Mall and the chance to wander around the Pepsi floor and watch Katie Couric pick stuff our of her teeth before going on. Note: if ever you want to be famous, consider being Katie, standing under the lights, working out a fragment of recalcitrant broccoli, with dozens of star-struck people holding up camera phones to take a picture. That’s fame. Or course, being paid millions is part of fame, too. We ran into Chris Matthews, who seemed taller than expected and just as rumpled as expected; people were taking cellphone pictures of him as he spoke on a cellphone. I took a cellphone pictures of the people who took the pictures of him.
Today? No idea; we’re just making this up as we go along. Maybe some man-in-the-street stuff, although we’ll probably do it on the sidewalk so he doesn’t get hit by a car. Or a pedicap: lots of rickshaws around here. Do we have rickshaws in the Twin Cities?<
No? Dang.
You can’t just waltz into the Pepsi Center, you know. After you get here - no small feat; I advise bringing a canteen of water and some pemmican - you have to stand in a very long line to get your credentials checked and your bags inspected. It’s just like airport security, with lots more guns. One of the guards had a baton long enough to knock out someone standing across the street.
I’m at the StarTribune’s spot in the press gallery, where we have power and internet and Epsom-salt foot baths and all manner of conveniences. The view: we will have an absolutely top-notch and upobstructed view of the left side of Obama’s head. This place is smaller than I expected, and it’s all Pepsi Blue, too. But it is cool and sedate, and after the protest - which was hot, smelly, and, shall we say, an up-tempo event, it’s a welcome relief. Grainy, blurry iPhone picture:
Downtown, soaking up the unique Denver atmosphere at a place called “Star-bucks.” They serve coffee. The things you learn when you travel! Wandered down to the convention center, and was surprised to see it was remarkably empty – no protests, no police presence, no throngs of hot, tired reporters with a pound of credentials dangling around their necks. Perhaps this is because the convention is not at the Convention Center. It’s at the Pepsi Center. Just as well; the rest of Team Strib is locked up in the Pepsi Bastille, due to some sort of argy-bargy outside.
I remain without credentials, but hope to connect soon and get the magic badges. The lack of authoritative, hologram-stamped badges did not stop me from interviewing a nice Santa-Buddha fellow with a tiny dog and 473 Obama buttons. It makes things easier if you introduce yourself as a member of the parasitic media. I had to wait for another TV crew to finish, though. Poor man couldn’t drink his coffee; colorful people here are like dead horses in the middle of a field. Flies and buzzards gather in a second.