I was down on the floor near the New York delegation for the roll call – high drama when Illinois passed. Why? What are they up to? My sources – which consisted entirely of DB from the Miami Herald, who’d heard a rumor on TV – said that New York’s vote would be spectacular: Sen. Clinton would enter the arena, release her delegates by using the Delegate Bondage-Sundering Scepter (it’s an old tradition) and call for a unanimous vote. At the last minute, thought, New Mexico passed to New York for no reason anyone could possibly imagine, unless they thought people were getting restless.

They weren’t; the roll call is the best part of the third day, what with all the endless self-flattery: AS THE PROUD ASSISTANT WATER COMMISSIONER OF THE GREAT STATE OF NEW DAKOTA WHERE THE SUN PASSES OVERHEAD ONCE A DAY AND THE VALUE OF PI IS 3.14285714 AND SO ON, I AM PROUD TO CAST TWO VOTES FOR THE NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, etc. The fellow from Maine got somewhat lost in the middle of his remarks, and ended his praise of the state by actually saying “ . . . whatever.” Another touted his state’s “prodigious hills.”

In the end you want to hear what the last person will say – but we didn’t get the chance, since Sen. Clinton entered the hall and asked for the rules to be suspended. You have to feel sorry for the Xyogenia delegation.

Here’s the Minnesota reps, Sen. Klobuchar and Mayor Rybak, with concluding remarks by Rhoda Morgenstern:

Belay that previous griping about the lack of news; don’t know how I forgot to overlook the fact that Captain Morgan is in the house again. He’s a character from a popular brand of liquor, and he’s running for President! That never gets old. He’s just as tall and cheerful as he was the day before, when he was striding around the Pepsidrome telling people he would invite them to the Playboy Mansion. That went over like a lead copy of “Our Bodies, Our Selves.”

There’s something odd about a seven-foot-tall pirate shouting DRINK RESPONSIBLY! at the top of his lungs. The idea of drinking with an eye towards one’s social and personal obligations seems at odds with the pirate’s credo, unofficial as it might be. One becomes a pirate to cast off the rusty shackles of conformity. A true Captain Morgan would be stalking around the joint shouting PARTY UNTIL YOU RUN YOUR BEST FRIEND THROUGH WITH A CUTLASS OVER THE FAVORS OF A SERVING WENCH or something equally unwise.  

Photos later.  

Rode into town with a British MP named Francis Maude. It was my first experience talking to someone who was a Shadow Minister; much more substantial chap than the name suggests. His take on the situation: the European establishment is content with either Obama or McCain, since both have an internationlist outlook, and neither are inclined to go all nativist and isolationist at the last moment. I made several remarks that seemed overly concerned with using proper grammar. There’s something about an British accent– not chav blabber, but playing-fields-of-Eton accent – that puts you on your best behaviour, and before you know it you’re saying “aluminium” instead of “aluminum.”

Aside from that, not much to report; this is the hardest day for the media, because all the basics have been exhausted. There are no surprises left - in case anyone thought Hillary was going to lash herself to the podium and refuse to move until she got the nomination - and the fun, bright feature stories that characterized the start of the week have dried up and blown away.

Oh, we could go over to the Denver Center for the Performing Arts to hear some anti-poverty ideas from Madeleine Albright and Ben Affleck. (Seriously, Ben Affleck. The only reason I’d go would be to ask Ben to do that duck-voice from the insurance commercials.) (Hah: just looked at the roster: it also includes Dennis Maude. Well, I’ll have something to bring up if I meet Ben at a party. Did you speak with Dennis? Lovely chap.) There’s a “Rally to Fix Health Care Now” featuring music by Death Cab for Cutie, which seems an odd choice of bands. Or an entirely appropriate one, depending on your view of health care, I suppose. If we do not change the system now there will be death cabs not just for Cutie, but for all! 

Biz Markie is playing tonight at the “Season for Change” reception; Sean Penn and Val Kilmer will be at a Nader rally at 7 PM.If Clooney shows up, this will mean that half of the nation’s supply of recent Batmen will be present.

Off to find the reporter with whom I’ve been trading story ideas. Each of us thinks the other is researching ideas; each of us will be sorely disappointed.  

Close examination did not yield the exact russet hue one associates with the breed, so we’ll take their word for it: 

 . . . which would make it the present, I guess. I was talking with a photographer who’d covered a few conventions, and he noted how the March of Technology hadn’t changed the size of his gear. The camera was the same size; the lens were just as big - and now he had to bring 16 different battery chargers, plus a computer. His backpack looked like something sherpas would bear to the summit of Everest. “Hands free!” he grinned, bent over with the weight. Poor man. Everyone else has it easier. At my first convention the bureau chief had to go to the site well in advance and supervise the installation of all the computers - rows of 386s with ten-ton monitors. Now? Laptops. My entire studio fits in a backpack. Then there’s this, which we didn’t have a few years ago: YouTube’s Instant Video Endorsement Salon.  Step up, speak your own endorsement, and it’s on YouTube.  In olden times, people’s TV exposure at a convention was limited to the obligatory pan of the cheering throngs, or perhaps a moment with a local reporter. Now anyone can get on the planet’s most popular video distribution platform, for free. At this moment, one of the Ordinary Folk who made an endorsement has six fewer hits than Dennis Kucinich’s endorsement. Democracy in action! Powerful and meek together, battling for views and ratings!The most anachronistic thing here? The giant media tents. There’s simply too much media here. The Boston Globe sent so many people I think the reporter - reader ratio is close to 1:1, which makes for personal service but gets expensive, eventually.  

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 16^th 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.