Silly in Philly

The otherworldly side of the Republican convention

by Margaret Doris

PHILADELPHIA -- For one fine 24-hour period, they all came together under a single roof here: The Klingons, Katie Couric, the Illinois delegation.

"It was glorious," explained one finely chiseled television reporter, lifting his face off the bar in the Adam's Mark hotel. "Otherworldly."

He paused thoughtfully. "You know," he said, before resting his cheek back down on the cool, polished oak, "I should have sent someone to get pictures."

But that's the problem with this convention. There's never a camera when you need one. Often, there isn't a camera at all. The networks have all but abandoned ship, and for the first time since the advent of television, delegates are far more likely to find the aisles blocked by a crew from Channel 28 Eyewitness News -- or an alternate from Altoona begging for Phil Gramm's autograph -- than they are by Dan Rather or Lesley Stahl. Sam Donaldson isn't even in the building; he's off in one of the media pavilions doing that ABC.com thing. So it isn't a bit surprising that, when the Star Trek convention and the Republican convention overlapped, and delegates from both conventions, as well as network reporters, found themselves housed in the same hotel, there was nobody around to document it. Peach polyester met silver lame, wingtip shoes met wing-tipped ears, without so much as a boom mike in sight. A torch had been passed to a new Federation, and nobody even noticed.

The New England GOP Liberty Express was loaded and ready to pull out for Philadelphia. There was just enough time to quickly rally the troops on the South Station platform for one last photo opportunity. "We're a little bit unique in New England," bellowed Massachusetts state senator Bruce E. Tarr. "We had a primary battle." But, he continued, "We're not only on the right train, we're on the right track!" The delegates, all wearing Bush stickers, obligingly waved their McCAIN signs for the cameras.

"I loved your line," about the train, a Boston Herald reporter leaned over and told Tarr, as the delegates filed back onto the train. "I've got to come up with something at this hour," Tarr responded, grinning. Then he stepped back on the platform and waved as the train pulled out of sight.

Free stuff is important to conventionneers. Free food and drink -- lots of drink -- starting with the train ride down and continuing through an endless cycle of parties, receptions, and brunches. Tasteful signage -- usually no larger than four-by-four -- lets delegates know which particular corporate special interest is responsible for each particular free lunch.

Just as important as free food are free gifts. Businesses and pols are asked to contribute gifts for inclusion in the state-customized goody bags that members of each delegation receive. (Reporters receive them, too, although their versions are on the decidedly shabby side: plastic cups from CNN and Kraft Dinner with elephant-shaped pasta.) The Michigan goody bags included a GOP Barbie (and not, as originally feared, a graven image of Laura Ingraham). This posed a problem for Governor John Engler, the father of triplet girls, and for Senator Spencer Abraham, who has twin daughters. Delegates were asked to "volunteer" to donate their Barbies in an effort to ensure domestic sibling tranquility. Doubtless the doting Dads will return the favor the next time, say, there's a debate on an appropriations bill.

Not all guests reflect the same political finesse. Someone in the Massachusetts lieutenant-governor's office, apparently still not comprehending the size of the public-relations problem they have on their hands, decided that Jane Swift's contribution to that state's delegation's goody bags would be fudge.

The cops are cranky. The protestors are cranky. But Philadelphia is the City of Brotherly Love, goddammit, and nobody's going to prove otherwise.

The convention organizing committee, Philadelphia 2000, has recruited 10,000 volunteers to shower delegates with love -- and not incidentally, drown out any errant protestors at the same time. At Sunday night's welcoming party for the New England delegations, held at the African-American Museum, more than 50 volunteers formed two lines from the bus drop-off to the museum's doors, flanking the delegates as they walked into the party, and cheering, "We love you, Massachusetts! We love you, Maine!" During a lull in the activity, a reporter asked a particularly enthusiastic cheerer named Gert why she decided to volunteer. "I do a lot of volunteering in my community," replied Gert stiffly, before stalking off to parts unknown.

Or shortly to become known. A few minutes after walking into the party, the reporter was pulled against the wall by a security guard, demanding to see the appropriate credentials. After they were produced, the security guard whipped out a walkie-talkie and began shouting, "All clear! All clear!" It seems that Gert, as per her Philadelphia 2000 volunteer training, had reported the reporter for taking an undue and suspicious interest in a volunteer. Philadelphia's the City of Nobody's Fools, goddammit, and nobody's going to prove otherwise.

They've been a staple at big sporting events like the Super Bowl or Final Four for some time now. Fan Jams or Fan Fests, halls full of interactive event-related exhibits and activities. So it was only a matter of time before someone thought to set one up in conjunction with a nominating convention.

A ten-spot gains you admission to PoliticalFest, what sponsors are calling, "Part museum exhibit and part political playground." (Not to be confused, of course, with the 105th Congress). There you can enter the Media Zone, where you can sit at a replica of the KYW anchor-desk and pretend to broadcast convention news, or tour a truncated replica of Air Force One. (For reasons inexplicable, the monitor mounted outside the cabin continuously loops footage of spectacular air crashes.) Kids eight-and-under are encouraged to enter the Future Leader's Area, where they can exercise their First Amendment rights on the Freedom of Expression Wall. (Organizers apparently couldn't get a permit for the Right To Bear Arms Target Range.) For those children who need to unwind, there's the Laura Bush Reading Room, a row of shelves stocked with books that presumably reflect the demure former children's librarian's taste in juvenile literature. There are the predictable titles that will doubtless grace the library of a Bush White House: Soup for President, The Year My Father Ruined My Life, Nobody's Perfect, The Subtle Knife, and I Want To Be President, featuring the entire cast of Sesame Street. And then there are selections that may suggest future policy directions for a Bush Administration. In Jobs vs. The Environment : Can We Save Both?, author Nathan Aaseng sagely observes, "In the long run, we cannot have one without the other."

George W. has always been a big fan of reading, his wife told the assembled delegates on the first night of the convention, and has been greatly influenced by things he's read. In fact, she disclosed -- something that came as no surprise to those political observers with memories longer than one term -- one of his very favorite books is Hop On Pop.

There's another political fest in town, this one over at Penn's Annenberg Center. Arianna Huffington's Shadow Convention has been pulling some big name players -- John McCain, Jesse Jackson, Al Franken -- and a passel of activists representing a grab-bag of causes.

There are reasons to celebrate here -- not 20 feet from the InFact table, you can now buy a guilt-free Nestle's Crunch bar -- as well as reason for concern. It's a discouraging fact that progressive causes attract a disproportionate number of nuts. (Admittedly, so do conservative causes. Witness, please, the number of large foam elephant ears in the convention hall.) Take, for example, John, who, by his own admission, has been studying environmental issues for 30 years -- very possibly through the Ted Kaczynski Home Study Course. Many scientific advances, says John, taking the microphone during a shadow convention forum on special interests and campaign-finance reform, that would end global warming are being kept hidden. "How can we use these new scientific discoveries to get Ralph Nader in the White House," John plaintively asks the panel. Before an answer is forthcoming, a woman begins to bellow, "Where's Ralph? The TV cameras are here! Where's Ralph?" An attempt by the Green Party California senatorial candidate to explain that Ralph has been here reassures (i.e. shuts up) neither the woman nor John, and the session comes to a close.

Not all attendees are quite so relentless in advancing their own agendas (obsessions), however. Subtle one-up-personship is the order of the day, with the prize going to the person who can work the phrase "When I was pepper-sprayed in Seattle," into the most conversations.

It wasn't exactly the Philadelphia Sound. Congressman J.C. Watts -- make that, Congressman "Of Course, We're the Party of All the People; We've Got J.C., Don't We?" Watts -- took the mike at a Philadelphia Convention Center reception in his honor (paid for by Daimler-Chrysler) and sang, "My Girl" with the current constituted edition of the Temptations. Watts, who has a credible falsetto, reported that he'd been training for this moment since he was an Oklahoma teenager with a pick in his `fro, singing along with the radio.

It's a skill that may come in handy this fall, as he's called upon to lend credibility to the Republican road show. Front and center now, with the candidate, and hug that microphone. Next up is the Bush/Watts cover of, "Ain't Too Proud To Beg."

Sing it sweet, now.

Mmm-hmm.

My man.

Margaret Doris is a freelance writer who's covered enough national conventions to know better.