BartBlog

by Michael Dare

Oh yeah, it’s safe to say I was there and you weren’t. If I’d known accepting the
job of editor of the Los Angeles Free Press included attending a Republican
convention, I’d still be in Seattle, basking in the mist, instead of valiantly
stumbling into enemy territory for your amusement.

It was about 9AM, Saturday morning, September 8, when I was dropped off in front of
this.

Water in the Desert

As soon as you enter the Renaissance Esmeralda Resort & Spa in Indian Wells, you
walk down a grand staircase to a grand lobby where you discover the California
Republican Party is to your left, which is just wrong. Maybe I was supposed to go
down the stairs backwards.

Republican Swag

Like most conventions, it consists of lots of tables with people hawking their
wares, everything from political candidates to software for political candidates,
neatly arranged, a super little “Candidates Row” where you could pick up literature
on Rudy, Mitt, Ron, Fred, and John. Someone smarter than me has got to explain the
thinking behind Fred Thompson giving out jaw breakers and Dum-Dums, a decision both
symbolically and calorically bankrupt. I skip the munchies and the chance to bid on
a framed collection of autographed photos of every Republican president since Nixon
and head straight to the press room where they mysteriously give me credentials to
wander where I choose. The room is full of tables for the press to do our work, but
it’s empty so I presume there’s somewhere else I must be. I bypass the bagels and
cream cheese (Jewish Republicans?) and head out into enemy territory. I’m GOP shy
and truly hope I don’t have to talk to anyone.

The Autographs of Every President Since Nixon Except for Carter and Clinton

The schedule says at 9:30 there’s a workshop called “Meet the Press” in the Emerald
6, which I go in search of. Turns out it’s in another building, necessitating a long
walk outside in the desert heat past all the swimming pools and restaurants. Good
for me in my khakis and sport shirt, bad for the suited male and layered Barbara
Bush wannabe Republicans who sweat up a storm, complaining in a huff that OTHER
conventions are all in the same building and THEY don’t make you walk outside in the
withering heat past all these naked bodies.

Sidewalk of Death

“Meet the Press” turns out to be a seminar with some mainstream daily reporters on
how news is covered. I never felt so much like a cornerstone when the first words
out of anyone’s mouth were “the cornerstone of democracy is a free press,” a
cornerstone I wanted to drop on his head when he referred to CNN as the Clinton News
Network. It was a barrage of information: you’ve got to engage the whole stream of
media, talk to everybody, print vs. internet, everything’s changing and no one knows
how it’s going to play out. Media is in competition for our time and everybody
screens out everything that contradicts what they already think.

I already think objectivity is impossible and got a good chortle when someone from
the San Francisco Chronicle said “We in the mainstream media have no cause and
aren’t even supposed to cheer our team from the press box when covering sports.”
They don’t print anything that’s not “provable to the standards of responsible
journalism.” The Chronicle just laid off 80 reporters, 25% of its staff, despite the
fact that “readers benefit from multiple points of view,” so we’ll see how that
goes.

It’s all surprisingly rational as they discuss the difference between “reporting”
and “journalism” while delivering the bombshell news that polls are suffering from
the dropping number of telephonic landlines. Nobody on cell phones is ever polled,
which is definitely skewing the numbers towards technophobes and illiterates. Poll
results are entirely dependent upon the technology used. Conduct a poll using
nothing but text messaging and Ron Paul is the clear Republican winner, not
necessarily because he’s the top choice but because McCain supporters haven’t
figured out how to text message yet.

They discussed the Democratic candidates and seemed resigned to Hillary who is
running a “flawless campaign” while Obama doesn’t have enough ground troops.

What’s the difference between Dems and Repugs? “Democrats like all their choices,
but Republicans think the one they like can’t win and the ones that can win they
don’t like,” whatever that means.

The first question from the audience is a doozy. “We don’t buy your newspapers
because we don’t trust you.” Major applause. “How come reporters don’t stand up when
we recite the pledge of allegiance?”

“We certainly do pledge our allegiance to the flag,” came the indignant reply.
Apparently we can disagree as long as we’re not disagreeable. I’m nothing if not
disagreeable. I walked up to the host afterwards and introduced myself. “I’m glad we
had a weapons check at the door,” I was told. Interesting. There WAS no weapons
check at the door. Republican humor. Har dee har har.

I had a question. According to the Riverside County Registrar of Voters, in 2002 the
Republican Party blanketed the county with voter registration tables in front of
supermarkets and K-Marts. The registrars were paid $5 for every Republican
registered, and every Democratic registration was simply thrown away. Hundreds of
Democrats showed up at polling places on election day only to discover they couldn’t
vote because they weren’t registered. Does the Republican Party plan on using this
tactic again in the 2008 election? It went unasked because I’m attached to my skin.

Repug Books (Yes, that’s Help! Mom! There’s a Liberal Under My Bed)

I had an hour to blow before the big luncheon with John McCain so I headed back to
the press room. All the bagels were gone. Shit. Trying to find some cheap food at
the Renaissance Esmeralda is like trying to find another male with a ponytail. My
only hope is to weasel my way into some private function with a buffet, like “the
Hospitality Suite of Assembly Republican Leader Mike Villines, hosted by Fresno
County’s Gals of the Party,” which promises the music of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin,
& Sammy Davis Jr., with a “full bar and more.” Will there be cheese dip at the
reception for “Republican Women Interested in a Career in Politics?” Dare I miss the
5th Annual Ice Cream Social presented by the Asian American Republican Council of
California? Will they serve Steven Colbert’s Americone Dream? I opt for The Lincoln
Club of Coachella Valley and the Desert Republican Coordinating Council and their
special guest Mary Bono who’s flyer cordially invites me to “A taste of our Southern
California Heritage,” but it’s not till 5. What to do till then?

I walk back through the beating sun to the other building, taking a good look at the
opulence of the resort, noticing for the first time the artificial waterfall behind
the bar surrounded by the swimming pool, sending a mist across the pool that would
sure feel good if I took off my clothes and swam to it. It was, at the very least, a
picture, but there was something missing. There was nothing about it that screamed
“Republican.” I needed Fred Thompson in a thong lying on one of the empty lounges. I
looked around and spotted a Ron Paul sign leaning against a wall. Perfect. I set it
up under a palm tree and took my shot.

Walking past the waterfall on the sidewalk of death

“Hey, what are you doing with our sign?” shouted some people sitting in the outdoor
patio of the restaurant facing the pools. I explained and they agreed the sign
looked better where I put it. I looked at their oversized Bloody Marys. I looked at
the convention hall. I looked back towards the lobby. “You guys mind if I join you?”
I asked.

And so I spent a lovely hour schmoozing with the Ron Paul brigade. Can words contain
the amazement I felt at the stunning discovery we agreed on absolutely every issue
we discussed? I don’t think so. What would the old readers of the Free Press, the
ultimate bastion of the left wing liberal press, think about my actually considering
supporting a Republican for president? Here’s a good old-fashioned civil libertarian
who wants to abolish the IRS and the DEA, cancel the Patriot Act, opposes NAFTA, has
never voted to raise Congressional pay or increase the power of the executive
branch, never taken a government-paid junket, and is against regulating the
internet. His Iraqi withdrawal policy? We leave. Tomorrow. What’s not to like except
the rest of his party, who treat people with Ron Paul buttons like they’ve got the
plague.

Schmoozing with the Ron Paul Brigade
(Drew Alexander, Tavia Cantarini, Kevin Brondie, & Michael Dare)

We had a jolly time making fun of the sweaty people walking by while discussing the
intricacies of Paul’s philosophy. Paul sees medical marijuana as a states rights
issue, but there’s a catch. He’s devoted to reducing the size of the federal
government and feels there’s nothing wrong with California’s drug laws so the feds
should just butt out, but similarly he believes that if Idaho wants to make abortion
illegal, there’s nothing wrong with that too and the feds should butt out. It would
seem that according to Paul, if you’re against drug prohibition, you’ve also got to
be against Roe v. Wade. If you see everything as a state’s rights issue, step one is
getting the federal government out of the issue altogether, then letting the states
do what they want. As a firm believer in women’s, or anybody’s right to choose the
specifics of their health care, I’ve got to admire anybody with the brainpower to
get me to reconsider Roe v. Wade even momentarily. Am I willing to trade patient’s
rights in California for patient’s rights in North Dakota? It would seem so because
I can’t imagine any other candidate so devoted to personal freedom. Freedom of the
person is even more important than freedom of the press.

I did not want to watch John McCain give a speech, especially if he was right in
front of me, but if I didn’t, the story would have been how I ignored my duties to
party with sane people.

I skedaddled to the luncheon, hung in the lobby a bit, then walked to the door.

“Press? Not here. Next door.”

I walked to the next door.

“Press? Not here. Next door.”

The Press Table
10 laptop computers and one journal

I headed down a hallway, turned a corner, and saw another hallway full of closed
doors. I picked one and was led to the press table in back. Was I the only one
without a laptop, taking notes in a paperback journal? You could say that if you
were devoted to the truth, no matter how ridiculous it made you look.

Holy crap, these are the rightest of the right. I’m in the corner seat, the one with
the greatest perspective other than about two feet off the ground. I mean you tell
me which shot to use. Probably the one where I was told “Please, sir, don’t stand on
the furniture.” And that’s why I still hate Republicans, because of their intolerant
attitude towards artistic expression. Other than that they’re cool, especially the
ones who share their food and drink with the press in back, of whom there are none.

Speaker after speaker, lists of names of contributors, applause, more names, a
prayer, an amen, someone simply says the word McCain and gets applause. Everyone in
the press types away while I scribble. Another guy walks by with a pad. Someone else
who takes notes. I’m astonished. He’s just returned from the front where he actually
watched John McCain shove food in his mouth. “When the Senator eats the rubber
chicken, you know the candidate is in trouble,” he tells me.

Chicken? They’re eating chicken? If there’s something to be said about skipping
breakfast and sitting in the back of a room watching hundreds of people eat chicken
while worrying about whether you’ve got enough food stamps to feed your kid till the
end of the month, I’m sure I’ll think of it.

The lights went down and now was the time, the Pledge of Allegiance, everyone stood,
yes, even the entire row of press, but there was this one Oriental guy who did NOT
put his hand over his heart nor make a pledge to anything but his Blackberry. With
liberty and justice for all, we were treated to a documentary on the life of John
McCain, and like him or not, he’s got a compelling tale, full of courage, faith in
God, bayonetings, prison, explosions on flight decks, devotion to duty, the Hanoi
Hilton, the guard who loosened his ropes because he was a fellow Christian, a
thoroughly professional piece of political propaganda, a fanfare, the lights come
up, the crowd applauds, a man steps to the podium, the crowd almost stands till they
realize it’s not John McCain but a guy introducing him (which is something the film
did just fine, so John, baby, forget the shlub from now on and come out right after
the film, okay?).

And somebody walks in front of the press table giving us all copies of the speech
we’re about to hear. Oh good, I can leave, but I don’t.

View from the starving press in back

He stands in front of 10 American flags. He begins with “preliminary” remarks that
aren’t on the page. An amusing anecdote about his mother, who is 95. It seems she
was visiting somewhere just yesterday and they wouldn’t rent her a car because she
was too old, so she bought one. This hideous slice of conspicuous consumption made
me want to retch but it brought the house down. Har dee har har. How clever of her
to have thought of just buying a car in that situation. Why I would have done the
same thing.

Somewhere in his first paragraph McCain called the man he considers to be the
current president “a good and decent man,” and he lost me now and forever. They must
have rewritten the dictionary since I last looked. I’ve seen good. I’ve experienced
decent. But not from the White House in the Bush years.

Oh Christ he’s only finished the second paragraph and there are three pages of fear
pushing, warmongering rhetoric left that they’re eating up like, well, chicken. He
mentions Reagan, the man who set the loonies free and single-handedly created the
entire homeless problem in Los Angeles, and they act like Oprah just gave them a
car.

I sat through an entire John McCain speech. Guess which one of us deserves a medal.

I hung out and watched the crowd dissipate till a lady with a clipboard came up to
me and said “Sir, would you like to attend the press conference?” I looked around
and noticed the rest of the press had split. Silly me. Sure. Press conference. Why
not?

I was led down a hall to a door to another hall where McCain stood surrounded by a
dozen video cameramen and reporters and photographers who had cameras looking quite
different from my tacky Fujifilm QuickSnap. The closer I got to the Senator, the
more disapproving glares I got from what I can only assume were Secret Service
honchos and suddenly I was sweating, boy did they have their eyes on me. I felt like
a gang banger driving through Beverly Hills, paranoia rising, my radar alarms at
four, hands, where are your hands, keep ‘em showing, no sudden moves, Christ, my
right hand is holding what is clearly a cheap drugstore camera but my left, shit, my
left is in my pocket, the security cameras must be zooming in on it right now so I
slowly, ever so slowly take my hand out of my pocket and put it on my chest, clearly
empty, there, you see, just a hand, no reason to get excited, you can let me escape
the room whose size is rapidly decreasing, pulse pounding, why did I agree to do
this.

I snapped this shot and split back to the press room but all the bagels were gone,
which is another reason I hate Republicans, they’re closet Jews who hide all the
cream cheese that is the birthright of my race. The press room was sort of creepy -
the place where the politicos chum it up with their minions in the press, planting
stories, everyone’s pals, they know the same people. I was totally distressed till
they brought in food. I stuffed myself till I could hear my mother’s voice saying
“You’re filling up on chips and dip?”

So I mingled some more, finding not only the Minutemen and Californians for a Fair
Gambling Policy but the mysterious presence of the Armenian National Committee and
the California League of Off-Road Voters, who should definitely join forces as Serbs
on Quads. One vender who worked both sides of the fence told me “the Republican
conventions are all plaques and jewelry while the Democratic conventions were all
T-shirts and bumperstickers.”

I no longer had to keep reminding myself this was hell. It was five and time to eat
with Mary Bono, a premiere putz I’ve proudly voted against at every opportunity. The
Crystal Room, a Mexican duo, harp and guitar, not enough chairs, an open bar with a
long line, quesadilla, mozzarella balls, dozens of pickalittletalkalittle ladies
just thrilled as Mary entered the room and smiled at me, skinnier than I thought,
almost frail, all in white, sandals, no ass, good looking, highlights in her hair,
surrounded by admirers, shiny foreheads, too much jewelry, red polo shirts, blue
coats, then she stepped to the mike and unloaded a steaming heap of garbage that
made Ann Coulter look like Hillary Clinton. I wrapped some quesadilla in a napkin
for my son, stuck it in my complimentary California Republican Party bag and I was
out of there.

Oh no, Bono!

Not knowing how long I’d be waiting for a bus, I headed to the bathroom first. In
keeping with Republican tradition, I offered to blow a black guy at the urinal next
to mine. He turned out to be Secret Service so all I got was a good frisking that
made me glad I left my portobong at home. It felt good to have a man’s hands on my
body. Hey, you get your thrills where you can.