Chalked onto the street in front of the Convention Center are remnants from yesterday’s protesters, lines like “Fetuses have Fingernails.” On the corner, a drunk wearing a giant crucifix made of aluminum foil holds a sign: VOTE FOR JESUS.
I pass by the two guys from Southern Missouri with the “Rednecks for Obama” banner and matching hangovers, their faces spit-polished and sunburned. A photographer with eighty pounds of cameras lines up the shot.
“The Wall Street Journal!” the rednecks bellow at each other. They can’t believe their luck. They posed outside the CNN building yesterday and for me each time I passed.
I’m rushing through crowds at the Convention Center on my way to a caucus when two women stop me.
“Do you know where we can got one of those lanyards?” They beam at mine, which advertises Qwest.
I pause to decide whether they’re being hilarious. They’re not. They’re crushed. While walking down a side street yesterday pointedly free of my Press Pass, two punk anarchist rolled by on bikes, complaining, “Man, they’re making a fucking killing on those lanyards.”
Seriously, advertising is ubiquitous. I feel like I’m in a George Saunders story. Two guys run by with a banner strapped to them. Running banner ads. Giant stuffed animals zip around on Segways, selling god knows what.
Kids in Halloween costumes, one juggling an actual pumpkin, swoop through the jammed bookstore. Something tells us these aren’t protesters, who also use costumes and street theater. “Frankenstein is under the weather,” the pirate says sadly.
Too much late night networking? Sucks to be Frankenstein.
“Sucks to be Frankenstein’s bride,” grins the one in a tattered wedding dress. They came here on busses from Seattle and Portland to camp in a warehouse. They’re volunteers for Trick or Vote. The idea is to spread the subliminal association: Halloween & Election Day. It’s brilliant. Who doesn’t love Halloween?
They don’t look old enough to vote, but ask them a question and they rapid-fire passionately. Studies show that face-to-face contact is the best way to boost voter turnout. They’re working in twelve states, getting a great response. The skeleton removes her head to add that they’ve signed up 100,000 voters in Oregon, adding that their organization is non-partisan. They’ll be at the GOP Convention, too.
Now ask what got them involved in this election and watch the wattage kick. “Obama is the first candidate in our lifetime that we can look at and relate to,” the pirate says to a round of nods.
I’m still tempted to ask for ID. She looks seventeen. They’re articulate, self-possessed, contagiously motivated. It’s great to be in the radiance of such zest. So many of us have lost it trudging through the political mire of the past decade.
“The Angel and the Devil are on the floor right now at the DNC,” they tell me excitedly, before dashing off to enthuse other voters, “but we’re not sure where the Zombie is.”
The arena is empty but for media, more cops, and a rehearsing band whose trumpet player makes hilariously editorial noises when someone grabs the microphone and summons the Finance Committee. It’s quiet, strangely intimate, and utterly surreal: cables like raw intestines everywhere, media skyboxes, a banner for Al Jazeera, someone in a wash of klieg lights in the ABC booth, a Fox anchor applying more rouge, dressing rooms, hallways with more cops and more cables and stray makeup mirrors. It feels antiseptic and stage-crafted, which it is.
It’s easy to see how media divas are born: they’re treated like royalty here. At the moment, it feels like this is their coliseum. They’re the only ones with access, they’ve received shag galore, everyone wants their attention. But outside this carefully sealed zone are thousands of bloggers and thousands of protesters, crowds of people hungry for something.
