B Y J A M E S C A R V I L L E
A FIRST-CLASS SHOW Sure it was scripted, but the Clinton all right. I might as well get this out of the way right up front. I know you all want to hear about Dick Morris, but there's nothing left for me to say. The guy is gone. The campaign will do just fine without him. Sorry, folks. I'm here to talk about the convention, not that ridiculous sideshow. My assistant Todd, who was attending his first convention, summed up the week best. As the President finished his speech and thousands of devoted Democrats were dancing in the rain of confetti and balloons, Todd yelled out, "The Democratic National Committee can put on a party for me anytime!" I second that thought. What a difference four years make. Last convention, I went crazy -- crazier than usual, that is -- trying to put out the fires erupting all over Madison Square Garden. This time around, I got into town a bit early and had some time to take my little Matty out for some quality shopping along Chicago's Magnificent Mile. (Free advice for FAO Schwarz: Get with it, folks! Daddies like me buy toys in direct proportion to how much fawning our toddlers get!) Don't get me wrong: Once the convention got under way, I worked my 51-year-old butt off, running from interview to interview, delegation meeting to delegation meeting, fundraising event to fundraising event. If you saw me on TV, you could probably tell that I didn't get nearly enough beauty rest. But the blissful combination of fatherhood, a lead in the polls, an unchallenged nomination and a well-orchestrated convention had a mellowing effect on me.
As you might imagine, my distinctive serpentine features make me a pretty
recognizable
character at gatherings of Democrats. One morning, I emerged from the
elevator of
my hotel, and a delegate from D.C. ran up to me. "Are you James Carville?!"
she asked, giddy with excitement. "Where do I catch the bus to the convention center?" I had no idea, but I didn't want to leave her hanging. So I went chasing around with her until we eventually found the bus. Speaking of chasing after buses, I have a simple suggestion for the next convention. As wonderful a host as Chicago was, the bus rides to the United Center were a bit of a pain. Why don't we just make a pact to hold conventions only in cities where most of the delegates and guests can stay right next to the convention center? Hell, why not just have all future conventions in New Orleans and San Francisco? Can't beat the convenience. Or the food. And the rest of America's cities could go back to kissing up to the realtors and doctors, who drop much more money than political types anyway. Back to more pressing matters -- I've hardly touched on the convention itself. Perhaps I should give you a ground-level survey of how these things work. First thing in the morning, all the state delegates, most of them hungover from late-night parties, gather for delegation meetings at the hotels where they're staying. The Vice President was the most sought-after speaker for these events, and man, he was great at firing up the troops. Soon he's going to have to scrap all of his self-deprecating stiff jokes; no one will know what they refer to. Meanwhile, people are going nuts behind the scenes. In cinder block rooms inside the convention center, a team led by the speech coach Michael Sheehan is shaving hundreds of words off overweight speeches and helping the speakers, many of them near-novices, to get used to reading from a TelePrompTer. Back at the Sheraton, where the President and Vice President and most of the White House staff are staying, speechwriters are working like mad, making wholesale changes up until hours before delivery. Dan Pink, the Veep's chief speechwriter, had the worst of it. The day before the convention started, his very pregnant wife called to say that she was starting to feel contractions! The Veep's speech was far from done, and Dan still had some last-minute tweaking to do on the speech he had written for Christopher Reeve. Fortunately, baby Pink got shy, and Dan went right on working. I gotta hand it to him. When my baby started knocking on the door last summer, I couldn't even focus on tying my shoes, much less writing two all-time great speeches. By mid-afternoon, the delegates make their way over to the United Center -- if they find their proper buses -- and the day's program begins. Although the early speeches are sorta boring and kinda repetitive, at least the delegates don't have to contend with overflowing aisles. One evening, the aisles were so crammed and the press so pushy that a fight almost broke out between two cameramen intent on being the first to get a shot of a curly-headed toddler sleeping in her mothers' arms. The big money big-wigs tend to avoid the crush of the aisles by sequestering themselves up in the skyboxes with canapes and chardonnay. But there's really no place like the floor for watching a big speech. On the floor, you're not a spectator. You're a participant. Instead of hobnobbing with a handful of people, you're sharing the moment with thousands. Most of them look and sound different from you. The only thing you all have in common is the only thing that matters: a devotion to making this country as grand and inclusive as it can be. No doubt we've seen the end of conventions as we knew them. Never again will there be suspense about who will be the nominee. Never again will they be newsworthy enough to justify extensive network coverage. No more can we look forward to hearing the leader of the Louisiana delegation brag about his state in a drunken stupor during the roll call of states. But one thing I can say for sure: Nobody could ever script out the sensation of standing on the floor of a packed convention hall, watching the presidential nominee punctuate his inspiring words with staccato gestures. No one could edit out the feeling of looking around that big room and seeing thousands of long-lost brothers and sisters nodding and clapping along with you. I don't want to get all sappy, but it's truly an experience you can never forget. If you missed it this year, come with me next time. I'll be bringing Matty to the floor for her first time. We'll make plenty of room for everyone. Were you moved by the Democratic convention? Or was the Dick Morris scandal a welcome distraction from the standard dog-and-pony show? Join Carville in Table Talk.
Bookmark: http://www.salon1999.com/weekly/carville.html |
