Hang Kerry’s DJ

Thu, 12 Aug 2004 20:58:00 +0000

It's 3:30 p.m. on the banks of the Missouri River, and Team Kerry is pretty lax with the press credentialing. I show my Society of American Travel Writers card and am waved through without a second glance. The Japanese guy behind me -- who is not, as far as anyone can tell, a journalist -- plays the bad-accent card and is also, by way of confusion, waved in.

Around the state Capitol, people are lined up for blocks. Across the street, someone is sporting a giant Styrofoam waffle costume. I'm pretty warm in a sleeveless shirt, so that can't be comfortable.

The crowd is 99 percent white, more night shift than NPR. People in bleachers are holding red, white and blue signs -- "Believe in America," "America Can Do Better" -- to shade their rapidly pinking heads.

I can't see the musicians onstage, but I hear them playing the 40 billionth rendition of "Mustang Sally," surely the most tired bar band staple in history.

I scan the crowd. When did Secret Service agents get cute, young and hip-looking? The one nearest me can't be more than a college sophomore. His sunburn doesn't completely disguise the discreet remnants of adolescent acne. He's chewing gum. Off in the distance, the band segues to "I Feel Good."

Salon.com > Cynthia Barnes

Hang Kerry’s DJ