GOP Convention 2000: Day 1

There's no reason Delta can't fly bigger planes to Philadelphia. The hop from Boston down to Philly involves traveling in a small turboprop, one of those planes you need to board directly from the tarmac, an act which somehow never inspires much confidence in me.

But the small plane lends itself to excellent views of the terrain below, which set the stage nicely for our 5-day visit to the city of brotherly love. From the air, Philadelphia is reminiscent of some of the least popular Midwestern cities — namely Duluth, Milwaukee and Gary, all of which have the same sort of industrial, weatherbeaten pallor.

Flying in, Josh and I read the Economist, George, Business Week and The New Yorker, scouring the pages for convention-related coverage, which we find scads of. With our reading augmented by special, free editions of Roll Call, National Journal, The Weekly Standard and The Washington Post that litter the hotel lobby, we are fully "brushed up" by noon, fortified by the complimentary Tasty Kakes and pretzels that the GOP welcome wagon was handing out at the airport.

At this point, we decide to take the hotel shuttle bus over to the First Union Center, to scope out the grounds. As our shuttle approaches the first security checkpoint, our driver makes a jolly remark about how we'd have to be strip-searched before we can get to the convention center. A wit from the back of the bus shouts out that it's "a good thing [he] brought [his] K-Y jelly." This is met by a silence broken only by the scratching of my pen.

It's moments like this that make a convention special.

By noon we've also been held up by the fairly tight security that surrounds even the media section of the GOP convention. And while we may have enough pagers to build a plastic bridge to Taiwan, we don't have a reliable way to disseminate press credentials amongst ourselves. Along with an ABC News reporter, Josh and I are held up at the first on-foot security checkpoint, where we're told that our desks will need to bring us our credentials, from within the media pavilion. Some failed phone calls make it clear that our desks just aren't able to help us, and we clear the scene — Josh and I back to our hotel, and the woman from ABC back to wherever women from ABC go back to.

Subsequent phone calls from the hotel bring us in contact with the higher-ups from the print edition, which in turn bring us credentials. Soon, we're down at the media pavilion, salivating over the prospect of eventually running around the convention floor like hyperactive journalistic chimpanzees.

Then: The Announcement.

"We've only got 4 floor passes."

What does this mean? That the odds of us, the humble, bacteria-carrying, phlegm-hawking Web mechanics getting onto the floor during prime time are low indeed. To say this is a downer is an understatement. Only time will tell whether we get onto the floor during a keynote at all. Wind is sucked from sails. Hopes collapse. Somewhere, a small metaphorical child weeps quietly over a copy of the convention schedule.

Would this mean no Chaka Khan?

But Josh has a plan to boost our spirits, if nothing else: his old college roommate is the special assistant to the Chair of the Washington State GOP, and they're having a shindig. We're invited, more or less. And so we pile into a cab and appear somewhere downtown. We scale the marble steps of Philadelphia's Franklin Center where a dusky-skinned goddess of beauty holds a sign reading "Washington." She smiles, we follow, and we are whisked inside a complicated, buffet-ridden temple of politics that normally serves as a public building and/or museum of some sort.

The Washington GOP reception is, for elusive reasons, held in the alien room. A giant, glowing squid rotates around a glowing green cylinder. TV screens play clips from films like "This Island Earth" while party goons spoon a decent pasta salad onto the plates of the assembled delegates.

It's an oddly festive atmosphere, as portly, middle-aged men (generally balding many with mustaches) walk around with their pleasant, middle-aged wives. Josh's friend (who has also done some speechwriting, and is reputedly a rising star in the Washington GOP) joins us along with Kelly Hinton, the state party's executive director.

Typically, Josh and I launch immediately into an impromptu interview, where we grill Mr. Hinton on a variety of subjects. The following truths emerge:

1. Microsoft is "the heartbeat of America," a precious, innovative natural resource which George W. Bush will protect, not prosecute.

2. "Unity is our strength" — an admirable sentiment which Mr. Hinton expresses after declaring distaste for the raucous and divisive conventions of years past.

3. George W. Bush is someone we can all get behind because of his team-building skills and solid record in Texas.

Despite holding views which are easily mockable from a liberal point of view, Mr. Hinton is an amiable speaker who clearly has thought about his stances on the issues, a gifted disseminator and interpreter of the party line — and not a bad guy. If there's anything troubling about his presentation, it's that his main emphasis is on how positive it is that conventions now short-circuit all that uncomfortable, nasty discussion and arguing that used to waste everyone's time. Now, they are simple — unite, unite, unite, and make it look good on television.

One beer and some cold cuts later, Josh and I head back to the hotel room, to hammer out some dispatches for the Web site.

Tomorrow: Colin Powell, and lots more real work.