GOP Convention 2000: Day 4

On Wednesday, Josh and I wake up in time for lunch. Wednesday is a good day. The lunch was put together by one of the Monitor's venerable political columnists, as part of a bold, continuing tradition of sponsoring food-having political pow-wows.

The first of our guests, TV's Al Franken, turns up right on time. Unshaven and wearing a battered, untucked shirt, Franken looks as though he has just woken up and stumbled into the kitchen for a Ho-Ho, and stumbled upon us instead. His first remark sets the somewhat edgy, awkward tone that dominates the lunch:

"I've got a bit of a cold, but since this is Christian Science, I probably shouldn't mention it."

He riffs for a while with some of the journalists (all print journalists from midlevel publications like the Hartford Courant and the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel), tossing out his take on the GOP convention theme ("Leave No African-American GOP Officeholder Behind") and offering a satisfyingly nuanced look at where Al Gore should look for his next running mate (probably someone a bit more surprising like Sen. Evan Bayh — as opposed to Sen. George Mitchell, the obvious Democratic counterbalance to the similarly stolid and credentialed Dick Cheney.)

And then, Arianna Huffington shows up. Neatly dressed in a white California-looking pantsuit and immaculately groomed, Arianna strolls in gracefully and immediately proceeds to establish an intense-yet-airy hold over the proceedings. Arianna's presence at our lunch — as the principal organizer of the Philadelphia shadow convention — isn't really the result of a logical process.

Arianna was the power-behind-the-throne of her husband's run for the U.S. Senate from California. Her husband, millionaire Republican Michael Huffington, proceeded to blow almost $40 million of his own money before losing, divorcing Arianna and coming out of the closet as a gay liberal.

This was followed by Arianna's own rapid conversion from conservative columnist to progressive promoter of important issues, such as the need to end the drug war and the cause of campaign finance reform. Franken, her ally in the shadow convention process, isn't willing to let all her previous zaniness completely slide; when one reporter asks her political affiliation, she says "recovering Republican." Franken adds: "you never really recover completely."

But the sense one gets from Franken and Arianna is that these are two people on a mission, and that one of their spiritual co-pilots, John McCain, has bailed.

McCain's phoned-in, half-empty speech at the GOP convention Tuesday night ("it looked like a forced confession," says Franken) endorsed Bush in definite terms, and failed to raise any powerful issues, whereas Powell, the day before McCain, mentioned both affirmative action and the need to reduce the incarceration rate. Arianna says that McCain's speech "was such a betrayal of himself and those who had been galvanized by his message."

But the entire lunch isn't about negativity. Franken closes with a fact that snaps the political season into perspective:

"Thanks to George W. Bush, 60% of graduating high school seniors in Texas now have a reading level higher than their governor."

This, and world-class cheesecake, makes for a good start to the day.

After touching base at the convention, Josh and I head off to the most important event of the day: Alan Keyes's birthday party. This turns out to be somewhat of a disappointment: the crowd is well-behaved, the food is dull (but good: cookies, ice cream, cake and brownies) and the energy level is humming, but under control.

Josh does manage to cut through the throng and shake the man's hand; meanwhile, I'm talking with a young man from the Republican Senatorial Committee about the protests. His main objection: he isn't able to tell what the protesters are really talking about. The only issue he's sure about is that they want to free Mumia Abdul-Jabbar. Those keeping score probably remember that Abdul-Jabbar was a 16-time All-star and member of six NBA championship teams before being convicted in a crooked, rigged trial for a crime he clearly committed.

Soon after talking to Keyes, Josh makes a beeline for the door, and we head out, tan Keyes tote bags on our arms and warm, Biblically-sanctioned memories in our minds.

The evening is a lively one — Dick Cheney's Gore-bashing address receives amazing ovations from the bloodthirsty mob of well-heeled delegates that is, by now, clearly tired of 3 full days of multiculturalism, empathy and kindness. Josh and I do our audio and writing work, and hop on a shuttle bus for the ride back to the hotel, bringing the Monitor's D.C. photographer, Andy, along for the ride.

The bus has no driver. It does not move. It soon becomes clear that we'll be waiting for a while, in opposition to the previous night's situation, which featured Josh, Andy and me comically chasing a bus that left 10 minutes before it was supposed to.

A motionless bus is one thing. A motionless bus with an incredibly loud, bearded, fat and intoxicated Omaha delegate is another thing entirely.

Incredibly loud fat bearded guy quote number 1: "When my wife and I bought our new dog, a little pit bull, I told her this: 'If you want a nasty bitch, we'll name her Hillary Clinton. If you want a classy lady, we'll name her Liddy Dole.'"

Incredibly loud fat bearded guy quote number 2: "The good Lord, for reasons I can't understand, decided to give the Republicans all the classy ladies, and the Democrats all the bitches."

Incredibly loud fat bearded guy quote number 3: "You're just WRONG." (to Andy, who observed that McCain had energized a lot of swing and independent voters.)

The trip is great. Josh talks to two young, beautiful GOP ladies from the Republican Youth Rally, trying to explain how The Christian Science Monitor isn't really a religious paper. The fat guy is lecturing Andy and the Rhode Island minority leader on why McCain is a splitter and schismatic. And I'm staring out into the night, enjoying the fact that it's 2 a.m. and I'm encased in a cocoon of sound and vibrant life.

Tomorrow: Wrap-up. Closure. George W. Bush's big day.