DNC Day 2

Where the Mercury fits in the Global Media Pecking Order…

Holy shit–this Democratic Convention thing is really starting to spin. Let’s start with last night and run quickly through the hurricane.

Ted Kennedy’s pseudo-surprise appearance was somewhat emotional, seeing as how his crackling voice was barely strong enough at times to keep up.

Michelle Obama’s speech last night was good–but not great. I sat in the arena at times paying great attention and at other times… not so much. It certainly couldn’t be said that she killed it, but perhaps it’s good to take things a bit more in stride (and be a little less Teresa Hines-Kerry).

I had to be somewhere right after, and as Michelle’s speech drew to a close I went to the section exit and sat on the stairs. Next to me stood an older black man. He was impeccably dressed with a pinstripe suit and hat. He was rocking back and forth, reveling totally in the moment, rubbing his hands together with anxious joy. And it was here I realized the true gravity of the situation–without the generational context, the whole thing is impossible to fully understand. At 26 I can think I know, but this man, perhaps in his early 70’s, really Knows.

He leans over to me and says, “Man, this is somethin’, huh?” Through him, I know a little better. Simple words, or maybe just the gleam in his eyes.

After that it was off to Rock The Vote. A few notes: 1) Jakob Dylan really looks like his dad, but sure don’t play like him. Eerie. I’ll tell you–if my dad were Dylan or John Lennon or some such dignitary, I wouldn’t play music. I’d paint. 2) N.E.R.D. wasn’t bad. Two drummers and, dare I say, heavy influences drawing from the bad brains. 3) Fall Out boy is horrible, but when the lead singer’s dad is next to you it’s hard to heckle. 4) After-party, blah blah blah–some asshole took the drinks out of my hand at 2 AM on the dot.

I left my stuff inside the secured convention perimeter and went back to grab it on the way home. Jesus God, the place is like some kind of demilitarized zone. There are guys with guns, all kinds of fences and roadblocks and big spotlights humming on generators. Just locked the fuck down. The only thing missing is a tank (which I’m sure is parked somewhere ’round here…).

Not enough sleep, and on to the Huffington Post lunch (or as I see it, breakfast). Good lineup for the panel moderated by Charlie Rose that includes George Stephanopolis, Will.i.am (who was surprisingly sharp), Arianna Huffington, some newspaper heavies from the Post, a YouTube founder and some other more boring cats.

On the way back to the convention center, caught a protest crackdown. Thirteen anti-abortion protesters stopped traffic and was swarmed by about 50 or 60 riot police. There wasn’t much of a confrontation after that–and how could there be? The police presence in Denver has so far been dominating protesters. It’s frightening. You aren’t going to win, and you aren’t even going to have time to make a point. Sure, you can stand with a sign, but any more direct action or confrontation is going to meet the swift end of the billy club and left in the paddy-wagon to sweat it out. (Oh, and could it be a coincidence that the convention and Burning Man are happening at the same time? I doubt it. That’s got to put a serious dent in the available protesters. Fuckin’ A, you care? Skip the drug fest, brah.)

Alright. Time is falling like a guillotine and I don’t intend to miss Hillary tonight. You’ve got to be there early, you see, because the press section the Mercury’s in has been quadruple booked. But hey, no complaining. Word on the street is that Barack’s people stiffed over 1,000 volunteers who were promised tickets to his acceptance speech in Bronco Stadium. Ouch.