Dateline: Engelwood, Colorado-/8/24/08– 12:55 AM–Mountain Time
The phone, the phone is ringing–there’s an animal in trouble somewhere (trust me, if you have child five or under, it’s an hilarious reference to the show named in this piece's title) or maybe it's an international crisis (where is Hillary when you need her?) or another of those text messages.
Sound asleep, it is minutes before I realize it is a phone and where I am, as I slowly wake up from a drunken stuper. Contrary to the dream I was having, I am alone (although, if it were otherwise, I would still be saying the same), I reflect that, on the whole, this is probably a good thing, although Chelsea was having the time of her life.
I fumble for the light and cannot find the switch, without it I will not find my glasses, and without those, I will not find the phone. Meanwhile, I feel the faint murmurs of heartburn attributable mostly to the Denver Colorado version of glatt kosher Texas barbeque beef served up at Shelley Silver’s reception for the New York Delegation.
I pick up the phone, but it has stopped. I call the front desk and a night man reminiscent of Dennis Weaver in “A Touch of Evil” picks up. “Did my phone ring?” I ask–perhaps the dumbest question I could think of. Apologetically, he rambles out an incoherent story of being alone (him too) and something about his computer not being on and nothing written down. I ask him to repeat what he said in English, and he says my friend called. I start to tell him I have no friends, when it dawns on me.
Hackshaw.
I attempt to get back to sleep but the murmurs of barbeque have now evolved into a roar and there is no Alka-seltzer in my swag bag.
There is nothing to do but write.
Hackshaw calls again from the airport. He is tired and wants instructions on how to get to the Residence Inn at Denver South/Park Meadows Mall, located in relation to the Convention site in roughly the same proximity as Paramus is to New York City, but with better mass transit.
“Try the shuttle buses”, I suggest.
They have stopped running at 11:00.
“Well then, it looks like you’re fucked.”
Somewhere around two and a half hours ago, I stumbled back into my room, after a ride on the Light Rail, most of the way accompanied by most of the Alaska Delegation (it tells you the esteem one is held in when your accommodations are slightly further away from the action than those of a state with three electoral votes where the Libertarian Party may outpoll Obama). Meanwhile, New York‘s actual delegates are at the Downtown Sheraton, steps away from all the convention action they can handle.
I spend a short time in the lobby of the Residence Inn, decompressing, while talking about their local politics with members of the delegation from DC (three electoral votes and certain to go for Obama even if he was caught in a threesome with John Edwards and Rielle Hunter). I regale them with my anecdote of joining other young white “progressives” in 1978 to help their City elect a reform Mayor (punch line: Marion Barry), I hobble off to sleep, which is where I wish I were now.
The day began early with goodbyes to my wife and son as my car service arrived. We were off at good speed until mounting the Tillary entrance to the BQE. A car was stopped, the driver seemingly puzzled about her next move, while mine plowed straight on ahead, my driver now cursing in what appeared to be a language of the Near East. I got out to inspect the damage and noticed our van had neither livery plates nor a TLC diamond on the window; back in the car, I noticed no TLC driver’s license. My driver called for a new car to pick me up, while he argued with the woman whose day he had just ruined.
I was about to dial the TLC civilian complaint line, when I realized that the car service folks knew where I lived; suddenly I recalled rumors about the provenance of their ownership (what a local hack turned judged turned convicted and disbarred former attorney called “the real boys”) and thought better of it.
Eventually, I made it to the airport. Walking to the security queue, I got behind a man in his sixties in a shabby jacket and baseball cap schlepping his suitcase. If I’d seen him on the street, I would have considered giving him a quarter. Looking again, I realized it was Assembly Speaker Sheldon Silver, unaccompanied by any entourage. Truly, this is a man who drinks his super-sized cup of power decaffinated, without cream, sugar or any other perks.
The waiting area for the 10:38 AM flight to Denver began to look like the cocktail hour of the Kings Democratic County Dinner being reenacted in very casual dress, although even that august assemblage did not usually include staff from “The Daily Show.”
Queuing up to depart, I once again found myself with our Speaker, who decided it would be great fun to introduce me to his colleague, Janelle Hyer-Spencer, whose district spans the Verrazano. She seemed unclear which blogger I was (I hadn‘t mentioned my pseudonym), while we discussed my compensation at Room 8 (at its height $125 a month, now zero); I mentioned that Room 8 had paid for most of my plain ride, and then joked that I probably should just have sent a bill to Mike McMahon for the rest. The Assemblywoman then did the equivalent of a spit-take, as she realized who it was she was talking to. For the rest of the conversation, she reverted to pol-rote, carefully sticking to well memorized talking points while discussing Steve Harrison and some other local politicos. I must say, it was hard to blame her.
It is now 2:34 AM and my story has not yet departed from LaGuardia–Hackshaw is nowhere to be seen, but his arrival will surely be disruptive, as he is not a man of few words. A full-blown headache has now emerged and the eyes have grown heavy and it is clear I will probably not be finishing, even though it is also clear I will probably not be sleeping. The day has been full of events, even though nothing has really occurred, but I promised Ben and Gur I would write everyday, so this will do for now.
No time now to describe my convention goal of getting through the week without paying for a single meal. Azi Paybarah wanted to do a podcast of me talking about it, but I demurred, not having asked my wife for permission to be that public. As it is, I'm now public enough.
Results of the Gatemouth Primary: 20% greet me with "Hey Gatemouth", 20% say "I knew it was you"; 20% say, "I thought it could be you"; 20%, usually those one most assume would know, say "You're Gatemouth? Oh wow! I had no idea, but now it makes sense"; and 20% say "who the fuck is Gatemouth?"
Also no time to describe my ride from the airport with Oregon’s Secretary of State describing the vote-by-mail system he administers to a skeptical county leader from rural east Texas who used expressions like "sumbitch" and “angrier than a hornet’s nest“. A Pennsylvania delegate shared my assessment, and that of the Texan, that this one of those ideas concerning honor best suited for west of the Pecos (like the Denver Light Rail System's policy of not checking whether the passengers have actually paid for their ride).
The phone, the phone is ringing. It is Rock; apparently they have split Room 8 into two rooms, without raising our rate. WTF? He said he’d explain in the morning. Meanwhile, fate has eliminated our opportunity to re-enact “The Odd Couple”. I guess it’s OK, with Richard Pryor dead and Gene Wilder retired, who could do us justice?
Oh yeah, there was one other thing. I swear I heard the Governor say that he wanted Malcolm Smith to become Senate Majority Leader. Maybe it was just an example of his puckish sense of humor, or maybe he actually meant it, though I noticed he had to leave the state before he cold bring himself to say it publicly.
Or maybe it was just a dream; wait a minute and I'll wake Chelsea and ask her.