Now, about Wednesday night’s Clinton love-in, the Bill loves Barack stage play. Not the onstage he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not script. I mean, the offstage dramas.
I was inside the Westin when Gabby Giffords arrived. In a wheelchair pushed by her husband. She didn’t speak. She appeared frail. Aides and guards moved her quietly through a private side entrance.
Reaching the arena was a production. People started for there by 7ish. Vehicles were stopped at a perimeter. VIPs like Madeleine Albright — nice blue suit, usual clunky junky brooch, seemingly minus a blow-dry, although only her hairdresser knows for sure — had security with specific ID allowing them directly to a separate safe, secure side entryway. Others had to trudge for blocks.
Passing rows of pushcart hucksters unloading Obama masks, posters, caps, T-shirts, stopped at assorted checkpoints, you had to show proper colored credentials hanging from your neck. Masses went single file through assigned lanes. Then, on railroad ties in the middle of the city, you rode a one-stop shuttle to a metal detector station.
There they removed my handbag’s tiny fold-up umbrella. It was special to me. It had my dogs’ pictures on it. How a teeny skinny umbrella, decorated with Yorkies’ photos, and so flimsy that a sneeze breaks it can harm America’s system of government, I don’t know. “Secret Service ordered umbrellas taken away,” they said.
There hordes — crowds — the great unwashed — were blocked. Forced to huddle, body to body on a sweaty, humid night. No place to sit. Just standing, carrying equipment, in front of shut doors. For hours. Not rowdies crazed to storm the place. Designated invitees — delegates, assistants, journalists, state reps — those expected to vote on motions and resolutions.
A voice — no mike, no bullhorn — shouted that fire marshals had shut the place. Too many bodies. Overcrowded. One actual staffer, who’d come outside for something, was barred from re-entry. Like a scene from “Les Miz,” I expected the mob to batter down the barriers. Many were leaving.
This was democracy? The Democrats couldn’t get their act together. Locked out God, who’s in our Pledge of Allegiance, in our Declaration of Independence, on our coins and in many of our hearts? Dumped Jerusalem? Shafted Israel? Changed venues?
Couldn’t fill a larger outdoor stadium, so they moved into the smaller indoor one and blamed inclement weather that we’d known about for days. Democrats can’t count. Not seats, not dollars.
And now? Barring supporters who were begging: “Let us in.”
Exactly what happened, I don’t know because before anyone hollered, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall,” I personally was rescued. I can’t say how or who. A cell reached someone inside who came out and shepherded my party through.
Backstage, Greta Van Susteren hugged Nancy Pelosi. Greta was in black. Pelosi in turquoise. Matching shoes. Either Pelosi’s outfit was pure 100 percent wrinkled linen or her housekeeper hadn’t ironed the thing.
TV talker Paul Begala, looking busy, talking to nobody, walked by.
CNN’s Donna Brazile, rushing to makeup and hugging lawyer John Coale, had shloomped on her blouse, which featured a big stain. I told her: “Sit low in your chair. Nobody will notice.”
David Gregory of “Meet the Press” sailed by. Where might he rather be tonight? “No place else,” he beamed. “This is it. History. The story. Where it’s happening.” OK.
And with history, these heavies behind America’s happening story were doing what? Watching a flat-screen TV. The NFL opening game. New York Giants vs. Dallas Cowboys. Eyeballs ringed in fake lashes were glued. Shove the political fight. They were onto a gridiron scrimmage.
Steny Hoyer, House of Representatives minority whip: “Listen, I’m at heart a New Yorker. Born in Flower Fifth Avenue hospital. Grew up in Mount Kisco.” OK.
Question 1: Why schedule a convention in a hurricane path in hurricane season? Question 2: Why stick Clinton against a big NFL opener hot-shot ballgame?
Somehow, while America was home belching beer and downing chips, in the behind-the-scenes scrum, political reporter Elaine Lafferty and I got pushed into Vermont Gov. Peter Shumlin’s private protected sky box. As surprised to see us as we to see him, he graciously explained his state “has the best milk, cheese, vegetables, maple syrup, local pork.”
He was so gracious, I felt guilty inhaling his free food as socialite Patricia Duff explained her project, “The Common Good. Getting both sides, Democrats and Republicans, to work together. It’s a $600 membership.” I went back to the free food.
One camera guy loped past. His huge button read: “Sluts for Obama.”
Chat from the anchors’ makeup people: “These middle America ladies look awful. Terrible clothes. Too short, too tight, too cheap. And the men? Bad hair. And lousy teeth. Vacant empty spaces. No implants.”
Chat I know: Why Arianna Huffington stays single: “Too busy, too involved. Also I agree with someone who pointed to her palm, then said: ‘Only if hair grew here, I’d marry again.’ ”
And NBC’s adored Tom Brokaw, hospitalized for feeling faint. He blamed light-headedness on having taken Ambien. Maybe part blame might be those walnuts and raisins I watched him inhale after lunch.
Charlotte is nice. The people are friendly. I want to come home.