Boogers Are My Beat

by Dave Barry

  . . . and so on, state by state, until every TV viewer in America has switched over to watching reruns of Gilligan's Island. Except for big stupid hats shaped like elephants or donkeys, these roll calls are the single most-ridiculed element of political conventions. Everybody agrees that they are boring, moronic, and spectacularly inefficient.

  And so guess what the Republicans have done? They have come up with a New Idea! The party of Change, the party of Efficiency, the Party of Getting Things Done, has figured out a way to make the roll call last for THREE NIGHTS.

  Yes. They're calling it a “rolling roll call,” and the way it works is, they do only a third of the states each night, except that some of the states, after bragging for ten minutes about their achievements (“. . . birthplace of fat-free canoe wax . . .”) declare that they are PASSING, which means the next night they vote AGAIN. At this rate, the Republicans may never get around to actually nominating George “W.” Bush III Jr., which means they'll be legally forced to recycle Viagra spokesperson Bob Dole, who, when asked about this possibility, declared, “I'm up for it!” (Rim shot.)

  So most of the action here is taking place on the streets, where protesters continue to fight for Meaningful Change via the highly effective technique of shouting semicoherent slogans at police officers, police horses, and small, baffled clots of civilians. I watched one protest march, which consisted of about 1,000 people representing, at a conservative estimate, 7,000 different causes. Here is just a partial list of the things that the protesters were angry about: war, poverty, hunger, racism, homelessness, disease, pollution, police brutality, the death penalty, the judicial system, the anti-missile defense system, the System, animal abuse, corporations, sweatshops, authority, rich people, money in general, stadium construction, the Republican Party, the Democratic Party, the federal government, meat, and, of course, The Gap.

  To dramatize these causes, some protesters had dressed themselves as giant cockroaches; others were wearing cardboard mouse heads; and others were carrying (Why not?) large cardboard peanuts. One man was brandishing a four-foot-long toothbrush and, through an electric bullhorn, shouting “LET ELVIS BE PRESIDENT! WHY IN THE WORLD CAN'T A DEAD MAN BE PRESIDENT?!?” To be fair, this man may have been just fooling around, unlike the serious protesters wearing the cockroach costumes.

  Here's the rest of the convention news:

  “DICK” CHENEY UPDATE: The Democratic Party has released another attack ad, this one charging that, while he was a congressman in Wyoming, Cheney had an “unusually close friendship” with a sheep named Bernice. Cheney immediately issued an angry denial, stating that it was “strictly platonic” and “her name was Jennifer.”

  PARTY UPDATE: Greed-crazed fascist corporate pigs continue to try to corrupt the political process by holding lavish parties wherein they try to bribe politicians and the media with free food and liquor. I say we give them whatever they want.

  Encounter with Falwell Gets Surprisingly Intimate

  PHILADELPHIA

  I'll fill you in on the other exciting convention developments in a moment, but first I want to talk frankly and openly about my relationship with the Extremely Rev. Jerry Falwell. I want to get this thing “out in the open,” before the gossip-mongers start with their rumor and innuendo. Because Reverend Falwell and I have done nothing to be ashamed of.

  Here's how it happened: On Tuesday night, Reverend Falwell and I were guests in back-to-back segments on MSNBC, which is broadcasting the convention live to a nationwide audience consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert A. Pocklewinger of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We were interviewed by Tom Brokaw and Tim Russert, who sit high above the convention floor in a glass booth staffed by men with cattle prods, which are used to jolt Tom and Tim awake when the commercials end.

  Reverend Falwell was on the show to talk about gay people, whom, as a Christian, he sincerely and deeply loves, which is why he wants to inform them that they are degenerate perverts going to hell. I have no earthly idea why I was on the show. All I know is that, when Reverend Falwell was done with his segment, a technician removed the earpiece from his ear, and—with the reverend standing right next to me, our hips practically touching—the technician inserted the SAME EARPIECE, which was still warm, into MY ear.

  Yes, there was penetration. Yes, there was probably an exchange of earwax. No, neither I nor Reverend Falwell (as far as I know) was wearing a condom. But so what? This is the year 2000, darn it! If two consenting male adults choose to share an earpiece, it is nobody else's business! That is my view, and I'm sure the reverend agrees, although I have not discussed this with him personally. (Jerry, if you're reading this, call me, you big lug!)

  Meanwhile, on the social front, the Republicans continue to “get down,” GOP-style. I attended a totally “happening” outdoor party called (I swear) IRA-PALOOZA. It was sponsored by Merrill Lynch, Morgan Stanley Dean Witter, and other large, fun-loving financial corporations to celebrate the passage of something called “HR 1102,” which has something to do with Individual Retirement Accounts, and which I totally support, because there was free liquor.

  Party-wise, IRA-PALOOZA was identical to its namesake, the Lollapalooza rock festival, except that instead of rock acts blasting heavy metal, there was a wedding-reception-style band quietly tooting the greatest hits of 1937, and instead of half-naked young people writhing ecstatically in a mosh pit, there were Republicans in dark suits networking on cellphones. Some of them were using earpieces, but I stayed faithful to Jerry.

  After about ninety fun-filled seconds at IRA-PALOOZA, I tore myself away. A few blocks away, I found myself in the middle of the daily street protest, in which protesters, the overwhelming majority of whom appear to be middle-class white kids, demonstrate their solidarity with The People by running around shouting and blocking streets, thereby inconveniencing the actual people of Philadelphia. At one point, I watched some protesters, wearing bandannas to protect their Secret Identities, drag some newspaper boxes into the street, blocking it. This infuriated a woman waiting at a bus stop.

  “What's WRONG with you people?” she shouted. “I want to go HOME!”

  Crying, she started dragging the boxes off the street, so her bus could come through. The protesters ran on, some yelling, “THESE ARE OUR STREETS! F—— THE REPUBLICANS!” I couldn't figure out why, if they hate the Republicans so much, they didn't just go over and hassle IRA-PALOOZA, instead of working people. But what do I know? I'm just a corporate-media whore. Speaking of which, my ear feels funny.

  George W. Survives His GOP Convention Speech

  PHILADELPHIA

  The Republicans finally ran out of minority groups, so on Thursday night they had no choice but to listen to the actual nominee, George “W.” Bush III Jr. IV, who gave an acceptance speech that was pretty much flawless, except for the eight times he referred to the United States as “Venezuela.”

  Then the convention—which lasted four days, or, if you were actually here, seventeen months—came to a dramatic climax, as more than four thousand Republican delegates and alternates joined together and, in a striking display of party harmony, beat James Carville to death.

  No, seriously, the Republicans were Positive and Harmonious right to the end, celebrating and “getting down” as only Republicans can. NOBODY dances like Republican convention delegates.

  When the band starts playing a “rock 'n' roll” tune, they sense that they should respond somehow, even though generations of selective GOP breeding have eliminated all traces of rhythm from their genetic makeup. Gamely, they lurch up and down at random, like the moles in a Whack-a-Mole arcade game, thrusting their BUSH-CHENEY signs into the air. The Republican Delegate Boogie!

  Which is not to say the convention was no fun. There were many fine parties, sponsored by many fine corporations that should, in my opinion, be allowed to do whatever the hell they want.

  The highlight for me came at a lavish corporate party for the movie industry at an exclusive nightclub. I went there with fiv
e cartoonists; we got in basically by whining. Inside, there was a VIP area, guarded by security men the size of UPS trucks, reserved for important guests, which definitely did not include us.

  So we made our own VIP area. In the middle of a largish room, there was a platform the size of a Ping-Pong table, raised about a foot off the floor. We climbed onto it, and we put an orange traffic cone on the edge to indicate that it was an exclusive area. For the first half-hour, it was just the six of us up there. People would walk into the room, and we'd shout, “Sorry! VIP area! You can't come up here!” And they'd stride briskly away, avoiding eye contact with us.

  But then an amazing thing happened: An actual VIP joined us! It was Dick Armey, the majority leader of the House of Representatives. I am not making this up. I'm still not sure why Representative Armey got up there with us; perhaps he had consumed some refreshing beverages. But he was friendly, and he stayed for quite a while, and he told us a pretty funny joke that I will not repeat here except to say that it involved a naughty interpretation of the phrase “Dick Armey.”

  And guess what? Once word got around the party that Dick had been in our VIP area, more VIPs started showing up! Pretty soon we were joined by Jack Valenti, head of the Motion Picture Association of America and by so many Republican elected officials that we had to start kicking them off the platform. And if you don't think it's pretty darned funny to watch a cartoonist order a member of Congress off a small, crowded platform, then you have not consumed as much beer as I did.

  So it was a fun week, but now it's time for the Republicans to pack their bags and go home and untie their servants. For us in the media, it's on to Los Angeles and the Democratic convention. A whole week of Al Gore Mania! I can't wait! Maybe my plane will crash.

  Real People, Real Issues, Full Nudity

  LOS ANGELES

  Thousands of Democratic delegates have gathered here this week with one purpose in mind: to get to the convention center from their hotels, some of which are as far away as Oregon. In the unlikely event that they succeed, they plan to nominate Al Gore, who is running for president on the campaign slogan “Al Gore: He Was Not Legally Involved in the Clinton Administration.”

  The slogan is designed to subtly suggest that Gore had nothing to do with the various administration scandals, and never personally visited the White House. Gore reinforced this theme by boldly selecting, as his vice presidential running mate, Connecticut senator Joseph Lieberman, who makes history by being the first person ever on a major-party ticket whose name can be rearranged to spell “I JAB HERPES MELON.”

  Choosing Lieberman was a shrewd strategic move, intended to broaden the appeal of the Democratic ticket. Lieberman is known as a moral, pro-family-values senator who is more conservative than Gore on many issues and who, in fact, announced on Friday that he intends to vote for the Republican ticket.

  “As moral and conservative as I am,” he said, “I just can't see me voting for us.”

  The Republicans moved swiftly to counter Gore's selection. On Sunday morning, the Republican nominee, George “W.” Bush III Jr., told Tim Russert of NBC News that, in his opinion, Dick Cheney is Jewish.

  So the tactical maneuvering has started, and it looks like an exciting campaign ahead, with most polls now showing Gore-Lieberman closing to within just two percentage points of Bush-Cheney among the estimated four voters who currently care.

  But for this week, the spotlight will be on the Democrats, who are determined that their convention will draw more TV viewers than the tightly scripted, rigidly controlled show put on by the Republicans. In the words of Terry McAuliffe, chairman of the Democratic National Convention Committee: “We're going to show real Americans talking about real issues. And there will be full frontal nudity.”

  Speaking of which: The highlight speakers of the first night of the convention will be President Bill Clinton and his wife, New York resident Mrs. President Bill Clinton. The president will speak last, delivering what is expected to be an emotional look back at the highlights of his presidency, culminating in a standing ovation as giant overhead nets open up and drop thousands of pairs of red-white-and-blue thong underwear on the cheering delegates.

  But much of the “real action” at this convention will take place outside the convention hall, in the dazzling, glamorous city of Los Angeles, whose magnificent mansions, swank restaurants, and star-studded population certainly justify its nickname, “The Big Apple.” The Democrats will be holding many lavish, exclusive fundraisers this week, raising the millions and millions of dollars they will need to carry out the vital work of producing TV commercials that portray the Republicans as the party of the rich.

  I have rented a car and will be “on the scene” here, reporting all the news to you, just as soon as I figure out the freeway system. So you'll never hear from me again.

  There's Glitz, Glamour, the Clintons—but Where's Al?

  LOS ANGELES

  The Democrats are really fired up, especially after President Clinton's stirring speech Monday night, in which he told the cheering delegates that he may be eligible to serve a third term, “depending on your definition of what the Constitution means by the word ‘no.' ”

  The president and the first lady, Mrs. President Bill Clinton, also attended many lavish star-studded fundraising events, where they raised millions of dollars for two favorite causes: (1) The Bill Clinton Presidential Library and Hot Tub, and (2) The Committee to Elect Hillary Senator from New York or, If That Doesn't Work Out, Maybe Illinois.

  Meanwhile, Al Gore was in—I am not making this up—Cleveland. Rumor has it that the Gore camp is ticked off at the Clintons for hogging all the money and famous movie stars before Al gets here, as evidenced by the fact that Al's lone scheduled fundraising event is a “Cruller-a-Rama” at a Dunkin' Donuts in Burbank, which will be celebrity-hosted, according to the Gore campaign press release, by “Ricardo Montalban, unless he is already dead.”

  Speaking of excitement: The protesters are here, delivering the same persuasive message that they delivered at the Republican convention: “Hey! Look at us!” I went to watch them protest in Santa Monica, which is maybe five miles from my hotel as the crow flies, or roughly 857 miles on the convenient Southern California freeway system.

  Unfortunately, I was following directions given orally to me by my friend Chip Bok, who is a professional cartoonist and therefore not familiar with words. As I understood his directions, at pretty much every intersection I came to I was supposed to turn right. At one point I called Chip to say I was lost, and we had this conversation:

  CHIP: Can you see the ocean?

  ME: I think so.

  CHIP: Well, it's right near there.

  I eventually found the protest, which consisted of protesters videotaping each other and shouting “SELLOUT!” at Democrats going to a party inside an amusement park on the Santa Monica Pier, sponsored by various large, greedy fascist corporations. Holding the protesters back were police officers on large horses, which are very effective because you know that they will not hesitate to step and/or poop on you, regardless of your constitutional right to protest. “Constitution, Schmonstitution,” that is the feeling of police horses.

  Many of the Democrats going into the party seemed chagrined about being called corporate lackey scum—as if they were Republicans or something! Probably some of them used to be long-haired, hippie-style protesters themselves, standing on the other side of the police horses, shouting at the Fat Cats. And now they were accused of BEING the Fat Cats!

  Not that this kept them from going inside to snork down free corporate fascist food and drink. As a dedicated journalist, I also went into the amusement park; the highlight for me was the bumper cars, which are kind of like the freeway system, except more efficient. At one point, I saw one of the Democratic guests, a middle-aged man, driving a bumper car while talking on his cellphone. It's time for the Revolution.

  Campaign Trail, Freeways, Finally Lead to a Vast Parking Lot

 
; LOS ANGELES

  I'm in a taxi, somewhere in Los Angeles. Or it could be Oklahoma. We just passed, I swear, some oil rigs.

  I'm trying to get to the Democratic convention. I gave up on the official shuttle-bus system, which apparently was designed by the same person who decided how many lifeboats there should be on the Titanic. So now I'm in a taxi on—Surprise!—a freeway. Under strict California law, you cannot go anywhere, including the bathroom, without going on at least three freeways, two of which must be the “10” and the “405.”

  After a few hundred miles we arrive at the Staples Center, which is named for the giant office-supplies chain Office Max. To give the Staples Center a friendly, laid-back California “vibe,” the city has accessorized it with barricades, razor-wire fences, police dogs, police horses, and hundreds of police officers with large police biceps from lifting weights and dropping them on the heads of alleged perpetrators resisting arrest. They're polite and professional, but it's hard not to be a little nervous around them; you can't help but remember that shocking videotape a few years back, showing a group of LAPD horses beating up on Rodney King's horse.

  Outside the perimeter fence, baking in the heat, is a vast parking lot that has been designated as the Protest Area, because it would be rude to call it the Raving Loon Area. Up on the stage, bellowing into a microphone, is a man wearing (Why not?) a hard hat with a huge flip-down sun visor, flipped up. He is bellowing about God. Listening to him are a total of two pro-God people, and maybe a dozen bored, heckling protesters, who are waiting for Democratic delegates to arrive so they can call them fascist corporate sellouts. These listeners are all within twenty-five feet of the speaker; he could easily talk to them in an unamplified voice. But he chooses to bellow at them via the huge, stadium-quality public-address system. It's like using an army tank to crack a walnut.