Unconventional Wisdom

What an Unconventional Convention Year

As a broadcaster, I had to attend a number of national party conventions over the years. They’re foregone conclusions wrapped in bunting and ballons, but I kind of wished I’d been in Chicago.

The conventions are a logistical nightmare. You need more credentials than our ambassador to Mars. Checkpoints are outnumbered only by grown-ups in funny hats. Conventions always take place in huge indoor stadia, where the only thing worse for you than the endless concrete walkways are the rancid hotdogs.

The Democratic convention in Philadelphia in 2016 that anointed Hillary Clinton was by any measure isolated and nearly impossible to access. It was in a sports venue complex that houses the baseball Philly’s, the basketball 76ers, and the football Eagles. Without all the security it’s still a pain in the neck, but when you add the thousands of attendees, the hundreds of dignitaries, the Secret Service, the Federal Protection Agency, The FBI, two dozen local police forces, the state patrol, about a jillion media outlets, and who-knows what all, it’s what the military calls a Charlie Foxtrot (whose decoded name is too bawdy for Substack, let alone a family newspaper). I had a lunch offsite, and like poor Charlie on the MTA, I never returned. No crafty Lyft or Uber driver could divine a safe passage, so I went back to the flea-trap motel we booked six months out. (If you’re going to a 2028 convention, book now.)

The conventions used to be compelling, before, like so much of American exposition, they were homogenized, sanitized, and generally Disneyized. Ancient texts teach us that once upon a time, conventions had drama. Smoke-filled backrooms yielded deals that saddled presidential hopefuls with a pol from somewhere that the candidate had no following. Deals were cut as though in a bazar in Calcutta. “Horse-trading” was a term of art for sticking some poor zhlub with a running mate who happened to be the son-in-law of a big donor. Research and the never ending primaries took the drama and surprise out of the conventions long ago.

Before TV anchors were blow-dried and made up, conventions were presided over by television news people with lines on their faces and field experience in actual war zones. I’m generally not a “glory days” kind of guy, but I miss Walter Cronkite, Barbara Walters, David Brinkley, and Peter Jennings. They didn’t get into the field for fame or fortune. They were journalists with portfolio.

The 2016 Republican convention in Cleveland anointed Donald Trump with no more drama than the Chiefs beating up on the Browns. Security was as tight as it was in Philly, but the venues were more accessible. I have to hand it to the Republican planning committee—Cleveland was easier to transit than Philadelphia. They didn’t mess around. There were 12 foot metal barriers lining the only street that went from the convention to the lead hotels. Only official shuttles operated, and it was easy to move around. Surprisingly only the real heavyweights—candidates and their monied supporters—had limousines. I rode to the convention hall with Arkansas governor, and smooth jazz-playing saxophonist, Mike Huckabee, and his soon-to-be Trump press secretary daughter, Sarah, the current governor of Arkansas. They were, shall we say, enthusiastic about a Trump presidency. The cult of personality surrounding him there turned adults like the Huckabees into screaming fangirls seeing the Beatles at Shea Stadium.

And that’s the thing about conventions. They propel otherwise level-headed people into a zone of unsustainable optimism for their candidate. It never lasts more than a week or two, and the subsequent lift in the polls has acquired the too-visual nickname, “Dead Cat Bounce.” The bounce from the RNC has already returned to earth. How long will it last for the DNC?

The contrast this year is the interesting thing. The Republicans regaled in the dark Trumpian dystopia of a country circling the drain, with out-of-control crime in the “Democrat” cities, and alien invaders being brought here to vote “Democrat.” (Neither is grammatically correct or true: crime is down, only U.S. citizens can vote for president, and the correct adjective is “Democratic.”)

Conversely, optimism was the thing in Chicago. I sense Americans are ready to be lifted up, not dragged down.

Harris/Walz seems friendly, unlike their opponents. Sal Gentile, head writer/producer of the “Closer Look” segment at Late Night with Seth Meyer, wrote: “Tim Walz will expand free school lunches, raise the minimum wage, make it easier to unionize, fix your [carburetor], replace the old wiring in your basement, spray that wasp’s nest under the deck, install a new spring for your garage door and put a new chain on your lawnmower.”

Chicago brought us a newly viable Kamala Harris, and a running mate no one hates…yet. Maybe fun is back.

©2024 Jon Sinton