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Unconventional, Day Two: We’re In, We’re Out, It’s Not Over

By Chris Fara1

First off, I must defend the title for this column. Apparently, I wasn’t the only pundit to concoct that brilliant play on words. MSNBC, The Boston Herald, and a few other crap news organizations have also slipped “unconventional” into their ads for the week. Of course, they’ll be dropping the same monotonous drip that virtually every news house will be putting out, but for some reason they’ve decided to label themselves unconventional. It’s just the old bait and switch, and luckily for them there are millions of salivating Americans rushing to newsstands with their mouths wide open.

Now that we’re here, the most difficult thing is deciding what to eat, drink, watch, and do. There are at least thirty daily events around the city; more than you could hit up with a flux capacitor and a flying skateboard. Today alone there’s a hip-hop summit with Jadakiss and Twista, multiple Jesse Jackson appearances, countless DNC subcommittee shindigs, and even a Young Democrats of America bash featuring Terry McAuliffe and various Real World cast members (I wonder what Terry said about Mrs. Heinz-Kerry in the confession room). Celebrities are on the prowl, ranging from usual suspects like Moore and Franken to uninvited guests like Laura Ingraham. Ted Danson and Mary Steenburgen are in tow with the Clintons, and rumor has it they’ll be swinging like Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Florida.

While the mood and events on the convention floor are scheduled to the second, those directly outside the Fleet Center are not as predictable. There’s been some national mention of the protester corral, but it’s difficult to feel the heat of the snipers unless you’re beneath the razor wires and chain links. Some rebels chose to ignore the parameters, and took to the streets in unorganized mashes of anger and dissent. The DNC attracts them all; from gas mask toting guerillas (YOUR PHONE IS TAPPED) to the disillusioned (ANARCHY IS FREEDOM – GOVERNMENT IS SLAVERY) to the confused (FUCK BUSH). The pro-lifers are aborting my eardrums with their typical ignorant rants, and Che Guevara t-shirts must be on sale nearby. In the words of my dad – the misfits are nothing but fits. Just like the generic politicos on the floor of the Fleet, the non-conformists are nearly indistinguishable. Their most common trait is that nobody outside of the protest gives a damn about their screams and shouts.

Like the protesters – small time journalists got shafted in a few places. You can read more about that in Grueter’s column, as he seems to be on the warpath for the conniving democrats who relegated online writers to the section 8 pressroom. I’m actually satisfied with our credentials, and I even got a photograph in front of the podium this morning. More impressive is that I had the pleasure of telling two media whores to go fuck themselves, and one religious nut that Jesus blows transvestites on his days off. The call to duty for an Internet contrarian is never finished.

This particular muckraker’s job continues. Just when I thought my afternoon was complete, Ed Gillespie, Chairman of the Republican National Committee, strolled into my mainstay of the day. Accompanied by a small crew of overt landowners (including D’nesh D’Souza), and two cops, he made the right decision to seek refuge in the back of the establishment. I would love to report on how he fondled a waitress and beat off in the bathroom, but none of that happened. My friend put to bed the scheme to plant a tape recorder at his table, so I’ll only be able to hypothesize on the insidious plans being drawn up over microbrews. As of now I have no evidence of their evildoing, so their only real crime was entering my zone of consciousness.

Back to the people who are supposed to be here. Leading up to the biggest speech night, featuring Bill, Hillary, Jimmy Carter, and Patti LaBelle; cats like Chris Mathews were getting their pitching arms ready. Hardball was a major event, and political crowds filled the Faneuil Hall space where apathetic tourists usually roam. Ron Reagan and Dee Dee Myers took their chairs and bowed to applause, while dedicated Kerry-Edwards sign holders chased around anti-abortion loons hoisting oversized pictures of what they should have been. It was an interesting scene, but not nearly as cute as the Young Democratic Youth Watch party at the Red Hat bar in Beacon Hill.

The non-exclusive event featured a crowd that wouldn’t shut the fuck up when the speakers got going. I was in good company though, with a slew of other reporters who were also looking for a story that wasn’t there. Everybody finally muted for Al Gore’s brilliant claim to office, but resumed the noise when old schoolers like Jimmy Carter grabbed the mic. As I write, there’s a Boston Globe lackey on the prowl for “two words” from extroverted spokesmen. I said, “Al Sharpton,” for no reason other than my love for corrupt progressive politics, and I engraved the Me Three name on his brain with the force of a four-finger ring. He said he’d drop us a link if his superiors deemed this site inoffensive, so you have to think you won’t be reading about Me Three in the major papers any time soon.

In a shout out to Boston, I must say that the city is looking and acting its best. Mayor Menino finally struck a deal with the firemen, avoiding the embarrassment of drunkards with hoses picketing everything in sight. The public transportation is fantastic, with efforts as genuine as volunteer guide posses and free booklets on “Taking the T during the DNC.” Sports fanatics are barely in sight, and intelligent people have descended on the many awesome bars that are usually occupied by fools with fitted hats. At its nexus, Boston 2004 has gracefully welcomed the presence of legends like Bill Clinton and Jimmy Carter. I know that journalists aren’t supposed to get partisan, but these guys make me proud to be on the human side of pertinent issues. Those white stains on my shirt may be drool remnants from late night cribbing at friends’ apartments, but when I hear Bill spill charisma I really understand what those interns were gawking at. He’s just all that and a bag of snacks. Keep reading – because we’re about to see if these boys can live up to the Larry Birds and Red Auerbachs who have made this city shine. I believe they will.

Chris FARA1 is a writer living in New York City.  He can be reached at fara1andonly@netscape.net.

© 2004 Me Three