Political Parties Partying Hard

The Republican National Convention is scheduled to begin tomorrow in Tampa, a day late because of a hurricane that narrowly missed it. Too bad, if you ask me; I guess God is a Republican after all. But if a tornado rips through the Democratic Convention city of Charlotte, North Carolina next week, my belief in Him will be restored. Who knows, I might even start going to church every Sunday morning. Trust me; I earned my disdain for these gargantuan political parties honestly. In 1979 I began a year-long stint working for the Democratic National Committee in Washington, D.C., culminating in the Big Moment: The 1980 Democratic National Convention.

My job as a graphic designer was to help create and produce all the printed propaganda that would be distributed during the four-day event, including a book about the party's history, the daily convention newsletter and various pamphlets and flyers about Jimmy Carter, the incumbent, and the party's platform. I was over the moon with excitement, especially since at the time I still wore the blinders put on me at birth by my parents and had no idea there was anything else to be but a Democrat. To say that the 1980 convention "opened my eyes" is not only hackneyed, it's true.

Six weeks before the big event, the whole staff moved up to New York City and set up shop directly across from Madison Square Garden at New York's Statler Hotel, a one-time grand dame slowly sliding into rat-trap status when we arrived. Like my innocence, the Statler is long gone, and I think that very Convention took both of us down. As the girlfriend of a married man high on the organizational chart, one of my toughest jobs at the Convention was to make myself scarce whenever his wife flew into town--fortunately a rare occurrence. (Hey, I'm not proud, but after all, I was not married, and besides, his wife didn't understand him.) I also had to troop around the Garden helping figure out where things would go and how many balloons might fall here vs. there, and help out in the printing office and go out to a lot of clubs late at night in the big black limo provided by the D.N.C. for staff use. My alliance with A Big Guy at the Convention gave me access to some of the back room wheeling and dealing, mostly involving the illegal printing of extra floor passes for Teddy Kennedy's people to pressure the delegates, a few of the fancy parties with rich donors and richer food, and the persistent and ongoing snorting of cocaine in restaurant bathrooms. (That last thing didn't get talked about too much.)

I found the whole mad scene depressing and decidedly unrelated to who would ultimately occupy the White House.  Always one to shield my eyes from roadside accidents and gruesome scenes in horror movies, I left my post after the opening night, suspecting that the drunken orgies were bound to worsen since all the hard work was over. With a last look at the crazy hats and jingoistic placards, bright lights and media whores--oops, I mean hordes-- and the insane posturing of little wigs hoping to grow into big wigs, I trained it back to Washington and an emergency shrink session to dissect my disappointment at the whole corrupt bacchanal. He shrugged and said, "I'm surprised you expected more," then suggested I read a book called "Men in Groups" by Lionel Tiger about male bonding. I didn't, but maybe I should.