So Day 2 of the RNC Convention.
Know where I wasn’t? In front of the TV. No-sir-ee-bob. I was in a swish, West Coast liberal, San Francisco restaurant, enjoying the turpitude of an over-priced cocktail indubitably made for me by an immigrant–or the child of an immigrant, or the descendant of an immigrant–and concentrating hard on advancing the moral degradation of the human race with my pursuit of dangerous San Francisco values like compassion, justice and a living wage.
The very name of the establishment is “The Progress,” and you know what that means.
(That it was the name of the former theater where the restaurant is now housed which closed in 1925.)
As I left the restaurant, I checked my phone to find nine frantic text messages from my husband, each more agitated than the previous one, starting with “WTF Chris Christie?,” moving on with words like “apoplectic,” “bile” and “vomiting” and reaching a fever pitch with the phrase “I’m RNC drinking now.”
No, he wasnt talking about that devilishly delicious norovirus outbreak that is creating some havoc and sending GOP conventioneers into quarantine. (Isn’t that to be considered some kind of plague visited
upon the sinners? If not, why not?)
“I blame you for Chris Christie,” he fumes at me as I walk through the door. He’s furiously folding laundry and skirting our toddler who’s running around clad only in her diaper.
“What did I do?”
I sense that somehow I’m going to have to take the hit of social responsibility for the very existence of the culture that gave rise to Snookie and “The Jersey Shore.” But what about Jon Stewart?
“If I ever see Jon Stewart, I’m gonna slap him,” my husband lashes out. (BTW, if you haven’t noticed, Jon’s come out of hiding and is hanging with Colbert again….)
Okay, you see how this is going?
“I taped it for you,” he says, with a delightful anachronism that takes me back to 1992. “You’re going to watch it.”
“And I’ll take an Alien Brain Hemorrhage please? Up, with extra Baileys.” Especially if you’re gonna drop me right into Christie’s idiotic excuse for a speech.
“I used to be a federal prosecutor…” he says. And I’m thinking, maybe this is why you aren’t a prosecutor anymore — ’cause you’re not very good at this. And by “this” I mean taking facts backed up by hard evidence and assembling them into a cogent argument. But, by all means, go ahead.
Within minutes, I’m on the couch myself sputtering, “Oh, because placing Boko Haram on a terrorist group list was TOTALLY gonna stop them from kidnapping those girls in Nigeria.” “SYRIA? That’s rich! You personally, Chris Christie, are on record as saying you’d ban Syrian orphans under age 5 from ever setting foot in this country, but you blame Hillary because you think she should have saved the lives of 400,000 Syrians?”
I won’t bore you with all my outbursts, but let’s note that the NY Times had a very nice neat fact check of Christie’s claims this morning (cooler heads than mine). And The New Yorker offered this assessment of Christie’s spectacle, “The general opinion was that Christie had debased himself and had gotten nothing for it.”
You know what I’m distracted– nay, fascinated by? Who are the people on the convention floor? I’m thinking about that while Ben Carson rambles on about Lucifer –“So are we willing to elect someone as president who has as their role model somebody who acknowledges Lucifer? Think about that.”Uh, wait, what? What the heck are you talking about?? Is it possible Ben Carson performed neurosurgery on himself?
But I digress. Who are the people vacantly nodding their heads out there on the floor and shouting “Lock her up” at every ad hominem attack? Are they hired? Are they real? Do they think, or are they drugged? Do they have norovirus? My stars, I hope they are giving out norovirus with every stupid ten-gallon hat.
Overall, it was a pretty lackluster night in terms of messaging and speakers, though I admit, I did not see UFC’s Dana White take the podium.
I did watch Tiffany Trump onstage, who certainly did a bit better than Melania on Day 1, but that’s not saying much. There’s a strange inauthenticity to both of them that makes me feel like I’m eating waxy, low-quality chocolate. Sickeningly sweet, and it leaves behind a kind of film that you just can’t get rid of.
Tiffany is that other kid. Not the ones you’ve seen on the campaign trail whose mom is the glam Ivana Trump, but the daughter of Marla Maples, whose name spawned a thousand bad jokes. I feel sorry for her. Her speech comes off like a badly written college essay.
My dad is a natural-born encourager, the last person who will ever tell you to lower your sights up give up your dreams. I always looked forward to introducing him to my friends, especially the ones with preconceived notions, because they meet a man with natural charm and no facade. In person, my father is so friendly, so considerate, so funny and so real. My friends walked away with a glimpse of all that he is, and all that he means to me, of the strong, protective, kind, endearing man I am so proud to call my father.
All in all, if you’re skipping these early days of coverage, you’re not missing anything good, or even bad — it’s all just as you might expect: infuriating, yet in a very mediocre way.
Here’s the latest poll trends from Huffpost: