Okay, I was there tonight, I got back early.
I was the first person to hit the dance floor at the after-party, by myself...
I am a fat white man who writes a lot about Michele Bachmann, and I wanted to dance after attending the seminars. Well...two seminars. Yesterday. When I arrived tonight, I was in time to realize that I had left my NN 11 pass by the toaster back home, and I had no credentials to hear the end-note speakers in the big hall.
The security guard at the Minneapolis Convention Center stopped me cold. I told him every lie I could to get into the auditorium; I told him I was Kos, I told him I was Cenk's boyfriend--no dice, you don't get in loser. I told him that Andrew Breitbart got in---
(CONTINUED)
--he didn't care, no little orange necklace, no get into hall for end of convention speeches.
Okay, then. I waited around for someone from the Minnesota blogs to recognize me--no one did, no surprise there. State Senator Tarryl Clark knew me (and she agreed to do an interview about her run against Michele Bachmann to promote the book I'm releasing next week, "Michele Bachmann's America") but that was yesterday; this was now...
...and there's no way this security guard is letting me in. Doesn't matter; I'm getting in, my friends, there's no way I'm driving all the way downtown and not getting in to this pseudo-leftist Boy Scout Jamboree. I'm fifty-two years old, I got into the front row at a U2 concert back in '92, this is a comparative piece of cake. Come hell or high water, I'm going to be in the big room for local Congressman Keith Ellison's closing address.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in, talking to NetRoots Nation organizer about how I forgot my pass, but I need to get into the after-party at a local Minneapolis bar. ("Come on," I tell her, "They're going to have a DJ!") She caves, and points to two discarded passes--left by activists who've already gone back to their hotel rooms for herbal tea.
Unfortunately, both of the passes are in women's names, with big printed letters spelling out the names, and there's no way I can pass for a "Beatrice" or a "Charlotte." (Not their real names; none of the names in this diary are real names.) "Okay," says the NN staffer, "Have you got a magic marker? You can write in your name on this slip of paper and cover up one of their names on your pass." Then, bang, it's free beer and networking at the after-party, all the way, Bob's your uncle.
"Done," I say. (I have a magic marker on me, because I'm a comic book artist. I letter may name in a style that approximates the font, covering up the credential for the "NARAL Pro-Choice America" attendee. Thanks a lot, Charlotte, whoever you are.)
But there's a price. The NN lady says that I should do her a favor, and take all of the complimentary NN water bottles and tote bags, and put them in my hybrid, and store them until they can give them away to the homeless in St. Paul/Minneapolis. Can I do that? Of course, I say. I'll keep them in my garage until June 28th. (If NN doesn't call and tell me where to deliver this six tons of ephemera by June 28th, I'm putting them up on Ebay.)
Alright. Now I'm in the auditorium with my false credential, listening to Congressman Ellison. He delivers a very impassioned closing speech, noting how we made Obama the candidate instead of Hillary. But he says that we're going to have to lead Obama by the nose (my paraphrase) to get him to do the right thing. "Did Martin Luther King call up President Lyndon Johnson and ask permission to have a huge civil right demonstration on the Mall?" No, he did not, says Ellison--and you know, he's right. (In that analogy, in case you didn't get it, LBJ=Barack Obama, and you and I=Dr. Martin Luther King.)
Thunderous applause for Ellison; we have to keep the pressure on to get the reforms we are all worked so hard to get--you can't say "well, we made sure Obama was prez, so we can all stay home now." Ellison was talking about how we have to get the unemployment rate down to 2% (I can't sign on to that--I'm a liberal, so I know that 2%/de facto full employment equals inflation: four per cent would be fine with me, but I give him a standing ovation because I know if it's still plus 9% next time an Obama re-election will be a hard sell--and the alternative is unthinkable; at this writing Michele Bachmann is still on track to be veep nominee for the GOP.)
Anyway--they close with a electrified version of a folk-protest song (always a mistake, in my opinion) and we're off to hit the club. The wonks hang back to talk policy and get their videos and pictures taken.
Before I get to the club, I want to tell you about the two seminars I attended at NN the day before. (I'll keep this short, because the party is still going on.) The first was a well-attended talk on how to reach people via the web. Some marketing guys were talking to the crowd about how to get significant reaction to your issue, via targeted advertising (basically learning how to get your message to a responsive audience through use of the Web.) Very interesting, something of a must for activists who hope to make an impact outside their immediate geographic location and reach like-minded people. A lot of experience outlined for the crowd in a very short session.
The other session I walked into was called "Ask a Sista." This was a panel interview with a bunch of African-American women--a panel of people in the academic, activist, and pop culture fields. A subject I know very little about, because it's "identity politics" issues, and I'm not that "identity." (The discussion was broadcast on Sirius satellite radio.)
It opened up with a ten minute discussion about what the panelists thought of the current "slutwalk" activism that has been making a media splash. (I had never heard of it prior to this event, but many of the people attending had.) This got started when a Toronto cop opined that the incidence of rape would be diminished if women stopped "dressing like sluts." Apparently women protesting this creepy remark have started protest parades featuring mini-skirts and fishnet stockings.
The objectification of black women as a sexual objects in popular culture led to a revelation to yours truly and the rest of the audience. One of the big shockers: all of the African American women on the panel revealed that at some time or another in their lives, they had been mistaken for a prostitute/sex worker by people on the street. (The moderator disclosed that she had been mistaken for a prostitute after emerging from a root canal procedure; her mother was accompanying her at the time.) This panel disclosing this included a Phd, a Master's recipient, political activists--but all had been mistaken for prostitutes, simply because of their gender and the color of their skins.
So: go to the next NetRoots Nation, you will be reminded "why we fight."
Back to the party. At the club, I seated myself at a corner table, joining an ex-hippie dj who is now a career advisor in California. He disclosed that he was in his early sixties, but he looked younger than me. We reminisced about the "good times" in American pop music; he had been present to hear the Jefferson Airplane back in 1970 and opined that they were too loud, back then; in those days they had no earplugs and you had to put pebbles in your ears to protect your eardrums. I asked him what he wrote about on the Kos and he said he didn't diary, he just commented now and then. But he was there, tonight, and he was having a good time.
Then we were joined by couple from Connecticut; the top floor of the club was already full up and I invited them to sit down. They didn't diary either; the husband was a musician and the wife was an amateur geneologist (sp?) We watched slides from the NN event; the crowd booed Breitbart's image and applauded Franken as the music spun madly out of control.
Still no dancing; the guys up front on the dance floor were all shouting policy at each other, people texting madly into smart phones, the laser lights and strobes playing crazily over the activists. (Don't you feel like "you're there" now, reading this?) So I decided, fuck this, I'm going to dance. And I did. Shortly thereafter, people came out on the floor, feeling sorry for me, I guess, and began to make a dent in the talkers.
At the bar, I grabbed a plastic cup of beer and talked to a woman in a chic black outfit: a Latina activist with an Irish first name, I told her she was way too attractive to be at the bar alone. (Yes, this is still a good opening line.) Also not a diarist; instead she runs a blog of her own, dealing with Latina issues. Shortly thereafter, her party arrived and I was dismissed back to the dance floor.
I did a few more of my moves, and then I left, because it was after nine o'clock and I am old and married. I would highly recommend this yearly event to others, and I cannot think of any other reason to go to Providence, Rhode Island next year.
See you there, God willing.