What a difference a day makes. There still may be a full day left to this convention, but with all the action moving to the adjacent INVESCO Field, the Pepsi Center feels like a ghost town- in no small part because all the security has also decamped. It is not yet two o'clock and there is already a 200 strong press line-up outside for the shuttle to INVESCO. Between that and the strict Google/Vanity Fair party invite instructions, much of the chatter at the moment centers on whether the trip is worth the hassle. Across the lot, the CNN Grill looks ever more appealing (if that's possible), and I wonder how many media types will forego the lines and crowds in exchange for an open bar and Michael Romano food. Democracy is not for the impatient.
Even after yesterday's spectacular convention performance, no one seems quite sure how this speech is going to play. There's a lot of talk right now about the Obama campaign's choice of staging (the backdrop resembles Greek pillars), and whether Obama himself has bought into some sort of messianic image. Actually, that is what the cablers are focusing on (CNN just ran a clip from Ben Hur). The attendees I've talked to appear to be more concerned with figuring out what sort of credentials are required to attend, and where one lines up and when.
Speaking of the CNN Grill, I watched most of last night's action from a (food-filled) table there. The Grill is actually a brick and mortar restaurant CNN has taken over (and re-done for the convention...there are flat screen televisions in the bathrooms) -- it features an open bar and kitchen and wireless and a plug-in station. I can only imagine what the cost on an endeavor like that is, but they aim to do it again in Minneapolis--great news to our milkshake-loving selves. The Grill was heavy on bold-faces last night, all of whom quieted right down when the keynote speeches started. Clinton's perfect ten got the strongest reaction, and there were more than a few wet eyes in the house during parts of Biden's address. Later on I ran into CNN head Jon Klein, who had this to say about when I told him I was writing for Playboy:
--Glynnis MacNicol
A burst of kids in Halloween costumes, one juggling an actual pumpkin, swoop through the grinning shoppers. Something tells us these aren’t protesters who also use costumes and street theater. “Frankenstein is under the weather,” the pirate excuses him. Too much late-night networking? Sucks to Frankenstein. “Sucks to be Frankenstein’s bride,” grins the one in a tattered wedding dress. They came here on busses from Seattle and Portland to camp in a warehouse and spread the subliminal association: Halloween and Election Day. Kind of brilliant, really. Who doesn’t love Halloween? They’re volunteers for Trick or Vote. They don’t look old enough to vote, but ask them a question and they rapid-fire passionately. Studies show that face-to-face contact is the best way to boost voter turnout. They’re working in twelve states, getting a great response. The skeleton removes her head to add that they’ve signed up 100,000 voters in Oregon and the organization is nonpartisan. They’ll be at the GOP Convention, too. Now ask what got them involved in this election and watch the wattage kick. “Obama is the first candidate in our lifetime that we can look at and relate to,” the pirate says to a round of nods. I’m still tempted to ask for ID. She looks 17. They’re articulate, self-possessed, contagiously motivated. It’s great to be in the radiance of such zest. So many of us have lost it trudging through the political mire of the past decade. “The Angel and the Devil are on the floor right now at the DNC,” they tell me excitedly, before dashing off to enthuse other voters, “but we’re not sure where the Zombie is.”
I wrote when I first arrived here how the city seemed awfully quiet considering the chaos that was about to descend on it, and how the police presence felt minimal. Obviously, this has changed dramatically since last Saturday -- it's not unusual to see SWAT teams riding Humvees on the streets, and everyone who lives here has mentioned how the extensive street closures are playing havoc with their daily routines. And while I have no idea what Denver nightlife is like under normal circumstances, I have to imagine that the streets are not usually full with party-goers past midnight on a Tuesday. Despite all this, there is still a certain deer-in-the-headlights quality to the city. I've spoken to a number of people working in the various bars and restaurants that are hosting convention parties, and they seem a little stunned at all the activity. Denver is interesting in the sense that it is an urban outpost in the middle of nowhere. The SWAT teams here are noticeably friendly, and the security detail at the convention center was joking around yesterday with passersby. This is all very disconcerting for someone used to the post-9/11 stonefacedness of New York City "Homeland Security." 
Looks like the airlines organized this thing. They’ve clearly oversold seats. Hundreds of people grumble in the halls and violate fire codes until the Chippendale firemen make the rounds again. I’m glad to have an actual seat after spending last night on my feet and the night before on a lighting platform. Don’t ask. I managed to slip into the floor press section earlier, quite unkosher, but abandoned my prized seat because it felt so removed—wide comfortable chairs, bottled water, ledges crowded with computers and a blizzard of papers marked “embargoed for release on delivery.” These were copies of speeches no one there was actually listening to, being too busy surfing or typing. A woman whooshes past and drops another speech in my lap. I climb back to the rafters to sit in a sea of smaller gadgetry. One man studies a teeny satellite map, another what looks like a ballgame, and a few rows ahead, a slouched man plays a video game. Cell phones ring everywhere. “Hello? Yeah, we’re in 376. Where are you?” Then they spend ten minutes trying to find someone across the arena or on the floor or in section 258, using binoculars and leaning across neighbors, shouting, waving. Is this necessary? The majority whip intones to a wall of noise. We’re such distraction addicts.
From inside the beast, you can see how the stagecraft is an oiled machine. Just prior to Biden, runners swarm the floors, dispensing vertical posters, starting first in the quadrants out of camera view, spreading virally toward the podium. Before that they’d shoved flags into every hand. And before that, something else. The waste is numbing. But it’s just like a ballgame—people lunge for the stuff. Figures from this morning: $17 million for the Convention and $50 million for security. All this so pols at the podium can pledge their allegiance to the debt-crippled classes, the abused veterans, the sick, the ignored. It bends the mind.
Since they’re clustered in the park here at the steps of the Capitol, protesters are making good use of the Library, especially its bathrooms. “Fuck me!” Two should-be-in-school girls burst into the women’s john; one barrels into a stall. 
“I’m just walking around Denver, thinking, wow, I didn’t know you could do that with an American flag.” Sharon Saltzberg, a Buddhist teacher and author, is wrapping up a Lovingkindness—or Metta—meditation in a park behind the Pepsi Center. A local psychiatrist put his name into the lottery for use of a public park during the DNC, along with a gazillion other people. Stunned by the news that his name had been picked, he turned to his sangha, or spiritual community, to ask what he should do with this prime spot: a softly lawned park near the river, steps from the Pepsi Center. A group formed to create this six-day meditation retreat, Meditate 08, hosting 40 teachers from Buddhist, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim and Native American traditions. On opening day, an Imam unrolled his prayer rug, consulted the large compass stitched into it, then led a small group in prayer. More than 300 people gathered for an invocation. Today there are about 150 present, some wearing credentials, all of them rapt. Faith in the Buddhist tradition, Saltzberg says, is an unfolding process, not a commodity, not an attached hope. Now Saltzberg is describing her trip to the Springsteen exhibit in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the letter in which Springsteen describes the first time he heard Bob Dylan. He was a kid, driving in the car with his mom, when Dylan came over the radio. It was like a giant boot came down and kicked open the door of his mind, he wrote. Then his mom said, “That man can’t sing.” Things can be like that, Saltzberg summarizes. We can suddenly see things differently. 
The energy all day feels flat. Is everyone drained by the mania? Maybe it’s just the altitude, the heat, the hangovers. This circus is many things, but let’s be clear: folks are here to party. The protesters have their own concerts each night to unwind from long days of workshops and teach-ins, actions and marches. A Latino rap group chanting about Vietnam in an outdoor auditorium is so good, I’m tempted to stay. The SWAT team across the street seems more relaxed, or heat-beaten maybe. One told me earlier they’re wearing 50 pounds of gear, four layers of black. There’s a schedule for the protesters’ events at Recreate 68, an ersatz umbrella group, minus the ones they arrange via encrypted messages. Each day, they have guest speakers and a theme. Today’s theme was No Racism/ Imperialism. Tomorrow’s is No Warming. The DNC’s theme today was Renewing America’s Promise. Tomorrow’s is Securing America’s Future.
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