Remember When Political Conventions Were Held In Person? I Do. I Was At L.A.’s Democratic National Convention in 2000. Here’s What Happened.
The Convention Diaries
Monday, August 14, 2000
“Are you feelin’ it? ‘Cuz I’m feelin’ it.” –Steve Martin
There’s a palpable buzz in the heated August inversion layer over Los Angeles — the Democratic National Convention begins today. Downtown skyscrapers are lit and festooned in requisite red, white, and blue. CNN building wraps are on hotels near Staples Center. The local, national, and international media have fanned the alarmist flames. Will the LAPD overreact and make Rampart look like Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood? Will some errant anarchist drop the (biological weapon) bomb and re-introduce smallpox to greater Los Angeles? Will President Clinton issue a definitive mea culpa re: l’affaire Lewinsky?
Answer: none of the above.
Instead, let’s answer the important questions. Like: how does one get to attend the Democratic National Convention if you’re not a delegate? Because first and foremost among any politico’s priorities is to obtain the coveted badge of courage: the credential. Level one: passage past the concrete barricades topped with outward-bending fencing. Level two: passage into Staples Center. Level three: passage to the arena seating area of Staples Center. Level four: passage onto the delegate-reserved floor of Staples, where even the “Democrats Abroad” or “Guam” section would suffice. Levels five-?: passage into the coveted luxury box suites, where the likes of Mayor Dick Riordan, Gov. Davis, and the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committees dole out perquisites for major donors or otherwise big mucky-mucks. Different credentials come with different circles of influence, as it were. Anything less than Level three, for me, would be a major disappointment.
Yet I have not counted on anything in terms of credentials. But I have connections. My boss, 27-year-old Los Angeles City Councilman Alex Padilla, chairs the Council’s Ad Hoc Committee on the Democratic National Convention and led the charge in an 8–5 vote to approve $4 million in L.A. City funding for the Convention itself when the host committee was running low on cash. Despite the cries of naysayers, it’s clear this investment will be recouped by the additional hotel, restaurant, and entertainment-related tax revenue the City will receive from conventioneers, media representatives, event coordinators, and all the other vendors who make the convention possible.
It’s now 4 pm, which means it’s cast and crew call for Democracy LIVE! — the official DNC closed-circuit TV/webcast. I’m not sure how many people will actually watch this, but it’s entertaining, nonetheless. Today’s segment is “Rap the Vote 2000” (dot-com! Everything’s a “dot-com” at this convention), with panelists Angela Angel, who, at the age of twenty bills herself as the “youngest African-American delegate,” singer Erykah Badu, film director John Singleton (Boyz in the Hood, Shaft), moderator and all-around funnyman David Alan Grier, Def Jam Records founder and rap impresario Russell Simmons, Councilman Padilla, and rapper Common.
My boss is the only panelist wearing a suit or anything close to resembling business attire, trumpeting the message that you can work to change the system from the outside — or be even more effective the inside. Ms. Badu’s major contribution to the discussion is: “We’ve got to be teaching kids what they need to know, you know, like astrology and stuff…” Surprisingly anti-social John Singleton holds a rather awkward conversation with me and the Councilman afterward in the green room over stale ham-on-sourdough sandwiches. Luckily, Jackie Chan sidekick and actor/comedian Chris Tucker, an Encino resident, comes over and bonds with the Councilman and shares San Fernando Valley stories for a few minutes.
We move away from extra-curricular activities and start participating in the main event, the convention itself. I, along with 20,000 of my closest Democratic friends, watch incumbent, lame duck, and previously impeached President William Jefferson Clinton make one of the more significant speeches of his Presidency. Most of the elite audience I am with are either watching him on television, drinking complimentary cocktails, or otherwise gabbing on cell phones. Clinton, as usual, brings his A-game.
People may say this is the first “Internet campaign” or the first “virtual” convention. To those of us attending, it is far and away the “cell phone” convention. What becomes a real premium in this converted sports arena is a fully charged cell phone battery. Friends and acquaintances with the same brand of cell phone resort to swapping empty for full batteries at an alarming rate. Note for the next convention of either major party: set up a booth of cell phone charging stations at $5 for 15 minutes and fill those campaign coffers.
I meet the Councilman, who is there with his mother, father, sister, and nephew, and walk out of Staples Center just after the crowd on-hand for the Rage Against the Machine/Ozomatli concert in the designated protest area has been dispersed by mounted LAPD officers. As we walk between concrete barricades topped with 13-foot fences bent outward, we are a few steps behind talking white men Morton Kondracke and Fred Barnes of The New Republic, The Weekly Standard, and Fox News Channel fame. Seconds later, we run into former Housing and Urban Development Secretary and San Antonio Mayor emeritus Henry Cisneros, and he and the Councilman share a few words.
As we exit the barricaded area at 11th and Figueroa (now everyone, even out-of-towners, has started calling Figueroa “Fig”…), the atmosphere is palpably edgy. We are walking up to Mayor Riordan-owned The Original Pantry diner at 9th and Fig(ueroa), two blocks north, to meet our driver. But the nearby streets are blocked, and the LAPD is marching in lockstep while wearing riot gear and bandoleers of tear gas canisters. While this is happening, the Councilman’s 7-year-old nephew is having a blast getting a piggyback ride. I am focused on the task of making sure all the Councilman’s family members are together, so we don’t have a missing persons report to file later. We make it after running through the gauntlet of lingering protestors, some of whom throw red liquid and shout phrases not at all suitable for the Councilman’s 7-year-old nephew.
But the night’s not over. The Councilman and I are off to Paramount Studios in Hollywood for the Gov. Gray Davis “California Welcome” celebration. There’s nowhere to park at the studio, so we park along nearby side streets. We see Councilman Nate Holden’s black, City-owned Lincoln Navigator parked with no fewer than two of its four humongous tires on the curb. This, we say to ourselves, is going to be a party.
And indeed, it would be, save for the forty-five-minute wait at the mags — the magnetic screening devices that are commonplace at every event, whether it be at Staples or a party. Anywhere the President or Vice President might be attending gets mags.
I get a soda and eat some potstickers. We know the doorman at the Gray Davis “private” tent, and get in. It’s the same carnival-like atmosphere as the rest of the studio backlot, except it’s a more cramped space and I know more people since I used to work with half of them when I worked for Gray Davis.
Folks are getting their pictures taken with two tribal representatives of a Native American organization that makes a great deal of revenue hosting people of every background and nationality with freeway-accessible casinos housing games of chance usually involving bingo or cards. The Native American gaming interests are a rising political force in California and have the political war chests to back it up.
I get the Councilman back home, then it’s my turn to turn in, not a minute too soon. I’m wiped. And we’ve only just begun.
Tuesday, August 15, 2000
Much of this day is a logistics-ridden nightmare, with endless cell phone calls, car-trading games, and credential swapping that makes a Las Vegas poker game look like Old Maid.
Tuesday is arguably the most surreal day I have had at the Convention so far: en route to an interview with the Councilman and Dagbladet, a Norwegian daily newspaper, I walk past James Ellroy (author of the novel L.A. Confidential) muttering some unheard gibberish, capped by an all-too-clear “…can suck my dick.” The Norwegian journalist and my boss finally meet after endless cell phone logistical arrangements.
On my way to the interview, I encounter none other than Mr. Ellroy sipping a club soda with L.A. Weekly Managing Editor Kateri Butler, an acquaintance.
“Hi, Kateri, good to see you here,” as I graciously insert myself into their heretofore private conversation. “Mr. Ellroy, it’s an honor to meet you. I hate to pry, but I overheard you saying something along the lines of ‘suck my dick’ earlier this evening. What was that about?”
As any viewer of Demon Dog, an Austrian documentary of Ellroy, could attest, this man is the dictionary definition of intense. I brace myself for getting my head bitten off, but somehow amidst the fun of the Convention and the fact that I know Kateri, Ellroy’s AOK with me.
“Oh, yes,” Ellroy replies graciously. “Well, you see, my father would watch the CBS Evening News every night and curse Walter Cronkite, saying ‘Walter Cronkite, suck my dick!’ So, since I’m covering this Convention for GQ magazine, I thought that should I be lucky enough to run into Dan Rather, I would most certainly carry on my father’s legacy and say quite forthrightly, ‘Dan Rather, suck my dick.’ ”
After a few awkward laughs, I am on my way to rejoin the Councilman and propose that the photoshoot with the Norwegian paper include the background image of Apple Computers’ “Think Different” campaign spokesperson-in-death, Cesar Chavez, who joins RFK, FDR, MLK, and Eleanor Roosevelt in the heaviest collection of progressive portraits ever seen in a corporate advertisement, hung banner-style on the side of the Staples-adjacent Hotel Figueroa. As we do the photoshoot, I notice only fifteen feet behind us is none other than Johnny Lydon, a.k.a. Johnny Rotten (lead singer of the infamous British punk rock band the Sex Pistols and lead singer and driving force behind post-punk pioneers Public Image Ltd.) who I duly point out to my new Norwegian friends. They appreciate my celebrity-sighting ability, and Lydon becomes an article subject for them later in the week.
Tonight, I gain coveted passage to the box of the City of Los Angeles’ $1-a-year-salary-Mayor, Richard J. Riordan, the $100 million net worth lawyer, investor, Giuliani Republican, and spouse of the ex-wife of ex-Time Warner studio chief Robert Daly, Mrs. Nancy Daly Riordan.
The following story, which appeared ever-so-mysteriously in the LA Weekly “Daily” Convention edition on Thursday, August 17, approximates some of the events I eye-witnessed that evening…
SYNC IS EVERYTHING
Convention parties all are about talking (or schmoozing, to be more precise) — nights of back-slapping, glad-handing, name-dropping, and card-gathering. Naturally, all this ambitious bonhomie makes for very noisy rooms, so to be heard over the din, one has to yell…we overheard this little gem: “So I’m in Riordan’s Box [at Staples] today, and he comes in and says, ‘Who’s that guy?’ about the keynote speaker. Someone replies that he’s Congressman Harold Ford, Jr. Riordan looks puzzled and says, ‘Well, where’s he from?’ Tennessee. Riordan nods approvingly and walks out. Right after Riordan leaves, Mark Ridley Thomas [an occasional council nemesis of Riordan] shows up. Someone says, ‘You just missed the mayor,’ and Ridley-Thomas responds, ‘I guess that’s called great timing.’” –Kateri Butler
After Riordan’s suite, it’s time for me to head off go to the Conga Room, a block and a half away from my apartment in the Miracle Mile, for the second time this week. I’m transported by luxury coach with members of the California delegation. You know what they say about being transported by luxury coach: it sure beats driving. I’ve already been to the Conga Room on Sunday for a Southern state delegation’s welcoming party. These delegates have a blast: open bar, and a visit to a nightclub that you would never go to if you were you a run-of-the-mill tourist in L.A. I go, I have a couple of drinks, I glad-hand, I walk home. I’m exhausted, and I promise myself I will stay home on Wednesday to watch Vice Presidential nominee Joe Lieberman’s speech on TV in the comfort of my own living room.
Wednesday, August 16, 2000
Wednesday is logistics day with me and the Councilman’s staff. Where’s the Councilman? He’s at the office. No, he’s at his home. No, he’s en route to Staples Center. Well, one of us is right. We find him, and by 2 pm, I’m giving him my cell phone (his ran out of battery power, which is why we couldn’t get a hold of him to find out where he was) to do an interview with La Opinion, the L.A. Spanish-language daily newspaper, while he gets his shoes shined.
I then take him to a reception hosted by the centrist Democratic Leadership Council (DLC), of which Lieberman is the chair, as they honor “100 Democrats to Watch.” The Councilman is one of them. I advance him (get him in, introduce him to important bigwigs, look for TV cameras and drag them, cajole them, and ultimately persuade them to interview him). I get him stand-ups with KTTV-TV Fox 11 and KCAL 9 — a twofer in this competitive media market, and I’ve earned my keep for the day. But, as they say in politics, “Doing the best you can is the least you can do…” Ain’t that the truth. I notice the DLC has printed up buttons with the likeness of each of the 100 honorees, including my boss, who I’ve never seen in photographed form on a button before. It’s the first time, but it won’t be the last. I grab a couple, making sure the boss gets his own button. It’s definitely more than the least I can do.
It’s also about as hot as a typical August day in New York or Washington, D.C., except for the fact that we’re in L.A., where it’s over 90 and uncharacteristically humid. To make things worse, Downtown L.A. is even more bereft of trees than normal due to the fact that the City’s Bureau of Street Services removed the anemic shrubs that did exist for fear that they would be used for incendiary devices, as they were used after Game Seven of the NBA Finals earlier this year when the Lakers won the championship. Oh, and New York City hasn’t hit 90 in over a month.
The packed reception room on the 54th floor of the Wells Fargo Center Tower in the City Club on Bunker Hill is hot and getting hotter. I deviate slightly from my week’s wonderful diet of potstickers and have club soda and…potstickers. As the centrists are gabbing, I notice a relatively large, anti-police, “Free Mumia!” protest leaving the Civic Center area near the office (and my garaged parking space) and heading southbound towards Staples. I also notice the fastest, most impressive deployment of LAPD I have ever seen, and I can tell from the 54th floor that there’s only one set of folks who are going to win today, and they aren’t wearing Birkenstocks.
A skywriter writes “N-A-D-E-R” in huge block letters over downtown Los Angeles, but I would seriously posit that hardly anyone, save the couple thousand protesters already on his side anyway, even bothers to notice.
My dreams of watching tonight’s proceedings from home come to an end when I receive a credential once again not like manna from heaven, but like a newly-assigned, early Sunday morning shift for waiting tables. I take the time to peruse the media village, housed at the Staples-adjacent convention center, where all periodicals distribute free copies of their product. For a news junkie like me, this is quite wonderful.
I secure an interview with the Councilman on KFWB News 980 to give his postmortem on the Lieberman speech. This is accomplished while we are in Staples Center’s “Grand Reserve Club.” Two lobbyist acquaintances of mine notice me on the balcony, summon me down, and get me in a luxury box suite that’s pretty much a frat party without the vomit, the 18-year-old hormones, and the kegs. And, oh, Joe Lieberman is speaking, but because of the lousy acoustics, you can hardly hear him, so I watch him on the TV feed hanging from the rafters.
I re-connect with the Councilman post-interview and we head to the ABC Network Media Party at the Museum of Contemporary Art on Grand Avenue. My diet this evening is truly experimental: food consists of sushi by Sushi Roku with a 7UP chaser. I introduce the Councilman to longtime KABC-AM pontificator Michael Jackson, no, not that one, but the erudite host and L.A. radio mainstay who now broadcasts on KRLA-AM mornings from 9 am-12 pm — the commercial Warren Olney, if you will.
Also at the fete are ABC payrollers George Stephanopolous, Sam Donaldson, Peter Jennings, and Cokie Roberts.
After we leave the ABC shindig, I want to go home and request to be taken back to my car that’s garaged under City Hall. But there’s more to be done. Before I know it, we’re going north on the 101, past the Silver Lake Blvd. exit and I know damn well we’re going to the Rumba Room at Universal City’s CityWalk for another California delegation party.
I’m exhausted, but I’m with my boss and put my best face forward. I see people I like, people I don’t like, and people I wish I’d never met. It’s 1:30 am when we leave. I get my car by 2:00 am, get home by 2:30 am, and maybe get to bed by 3:00 am. It’s a wonderful life.
Thursday, August 17, 2000
Suspense is in the air. I wonder who the Democratic nominee for President is going to be? Gosh, they haven’t even had the roll call of the States yet!
I secretly hope once again I’ll be blessed with an evening at home, but by mid-afternoon, L.A Times columnist Patt Morrison calls and wants the Councilman for an interview in the newsroom, which is, only slightly surprisingly, just on the other side of the wall from the Chicago Tribune newsroom, now that the Times is a Tribune Media publication.
The Councilman’s role is that of the laid back, everything’s-going-to-be-all-right voice of Los Angeles City government, while the rabble-rouser slot is left to Councilmember Jackie Goldberg, who has an all-but-assured State Assembly seat waiting for her in November.
Departing the interview with Morrison, we grab gratis Doritos and ice-cold Crystal Geyser bottled water courtesy of Tribune Media. We hop over to the Hotel Figueroa, just outside the security zone, for another DLC reception, and flag down a KMEX-TV (the major Spanish-language TV station in L.A., which has the largest daytime share in the entire L.A. market) van to give us an air-conditioned lift for two blocks.
The DLC reception is held outside on the patio, which must have been planned by someone oblivious to the fact an event outside on the patio at 3 pm in Los Angeles in mid-August is going to be really hot and uncomfortable outside on the patio. Sweltering, I guzzle club sodas with lime. Have I said it’s really, really hot?
It’s back to the Convention for the grand finale: Vice President Al Gore’s acceptance speech for the Democratic Party’s nomination for President of the United States of America. On the way in, we encounter a protester who chides us for “coming to our City and jaywalking” as we admittedly jaywalk across 11th St. to the Staples Center entrance. A few anti-abortion protesters, Jesus freaks, and discombobulated malcontents pepper the designated protest staging area, which can fit thousands. At 4 pm on the final day of the convention, the protesters in the area number no more than a couple of dozen, including the ardent anti-jaywalking activist. On each street corner near Staples Center, the law enforcement officials, whether it be LAPD, CHP, or L.A. County Sheriff, are at least thirty deep.
The Councilman and I meet fellow City staffers in Riordan’s convention box for the last hurrah, taking photos, and enjoy the festive atmosphere. I eat a deli sandwich and pose for a photo with staff, taken by Congressman David Dreier (R-San Dimas), a friend of Riordan’s.
We have floor passes, and for once, I’m sitting in a decent seat, facing the stage, watching the speech. Cell phones are off, people stop talking, and after all this week’s activities, it almost feels like we’re at a political convention that means something.
Gore hits all the right buttons with this friendly crowd. He’s surprisingly populist, reflecting an affinity with working families that, even if it is driven by poll numbers and focus groups, seems quite sincere.
I snap some photos on the floor, and before you know it, after the balloons drop, it’s over. Unless you have Babs tix at the Shrine Auditorium for the Convention’s concert finale, you go home, you check out, you call it a night. It’s like waking up the next morning to the party you just had, except it’s a half-hour after it ended. Conventioneers are walking away with State signs, including “U.S. Virgin Islands.”
I need a ride back to City Hall, and I get one, courtesy of the CHP. Since the Governor promised that California would not need the National Guard, according to this CHP Officer from Tehama County, more than half of all CHP officers were based in L.A. for the Convention. So, if you wanted to pick a week to go speeding on I-5, this would be the week. I would have gotten to the parking lot in record time, save for the fact that the officer does not know local street closures or directions to save his ass. I give him said directions on no fewer than three occasions over the course of our short ride together. He isn’t even that intimidating and doesn’t object to me giving him directions, although the loaded shotgun in the front seat is quite a sight to behold.
By 10 pm, I’m ready to go home, turn in, and go into the office late on Friday. And never eat another potsticker for the rest of my life.
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