Mayor Daley tried to get the Democratic convention cut to three days instead of the traditional four, but the White House turned him down.
The mayor will get no sympathy from me. It was his idea to invite the Democrats here in the first place, so let him suffer through the full four days of foolish blather.
My personal plan is to flee town before the first delegate arrives and go to the North Woods and hole up in a secluded cabin that doesn’t have a TV set and stay there until the last foolish speech has been made.
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By doing that, what will I miss?
First, I will not have to watch hundreds of TV crews take turns setting up their equipment at Balbo and Michigan so pompous TV reporters can jiggle their eyebrows and say:
“. . . And this is where the infamous confrontation between Chicago police and anti-war demonstrators took place in 1968, the last time the convention was held in Chicago.”
The studio will cut to old film footage of Chicago cops gleefully swinging billy clubs at long-haired Yippies, hippies and assorted dippies.
Then the TV creature will say: “In 1968, the mayor was Richard J. Daley, the last of the big-city bosses. But today, there is another Daley in the mayor’s office, and the mood of the city has changed. . . .”
Yes, and that’s why I’ll be leaving town. I would gladly stay if I thought the cops were going to bang heads again, because then it would be a fun convention.
I’ve covered about a dozen political conventions, and 1968 was the only one that wasn’t 98 percent boredom.
There are those who say 1968 was a shameful stain on Chicago’s history.
Yes, maybe it was. But it was also one heck of a show. What other city has given us liberal delegates being shoved into paddy wagons while hysterically screaming that this was the beginning of the end of democracy and western civilization?
The action in the streets was so exciting that hardly anyone paid attention to what went on in the convention hall, except when a wild-eyed Dan Rather was roughed up–a joyous moment–and Old Man Daley yelled something like “Foo to you” at trembling fellow delegate Abe Ribicoff.
Which was fine, because hardly anything ever goes on in the convention hall that is worth seeing or hearing. Especially for four long days.
Why should it take four days for every self-adoring Democrat to tell us how kind, loving, sensitive, compassionate and caring they are? And that if we have pain, they feel it?
Well, listening to them causes considerable pain in my head and backside. But do they feel that? Of course not. If they did, they would shut up about their goodness, kindness and sensitivity and get on to telling us what is really on their minds.
Which is to pluck as much money from our paychecks as they can get away with and spend it on as many government programs they can dream up that will legally buy them votes.
They could knock that off in one morning. Then spend the afternoon listening to President Clinton accept the nomination and tell us how his cup of goodness and decency runneth over.
But the worst part of a modern political convention is that it is actually two conventions in one.
Besides the politicians and political groupies, there is that giant multiheaded beast known as The Media.
Why, I don’t understand, but covering a political convention is still considered a plum assignment for journalists. So they come by the thousands, toting their cameras, laptops and tape machines, from the humblest papers and small TV stations to the limo-riding network anchor snobs and the all-knowing Washington pundits.
And they spend almost a week trying to find genuine news at an event in which there isn’t any because everything is planned, programmed and decided in advance.
Before it is over, every delegate will be interviewed about his or her goodness and decency an average of 105.7 times. Most journalists will be shuffling around the convention hall like zombies, interviewing each other or just staring at some political ranting on the TV set, which they could have done just as easily back home. Others, out of frustration, will turn their wrath on the city, describing the shocking fact that Chicago is too hot and muggy or the restaurants charge too much or the city has–eeek–neighborhoods that are segregated, poor and dangerous. Imagine that!
Then it will end and all that will have occurred is that Clinton and Al Gore will be renominated, which we already know is going to happen.
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And the only people who will have enjoyed themselves will be the city’s restaurant and hotel owners and cabdrivers, who expect a booming business. And they might be disappointed.
As they will discover, when it comes to spending their own money, liberals are cheap tippers.