Tampa, Florida: When in doubt (or, in this case, surrounded by boring white people), get thyself to a strip club.
Tuesday, 10:11 AM: With the morning and afternoon events at the convention being notoriously useless I decide to sleep in. When I finally roll out of bed I head down to the lobby to grab a bite at the continental breakfast, where I’m reminded there are few things in this world that are worse than starting out your day listening to white people whining. The air inside this hotel is thick with self-entitlement, and every underdone egg, or piece of bacon not cooked exactly to this or that honkey’s liking, leads to a near-nuclear holocaust between said conventioneer and the hotel’s seriously overwhelmed staff. Sadly, with my current assignment being the Republican National Convention, harsh, nasally, unfounded complaining is set to be the plat du jour for me all week long.
11:24 AM: For the first time I am actually walking the floor of the RNC. If there’s anything to be said for white people having style, it’s not being said here. Most everyone has draped themselves in some abominable combination of red, white, and blue, creating an overall motif so tacky even Rip Taylor would be wont to blush. I guess Halloween and national conventions are the only time people like this find it appropriate to dress like jackasses.
1:23 PM: I keep trying to listen to these early speakers, but with each of them only getting two minutes, and all of them harping on the same theme over and over again, it’s easy to get lost. And in the spirit of this convention’s theme, which is apparently, “The Whitest Kids You Know”, the band that’s playing in between speeches, headed by G.E. Smith of Saturday Night Live fame, is a collection of white dudes doing really bad renditions of Motown and R &B hits. Those sad attempts at soul, mixed with the awkward rocking back and forth many of these people consider dancing, is serving to make this afternoon somehow one of the lamest events since The Captain and Tennille played a gig at a retirement home.
2:11 PM: After two hours I was so overwhelmed by boredom that I decide to go back out and explore some of Tampa’s tourist attractions. As it turns out, though, those are kind of nonexistent. So instead I decide to indulge in what appears to be Tampa’s hedge industry; strip clubs. Here I am, mid-afternoon, slouched in a pleather chair at the foot of the stage of Mons Venus, a real swanky joint located a tick down the North Dale Mabry Highway in the heart of Tampa. A girl named Chastity is doing a Sarah Palin-themed strip show to the accompaniment of “I Know What Boys Like”, by The Waitresses. I have to say, I’ve never felt such positive feelings for the former Vice Presidential candidate.
3:45 PM: Still settled into my comfy chair at Mons, I’ve long since turned off my cell phone, thus ignoring the calls from my Mildly Relevant Editor-in-Chief, Joe Baur, asking me for up to the minute news of the convention. Unless he’s looking for my critique on who does a better dance to “Pour Some Sugar On Me”, Joe is SOL right now (it’s Brandy, by the way, but Kristal is a very solid second).
5:23 PM: For those of you who are interested in knowing, not touching the girls is a strictly enforced rule at most of the finer strip club establishments here in Tampa. Thus, I find myself back out on the street, once again beset by this town’s unrelenting humidity. Seriously, who decides to build a city in a swamp? With nowhere else to turn, and my body about to revolt on me unless I get it under some air conditioning immediately, I decide to head back to the convention.
6:08 PM: Back inside, I figure my best angle of attack on this convention might be to go undercover. So I run around the hall buying up as many American flag lapel pins and Romney/Ryan buttons as I can fit on the silly, fake straw boater hat I stole off a passed out delegate from Kansas. After buying a drab blue blazer off another conventioneer, and some khakis from the clothing store, I’m now ready to seamlessly blend into my surroundings.
7:02 PM: The convention is reconvening after a short break, meaning we’re going to get more of “Reince Priebus and John Boehner orate party rules and procedures” time. Very exciting. These two should go on the road together as a new era Vaudeville act, with Preibus playing the straight guy and Boehner as the tangerine-shaded oaf.
On a side note, I was informed that earlier this afternoon the delegate from Puerto Rico who was selected to speak was roundly booed upon taking the podium. The 2012 Republican National Convention, class all the way.
8:58 PM: Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker just made his appearance to much ballyhoo. There’s nothing that will whip these soulless devotees into more of a carnal fury than hearing a Republican governor talk about eviscerating the public sector. I’m pretty sure these people consider that kind of talk foreplay.
10:20 PM: Ann Romney takes the stage to give a speech in which she attempts to humanize her husband. Personally, after my strip club foray, I’m having a hard time concentrating. Ann Romney’s got a hell of a rack. Besides, it’s not like anyone here or at home is going to buy any narrative that attempts to humanize Mitt Romney. Even the people who are excited about his candidacy understand they are voting for a laboratory engineered simulacrum of Homo Sapien Republicanus. Rutger Hauer had more charm and warmth in Blade Runner. Hell, R2-D2 was more lifelike than the Republican’s now official candidate for President. But, you know, nice try Republicans. It was worth a shot. I suppose.
11:02 PM: Toward the end of Mrs. Romeny’s speech a dark cloud descends over the convention hall. And there is a slow but growing rumbling coming from offstage. Everyone in the hall pauses for a moment, expecting hurricane Isaac to touchdown at any moment. Instead, it turned out the ominous noises were just the footsteps of keynote speaker, Governor Chris Christie, who went on to make a speech that barely mentioned Mitt, while seemingly positioning himself to make his own run at the White House four years from now. If it’s a job he truly desires he might want to think about getting off the William Howard Taft diet.