Insanity in Denver: Amy's last thoughts
Here’s the final report on the Democratic National Convention from our guest blogger, Gilmore Girls creator Amy Sherman-Palladino. For more Denver dispatches from Amy and Daniel Palladino, click here.
So as I was packing up the 15 pairs of identical black high heels I brought to Denver, some last thoughts raced through my head.
When Ethel Merman wrote her autobiography, the chapter on her marriage to Ernest Borgnine was one blank page. Denver is my Ernest Borgnine.
I saw Hillary Clinton taking a tour of the Pepsi Center the day of her speech wearing a white pantsuit, simple makeup, and no crazy “look what Chelsea made for me in Kindergarten” kind of necklace. She looked great. Luminous, youthful, fantastic. Then nighttime came and she showed up as a pumpkin. Hillary has many gifts. Just no mirrors.
I’ve never been part of history before. The first time I voted, it was for Mondale. I was probably most excited about the sticker. I didn’t truly appreciate voting for Bill Clinton. I was young, thin. Who gives a crap about anything when your ass is the perfect distance from your knees? Plus, Clinton spoiled us. He made it all look so easy. “You want peace? You got it. A little prosperity? Done. Now, I’m gonna screw an intern every once in a while but here, have a million jobs in return.” Then came Gore. And he lost. They stole it from him. The election. They stole the election. Who they hell are they, Disney?
Kerry is when I started “panic check writing.” I’d see Bush speak — I’d panic and write a check. I’d see Bush wave — I’d panic and write a check. I wrote so many checks, Senators started calling me at home. I had Tom Daschle, Chuck Schumer, and Bill Nelson on a conference call one Tuesday night at 9 saying “we’re all in a hotel room and we just finished watching Gilmore Girls.” Flattering? Yes. Disturbing? Completely. But Kerry didn’t win.
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Invesco was insane. Getting there at 1 for an 8 o’clock speech.Sitting in the sun for hours, which for me, who has vampire-liketendencies, was a living hell. You could not leave your seat because ifyou did, someone else would take it. So you sat there. Watching otherpeople not leaving their seats. Or saving seats and then losing thesaved seats because by day 4, no one was putting up with seat saversanymore. So I sat and stared and noticed something. Kids. Everywhere.Young slacker types who looked like they did nothing all day but sit infront of their computers scanning porn. And here they were. With “Hope”T-shirts and “Obama” pins and “Biden” hats, at 1 in the afternoon. Forthe whole day. To hear this man speak. Now, I was raised in a house of”Kennedy.” JFK ashtrays, Bobby buttons, a bust of John on my father’sdesk, (which his friend apparently broke in and stole one weekend whenmy family went to Palm Springs. Why my father never got it back fromhim, especially since he knew who took it, is one of the manyunanswered questions in my family. Another is why did they give me thelast name “Sherman” when my father’s last name is “Glatter”?) The pointis, I never had a Kennedy. But now, here tonight, with this guy BarackObama, I finally got my Kennedy. And so does the nice young pot dealersobbing next to me.
I finish stuffing 30 “Change” signs and two towels into my suitcase,zip it up, and head for the door. I glance back at the hotel room thatmy latest “panic check writing” secured for me and I think “Damn, Imiss Tim Russert.”