Our work was done…

Top: The final moments of the Democratic National Convention in Boston

Bottom: Maggie, me, and Bryan. Very tired, very happy.

Of course, one of the tensest moments came on the last day. I’m sure the lack of sleep all week, as well as my state of pure physical exhaustion, contributed to that moment. I was in charge of distributing signs to the delegates in Zone 3 from American Samoa, North Dakota, Wyoming, Oklahoma, Washington DC, and Louisiana. The delegates from American Samoa, North Dakota, and Wyoming were incredibly gracious. Washington DC was never happy and Louisiana constantly complained I was shortchanging their delegation. “We need more signs,” was her response when I handed her stacks of at least 150 placards for their 70 something delegates. I merely smiled as sweetly as possible and said, “But I gave you more than any other delegation. Really. I think there’s enough to go around. Trust me,” and walked away as swiftly as possible.

The call came over the walkie talkie we were required to wear. “We have 5 minutes to move all signs. All remaining signs for the night need to be brought into the voms. Over.” Preposterous. Surely that wasn’t true. We still had multiple pushes. Of many signs. The big, tall, 5 foot vertical signs. At least 5000. In my area alone. And multiple placards. Boxes upon boxes. What was this crazy talk?

“Lori for Bryan. Lori for Bryan. Come in, Bryan.”

“Go for Bryan.”

“Was that last call only for Zones 1 and 2 (on the floor)? Or for everyone? Over.”

“Everyone. All signs must be within the voms in 5 minutes. Secret Service is closing the floor. Over.”

“We have 5 minutes to move all signs? Over.”

“Correct. Over.”

Holy crap. I mobilized my team and we raced signs from the staging area to the voms, stacking them as neatly as possible. At one point, a volunteer blocked my entrance to a vom, stating the Fire Marshal had closed all entrances. No one was allowed in. “But, I’m just putting signs in. I’ll be right out.” Didn’t matter.

I radioed the woman in charge.

“Lori for Ellen. Lori for Ellen.”

“Go for Ellen.”

“Ellen, I can’t enter the floor. All voms on floor 5 are closed. Over.”

“Standby.”

I waited.

“Ellen for Lori. Ellen for Lori.”

“Go for Lori.”

“The Fire Marshal has approved all vests. All vests approved to enter and exit voms. Over.”

“Thanks, Ellen. Over.”

I told the credentialed person at the entrance to the vom that I was okay to go in. The Fire Marshal had okayed anyone wearing a vest (me included) to enter the floor. He shrugged, then let me through. As I passed through the curtain, carrying garbage bags full of “Kerry” signs, I felt a forceful hand on my shoulder.

“Hey!” he shouted as he twirled me around. “You are a liar! You lied to my person! You are not allowed to be in here!”

I was shocked. “No. I am allowed in here. The Fire Marshal said. He radioed everyone. Excuse me.”

He followed me, badgering me.

I exited the vom. I radioed Ellen.

“Lori for Ellen. Lori for Ellen.”

“Go for Ellen.”

“Ellen, I’m having problems on the 5th floor. I’m not being allowed access to the voms. The supervisor just called me a liar.”

This is the point where I broke down.

Sobbing, over the walkie talkie, I repeated, “I’m not a liar. I’m not lying. The Fire Marshal said we could go in. Please clear with all Security. Over.”

“Lori, I can’t understand you. Who won’t let you in?”

“The supervisor. Steve. (sob, sob) He… he… he… called me a liar…. I’m not lying… I (sob, sob) I’m just trying to get the signs where they need to be…. (sob, sob) Over.”

“Which supervisor? What is he wearing?”

As calmly as I could, I explained what he was wearing, the white polo which identified him as DNCC staff. Calm being a relative term. I could barely breathe as I repeated his words. I’m not a liar. Why would I make something up? Especially when Secret Service was involved.

Within seconds, we were allowed in and Steve apologized to me.

Signs were distributed, balloons were dropped (although a little late), and all was right at the convention.

I love living in a city with a Major League team. Because people always have extra tickets. Tonight was no exception. A beautiful balmy night in SBC Park, the sound of the water the backdrop for the excitement of the game. Life is good.

a beautiful day at the Jersey shore…

There is nowhere I feel more beautiful than when I’m at the beach. The warm sun beaming down on my strong body, grains of sand clinging to my damp skin, my wet locks blowing wildly in the wind. I love the force of the ocean, the crash of waves, knocking me off my feet, floating on the salty water, twirling and spinning like a seal. I float on my back, my red toenails peeking out above the water. I spin, around and over, over and around, undulating with the rolling waves. I allow the current to carry me in them I swim back out, pushing my body against the determined force of the water.

I decided to take advantage of being on the East coast to visit friends in New York. Megga asked me what I thought about taking the ferry to the Jersey Shore on Saturday. Nothing sounded more appealing. A boat ride, warm sun, swimming, paradise.

The ride over was delightful. We stretched out on the top deck with a glass of chardonnay. Two Greek men struck up a conversation with us, making the trip seem shorter. Past the Statue of Liberty, past the burroughs, out on open water, docking at the Jersey shore, at Sandy Hook.

I returned from the water, laughing from pure joy. Megga called me close. “We need to make a decision,” she began, complete seriousness veiling her otherwise laughing face. “We can either stay here and you’ll have plenty to write about or we can flee fast.” The family she dubbed Sandy Crack was next to us. My educated guess is that they were locals. Grandpa, husband and wife. Grandpa was a thin man with a military tattoo engraved on his left bicep. Nasal tones and dropped r’s boomed our way. No one spoke in normal voices. Loud, loud, loud. Husband, white belly folding over too low, too tight blue jean shorts, bellowed, ” We enjoyin’ a day at the shoe-ur, pops. Who’s comin’ to the wah-ta? Huh? Huh?” Megga cast me a look. “Just call me Ishmael,” she mouthed.

I can’t get over how nice people are in Boston. People are constantly offering me help with directions, espousing trivia about this fine city, volunteering to carry my luggage. On my way to the airport I met Michael, the Jewish funeral director from Scholinski’s (not sure of the spelling – but he emphasized it was a Jewish funeral parlor – it’s different, you know). He offered to carry my suitcase up the T stairs as I transferred to another line. We began talking; I explained I was in town for the Convention. He wanted to know where I was from, what I did. He told me all of the wonderful things I should have done while visiting Boston: the Freedom Trail, the Kennedy Museum, the duck tours, Boston Commons, the list was endless. He then insisted I return to his fine city, and call him when I did – that he would give me a personal tour of the city. I’ve never been anywhere with so many hospitable ambassadors.

He sat down next to me at the Japanese restaurant we went to after hours. Word on the street was you could order “cold tea” and a mug of beer would be brought to you. And it was.

Everyone in our assorted group introduced themselves and the conversation flowed freely. He was a law professor. She was an interface design consultant. He was an engineer. We talked about the Convention, about politics, about past experiences. He mentioned the movie Fahrenheit 9/11. I was the only one who hadn’t seen it (not surprisingly). They talked about the scene where an egg is thrown at President Bush’s car during the inauguration. He quietly said, “That was me.”

We all turned. “Yeah. That was me. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to throw an egg. So I loaded up a trench coat with eggs and headed over.”

We continued to stare.

“The first one fell short. So I lobbed the next one and it landed square on the windshield. And then I noticed a wall of Secret Service agents running towards me.”

We continued to stare. Finally I asked, “So what did you do?”

“I ran. Someone later interviewed me about it. The first question they asked was ‘Why’d you do it?’ I thought it was a good idea. The second question they asked was, ‘What do you do for a living?’ They found it quite amusing when I answered I was a law professor. At Harvard.”

Later in the evening he asked me if I would teach him how to blog. Of course. He wrote down his contact information, with a small picture of an egg beside his name. Just in case I forgot which one he was.

As I watched the thousands of balloons descend from the ceiling on the Convention floor, I received this text message:

Signage looks GREAT, my little whip! Enjoy it…

Ahhhhh. Success.

The Convention is over. After five hours of sleep last night I feel like a rejuvenated woman. The exhaustion created by 16 hours of manual labor each day and 4 of partying for 6 days straight has subsided. More highlights coming soon…

Celebrity sightings are generally wasted on me. I don’t really watch tv. I enjoy movies, but really don’t connect actors/actresses to the characters they portray. All week long, as we worked behind the scenes, people would whisper, “Look! There’s the entire cast of the Daily Show! Look!” I would look, but not recognize anyone, having never seen the show. “Look! There’s the guy from Best in Show, and Mighty Wind!” Didn’t recognize him. “Look! The guy from West Wing!” Couldn’t even tell who they were pointing at.

There were a few people I did recognize, however. Larry King ran into me three times in the corridors behind the CNN filming area. After that whenever I saw him coming I gave him a wide berth.

***********

Maggie and I were returning from the bathroom and entered a secure corridor. Agents rushed towards us demanding, “Move to the side! To the side, ladies.” We did as we were instructed and watched Bono from U2 pass mere feet from where we were standing. For a moment, we lamented not having our cameras. Then we decided we enjoyed the moment much more being fully present instead of trying to take a picture.

***********

I entered the “secret” elevator. It was in a back corner, but conveniently located for moving thousands of signs from the 3rd floor up to the 7th. Bob from the Fleet Center was manning the elevator, which surprised me. There hadn’t been an attendant on other days. We chatted as I made trip after trip after trip. We stopped on 4th and a gentleman entered and stood next to me. I glanced over, smiled, and nodded a hello. He nodded back. He was strikingly handsome. Tall, dark hair, intense eyes. He looked vaguely familiar. The elevator ascended two more floors and he left, entering the VIP level on the 6th floor. Bob turned to me. “Who was that? He was in that movie, what was it, High Fidelity?” Oh. My. God. That was John Cusack. I never expected him to be so tall. Or so striking. He’s even more handsome in real life than in the movies.

************

Still moving signs up to the 7th floor, I waited patiently for the elevator with my bin of John Edwards vertical signs. A group of three men and a hoochie mama walked up next to me, also waiting. I glanced over. She wasn’t tall, but you noticed her. She was wearing tight white pants, a low cut red tank, and everything else gold. Hundreds of thin gold bangles up and down her wrists. A gold lame purse. And gold wrestling boots, blinding as the light reflected off of them. Hmm. Interesting outfit. All hooch.

Later that evening the emcee introduced the Black Eyed Peas. And there she was, on the stage, belting out “Let’s Get Retarded,” jumping around and being all that.