By Evan Lisull
PHOENIX, ARIZONA– It’s not quite the boys in the back of the bus, but the middle seat of the SUV will have to do this time. I’m seated between two College Republicans, one of whom is rifling through a list of voters that still need to be called. The polls have already opened across America, and yet the campaign pushes on until the very end. Sen. John McCain will forgo his traditional movie watching to make a few final stops, and the bright young faces that support him will make the last few “get-out-the-vote” calls as they drive up what they hope is the official campaign celebration:
“Hello, this is Ken Peterson [Not his actual name; all names in this piece are pseudonyms -- EML], and I’m just calling to remind you. . .”
Meanwhile, the navigator juggles logistics:
“Hello? Yeah, no get off at 51. . . Yeah, going east. OK, just call when you get there. Bye.”
How does a journalist report on an event to which he has no press pass? This is the question that troubles me, a Zen koan to keep me somewhat divorced from the campaign headquarters that have sprung up in this roomy cabin. There a few things going in my favor: a ticket for the event, a comfortable (if partisan) ride, a notepad, and a plastic handle of Canadian whiskey — the journalist’s essentials. Yet even with this, a more vexing question remains: what was the story here? In my waning minutes with the Internet, I’d learned that Karl Rove had predicted 300+ electoral votes for the leading Sen. Obama, and that Frank Luntz had said that it was “impossible” for McCain to win. Once you’ve lost the hacks, you’ve lost them all; that angle’s out. Perhaps there’d be an angry riot, a surprise McCain announcement (“I’ve discussed the issues with Vice President Dick Cheney, and we’ve agreed to launch a unilateral attack against South Ossetia”), or a contesting of the vote tallies; but ‘perhaps’ is never a good basis for an article. Ideally, I’d have the lede paragraphs done by the time we parked.
Too late — already, we’ve gotten off the freeway, and within ten minutes we’ll be escorted past the various security checkpoints. I take one last swig before the window reveals a surly security officer who has spent the last five minutes barking in his earpiece for relief from his post.
—
Like most things Southwestern, the Biltmore is a spread-out (melted, perhaps) version of your classic five-star resort. While it would take a good day to explore the entire complex, it consists of equal parts conference center and golf course, a sort of senior citizens’ paradise. They really couldn’t ask for more.
Once inside, the first thing you notice is that there are two worlds — the Convention Center and Medialand. Barring the occasional Press Pass that flits in and out, grabbing food, quotes, and drinks, Medialand is largely constrained to a set of bleachers set up in the back of the grand ballroom, a world full of rectangular square lights and talking head factories. The rest of the ballroom room, and the horizontal hallway preceding it, is filled with the actual attendees, those here not to report but to show support for the party they still believe in.
SInce this is post-Jacksonian America, Land of the Common Man, I figured it best to spend some time amongst the People. Forget those snooty, arugula-snorting Big Media types, right? Storm into the Middle of America, and capture her soul. But first, to the bar, where the failures of the McCain campaign have manifested themselves most horrifically, in the form of $9.50 cocktails and $12 glasses of wine. $7 Budweiser — come on, Cindy, can’t we get a break?
Taking a plate of pretzels and chips as a consolation prize, I survey the scene. It is worth noting, for a party supposedly consisting of self-interested wealthy white men, how diverse the Rove Majority is. In no particular order, I watch a boys choir pass by a conversion of “Jews for McCain” ; seven American flag t-shirts; two twenty-somethings in matching ten-gallon hats (an international press favorite); a Semitic businessman; a man wearing a “Union Workers for John McCain” shirt; and a gaggle of girls who would’ve fit in at SoHo.
Yet in spite of this diversity, they are, well, boring. Perhaps this is merely a symptom of an age where every extreme opinion is instantly a YouTube sensation, but every argument, every invective is old-hat. In fact, the crowd is almost stupider than they should be — their cheer for winning Texas is louder than their booing at the loss of Iowa, even though this clearly an overall loss in the scheme of things.
As the opening band starts off a cover of “Nowhere Man,” I cannot help but wonder where John McCain has wandered off. The big-screens on stage show Sarah Palin disembarking at the local Sky Harbor Airport, eliciting shrieks from the pro-Palin women (yes, they do exist) in the crowd. Yet the tabloid-esque coverage of Governor Palin have cost us the electoral map, and this junkie needs his fix. Of course, the WiFi is not yet working, and my dreams of comped cigars, easy whiskey sours, and Internet at my disposal have all vanished like Christmas Eve visions of childhood.
I decide to try my luck in Medialand, where the human-computer ratio is something around 0.68. Sure enough, I manage to move my way into the outer periphery of the press, and look over one reporter’s shoulder to see her computer screen.
It’s a hell of a lot more dire than the big-screen agitprop has made it appear. MSNBC has already called 175 electoral votes, without California even being considered. Pennsylvania has just been called for Obama, a painful, if not necessarily fatal, blow to the GOP. I start squinting in to see the voting breakdown, when the reporter turns in to look at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I stammer,
“Don’t worry about it; I’ve had trouble connecting myself.” Gesturing at my notepad, she asks, “Are you reporting?”
“Well, I’m reporting without a press pass,” I say sheepishly, and explain the situation.
“Ah, we’ve all been there before. Best of luck.” She turns back to the screen.
Up close, the media jungle is even more absurd than it appears from a distance. Watching a reporter on TV, you have a distinct impression that the reporter is actually on the scene, a lone wolf amongst the people reporting on the story; yet here, we can see the reality exposed, a line of perfectly glamorous people, talking in front of cameras almost exactly three feet from each other in a straight line. The area surrounding the bleachers is filled with techies, bloggers, and other media miscellania; the place resembles a technological ghetto, a surfeit of information making up for the lack in food.
There’s a rustling amongst the mob, and it soon becomes apparent what has drawn them– a woman has entered, wearing a dress made entirely of McCain-Palin lawn signs. How unique, and utterly vacuous! The camera crews gather around, knowing a good photo op when they see one. There are only two types of people here tonight: people who work for TV, and people who want to be on TV. There are truly markets in everything.
—-
Given the crowd and the media set-up, one would expect that McCain would address the crowd in the ballroom. Yet this was not to be; instead, McCain addressed a crowd outside, on a lawn that seemed designed for croquet. The indoors crowd would witness McCain’s last speech of the campaign via video.
It’s hard to say with any definitiveness why McCain opted for the outdoors. The crowd was more controlled (i.e. only certain people were allowed in), and there were greater security measures. Yet it clearly wasn’t a reactionary, spur-of-the-moment move; the lawn was flanked with huge banners, styled after his iconic (and, frankly, classy) campaign signs.
With all such appearances and speeches by famous people, of course, there is the interminable Wait. To us lowly types, it seems arrogant and pompous, a mere gesture to rile the crowd up for when the figure finally arrives; the problem is, this tactic works. Tonight, though, the Wait was particularly painful, since the crowd was herded to the field before the election had officially been called. People made calls (“Mom, can you turn the TV back on?”), got on the internet, and within a matter of minutes the inevitable news spread through the crowd: Barack Obama is the president-elect of the United States.
Still, the reactions were all over the map. Some opted for denial, saying that the declaration “wasn’t official” and that Obama’s lead could be taken out by proving widespread voter fraud. Others opted for vitriolic anger, while still others went to queue up at the bar. Even with the past few weeks showing Obama dominance, the news was still a fresh wound in slow demise of the conservative movement.
Sen. McCain finally took the stage, to an adoring crowd who loved him even though he had come short. There were, no doubts, hopes of a defiant Johnny Mac, a call for investigations and recounts. Like many hopes at the Biltmore, they would be unrealized: “A little while ago, I had the honor of calling Senator Barack Obama — (boos) — to congratulate him — (boos) — please — to congratulate him on being elected the next president of the country that we both love.”
He could have stopped there, and gone straight to the Republican red meat. He did not. Instead, John McCain, a figure despised by many for his dubious tactics during the campaign, became a figure of grace and honor, praising the historic nature of his opponent’s accomplishments in the face of a far more demeaning mob. Still he went further: “I urge all Americans who supported me to join me in not just congratulating him, but offering our next president our good will and earnest effort to find ways to come together. . .”
Yet even as McCain delivered this closure, a crack was left open in the door: “I am also, of course, very thankful to Governor Sarah Palin, one of the best campaigners I have ever seen. . . We can all look forward with great interest to her future service to Alaska, the Republican Party and our country.” The Alaskan Governor said nothing, but she did not need to. As McCain called for God’s blessing of this land, and deep, tremulous tunes of drama filled the amps, the crowd broke out: “Sar-ah! Sar-ah! Sar-ah! Sar-ah!”
For now, we have reached a resting point, where a nation can catch its collective breath. But the malcontents of the Biltmore will not just fade quietly into the night; and Bobby Jindal has already begun to visit Iowa.
