While the Democrats Slept

Early last summer, the good folks at Playboy approached me with the idea of covering the Democratic Convention in San Francisco. At first, I was a bit skeptical. Just what did they have in mind? Political analysis? The Girls of the Iowa Delegation? No, I was assured, something more personal.

"Just imagine," said one editor, an odd gleam in his eyes, "four days in the Moscone Convention Center, listening to speaker after speaker vilify your father!"

"You're a sick guy," I told him. "I'll get back to you."

I slept on it. There was the danger factor to be considered. Conventions are an opportunity to whip the troops into a blood frenzy. With the prime target of their wrath, my father, out of reach, would the San Francisco delegates turn to the next best thing? I didn't relish being lynched by a bunch of putty-jowled rowdies wearing donkey hats.

For reasons I still don't fully understand, I said yes. "Great," said the editor. "And to show you we're all heart, we'll send someone (continued on page 190)While the Democrats Slept(continued from page 142) with you." My companion, it turned out, was a veteran journalist known to casual acquaintances as the Ranger. He had seen action in such hot spots as East Berlin, Saigon and the jungles of Cambodia, and his reputation indicated an utter disregard for personal safety and hygiene. On this trip, his job would be to show me the ropes, introduce me to the right people and, most important to Playboy, make sure I didn't take the easy way out and watch the whole show on TV. We were scheduled to rendezvous and begin our coverage on July 14.

San Francisco: Saturday, July 14

Los Angeles Mayor Tom Bradley: "We're not here to beat up on each other but to beat up on Ronald Reagan."--San Francisco Examiner

The Ranger and I are ensconced in a strange little bar off the lobby of the Manx Hotel, sipping watery beer and listening to a couple of belly dancers enthuse over the arrival of the Democratic Convention. The belly dancers are right. There is an edge, a visceral thrill running through San Francisco's streets. An electricity that has nothing to do with cable cars, electric buses or even politics is immediately evident. Hookers, hawkers, street vendors, tourists, cops and journalists, hangers-on of every description are swarming over the hills. Cartoon donkeys leap out of billboards, while stuffed varieties, in decorator colors, kick up their heels among the cups, mugs, ashtrays, hats and T-shirts, all loudly proclaiming the event--the Democratic Convention.

There are no candidates staying at the Manx, no big-shot network anchor men. I did ride the elevator this afternoon with a skittish-looking Nigerian journalist; but as far as I know, Playboy is the only major American publication with the gall to book anyone here. From the outside, the Manx looks like a Petri dish, its puke-green façade and crusty neon sign promising nothing but mildew and despair. On closer inspection, it turns out to be OK. The rooms are high and dry, and if the phone is often dead, well ... I don't like phones much anyway. The Ranger and I, upon nearly sober reflection, decide that being slightly removed from the main arena is a good policy after all. The lobbies of the larger, posher hotels--the Meridien, the Hyatt--are as crowded as subway stations at quitting time. There are long lines for the elevators and the ice machines. Besides, Mondale may have his $1500-a-night suite with a private sauna; we have belly dancers in the bar.

After soaking us for every $4.50 glass of water they can, les danseuses move on to greener wallets. Through the gloom I can see hungry-looking men in rumpled suits hugging the bar, their narrow eyes reflecting the fragmented light of a dusty mirror ball. The decor in here is a hallucinatory mixture of colonial India, '49er and Fifties trash.

What about our press credentials? The Ranger frowns and his dark mustache bristles. Since Playboy is a monthly publication, it has been allotted only two so-so passes--one labeled Press, the other, Press Perimeter. Better than nothing. At least we'll be able to get in the door. Without those rectangular paper badges, we'd be left in the parking lot with the cops and the Hare Krishnas. But credentials like those also mean standing in line for hours, awaiting a brief opportunity to roam the convention floor. That won't do. We need passes that will get us anywhere, any time. It's time to call in some chips.

It just so happens that I know a guy--let's call him Deep Pockets--who can get us all the credentials we need. Better yet, he owes me. A few years back, we attended a cocktail party together. In the wee hours, after far too many shots of tequila, Deep Pockets became obstreperous. Thinking himself humorous, he made several abusive remarks about my mother. I let it go. I could have hauled him outside and tap-danced on his face, but ... I let it go. The next day he apologized and, at the same time, claiming an urgent need for exercise, asked to borrow my bicycle, a ten-speed Peugeot of which I was very fond. Later that afternoon, in what must have been a desperate act of contrition, he launched himself down a steep grade at nearly 40 miles per hour, jammed on the front brake and sailed over the handle bars. He survived; my bike didn't.

I leave the Ranger contemplating his suds while I give Deep Pockets a call. After all this time, his embarrassment is still acute. One mention of my bike and he's offering apartments overlooking the bay. "Forget it," I tell him. "Just get us those credentials." We agree to meet at Josephine's Restaurant, where he'll fill me in on the details.

Back in the bar, the Ranger looks forlorn. The awful reality of our puny credentials has begun to sink in.

"God," he moans, "what if Walter Mondale calls for a pre-emptive nuke strike against South Africa while we're in line under the bleachers?"

"Relax," I tell him. "One more beer and we're going to dinner."

Deep Pockets enters the restaurant surrounded by a coterie intimately connected to the Democratic proceedings. The company looks grim. Of course! Bert Lance! The news is full of Mondale's decision to name him chairman of the Democratic National Committee. No wonder everyone's acting as if he's been kicked in the groin. Lance even looks sleazy--like Boss Tweed with a shave.

Deep Pockets is rumbling like a dark cloud. "You remember Super Tuesday? That's when this Fritz-Bert deal was cut." Behind him, a large, jovial black woman is pounding out something by Duke Ellington on a stand-up piano. Deep Pockets raises his voice over the music. "Mondale needed to win two states, right? Georgia and Alabama. Otherwise, he was old news. Career over. Lance was the man to deliver those states. In return, he gets resurrected in the major leagues. Disgusting." He shakes his head.

I just nod. Who knows? Maybe Bert and Fritz are just fishing buddies. I've always figured that delving into the business of political favors is like eating at McDonald's. Stick around long enough and you'll smell like a Big Mac.

As we leave Josephine's, Deep Pockets pulls me aside. "Tomorrow, around noon, you'll meet a guy in the lobby of the Mark Hopkins Intercontinental Hotel. He'll tell you how to get VIP passes. They won't get you onto the floor, but you'll be able to get free drinks and food in the upstairs lounge."

"What about floor passes?" I ask. He hands me a small slip of paper with a number written on it.

"That's a room at the San Francisco Hilton. Be there at 12:15 Monday afternoon." With that, he turns toward a waiting cab.

"Wait a minute! How will I recognize the guy at the Mark Hopkins?"

Deep Pockets looks back slowly and shoots me a wicked grin. "Easy. He's got an eye patch and a hook."

Sunday, July 15

About 200 Democratic delegates in jogging shorts ran in circles ... when the lady on the bicycle blew her big assignment.--Steve Rubenstein, San Francisco Chronicle

The morning sun is just beginning to warm the pavement as the Ranger and I hit the streets. Not a cloud to be seen. Mark Twain, who remarked that the coldest winter he had endured was summertime in San Francisco, simply arrived a (continued on page 288)While The Democrats Slept(continued from page 190) century or so too early. Macy's employees have seized the balmy moment to launch a strike. It seems that Macy's wants to freeze salaries, and the workers don't think that's such a good idea. They woke me up this morning, stamping down the sidewalk. Now they're circling outside the store, berating customers. One old woman stands nervously just beyond their ranks. She's experiencing a powerful urge to shop but can't figure out how to run the gantlet. Finally, unable to contain herself, she scuttles for the door. She's almost home when one of the strikers spots her. An angry cry arises: "Anyone shopping at Macy's is shiftless scum!" The old woman's body sags visibly as she topples inside the store.

At the junction of Powell and Market, where 12,000-pound cable cars rotate on giant Lazy Susans for the return trip up Nob Hill, things are heating up. Above the din of street bands and the low rumble of the crowd, voices propelled by bullhorns can be heard barking commands. A vast army of union members--50,000, maybe 100,000--is on the move. Banners with such slogans as Support Local 1100 sail past. Scurrying around with their bullhorns, keeping everyone in line, the march organizers somehow miss an elderly woman in a gold hat who wanders among them, saying she's the true representative of the cross.

The Ranger is towing me around through the marble and plush of the Fairmont Hotel lobby, sniffing for action. Rumor has it that Bert Lance and the man he's supposed to replace at the D.N.C., Charles Manatt, are, at this moment, meeting somewhere in the hotel. Rounding a corner, we run into a gaggle of camera crews clustered around a bank of elevators. Lance and Manatt, they tell us, are on the 23rd floor. What's more, Jimmy Carter may be on the way to help smooth feathers.

The Ranger and I give it about 15 minutes before deciding on an end run. Nothing is happening, so we may as well force the issue: We'll simply get on the elevator and head for floor 23. It's probably futile, but if we can avoid getting shot, it'll be worth it just to stretch our legs.

When the elevator doors part, we're staring at a pert woman with a list of names, a gnarly-looking guard and the biggest phone set I've ever seen--at least 50 extensions. "We're here for the meeting," says the Ranger, assuming a commanding tone. They don't buy it for a second. The woman doesn't even check her list. For his part, the guard has decided we may be dangerous. He's coming around the end of the table, his hand sliding toward the flap on his holster. Can't blame him. I'm wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and six months' worth of hair falls near my shoulders. The Ranger has the dark gleam of a Turkish terrorist with six pounds of plastique taped to each thigh. If we weren't on the same side, I'd probably shoot him myself. Clearly, it is time for a strategic retreat.

The Mark Hopkins is a Mecca for the liberal chic. Stretch limos circle like sharks before beaching themselves on the redbrick apron of the driveway. Suave couples slide out and file up the marble steps. Inside, beyond the mirrored walls and the potted palms, the D.N.C. is meeting to discuss finances. Mixing with money are the politicians. Birch Bayh is here with his wife, Kitty. Tom McMillen, of the Washington Bullets, towers over the crowd. "He wants to be the next Bill Bradley," laughs the Ranger.

A certain Congressman from Southern Illinois hurries through with a big grin, heading for the mezzanine stairs. Taking advantage of the confused flurries that attend comings and goings, we tail him all the way into an upstairs meeting room. Serious-looking people are seated at a long, rectangular table. No one seems to notice as we press up against a wall. This is a PAC meeting, I realize with a small jolt. I've never been to one of these. Never felt deprived, either. But it occurs to me that this is a good chance to see a politician with his hair down or his pants off, as the case may be.

With his wife looking on, beaming proudly, the Congressman glad-hands his way to the head of the table. His butt has barely hit the chair when he starts talking about Stinger missile sales to Saudi Arabia and how his opponent is selling out Israel. Apparently, this is a Jewish PAC. After the spiel is finished, the gathering looks decidedly unimpressed. A gray-haired man who seems to be in charge leans forward, staring unsmilingly. "We don't think you're pushing the money hard enough," he says, not a shred of respect in his voice.

The Congressman starts to sweat. "Well," he chokes, "we'll certainly work on that. Get on it right away." His wife looks like she's been gutshot. Jesus, these PAC folks don't pull any punches. If he doesn't "push the money" where it's supposed to go, the poor slob will be hung out to dry. As we slip out, he's still yammering about "getting on that immediately."

After nearly four bleary hours, during which time I nearly fuse with a Leatherette sofa, our contact finally arrives, striding through the lobby with a sheaf of papers clamped in one steel grip. He has little to tell us. We're on the A list, whatever that means, and we should show up in the ballroom tomorrow at ten a.m. Swell. For this we missed Sister Boom-Boom--a guy who wears a nun's habit and heavy make-up and exhorts people through a bullhorn--and the Gay Parade.

On the way back to the Manx, I learn two things. One: If Jimmy Breslin could canonize Geraldine Ferraro's husband, John Zaccaro, he would. The Ranger and I run into Breslin and Studs Terkel outside an ice-cream parlor. Breslin is confirmedly and volubly of the opinion that Zaccaro is the New American Man or some such thing. As he sees it, any real-estate magnate who doesn't go off the deep end when his wife runs for Vice-President is OK.

My other revelation concerns the Ranger. The man cannot eat an ice-cream cone. Within three minutes, his mustache looks like an Eskimo Pie. Half a block later, brown chocolate gunk is running down his pants onto his shoes. The question arises as to just who will be looking after whom on this enterprise.

The evening's parties are an integral part of the story here, particularly those thrown by news organizations. Not only do they offer journalists the opportunity to blow off steam but the day's gossip can be hashed and rehashed with colleagues. Time magazine is playing host tonight at the World Trade Club. Editor in chief Henry A. Grunwald welcomes some 800 people into a banquet room with a dandy view of the bay. Trouble is, the room was designed for only 500. By the time we arrive, the temperature must be 125 degrees in the punch bowl. I'm not fond of hordes and I prefer not to perspire inordinately. You can imagine how I feel about big, sweaty parties.

While I'm wandering abound, shirt stuck to my back, looking for anyone I know, the Ranger is discovering any number of long-lost friends. He's in heaven. Two hours later, when the party breaks up, he's disappointed. I can't wait to breathe fresh air.

Back in my room, I switch on CTV, the in-house convention coverage. Every hour's programming leads off with a music video called Rap Master Ronnie. "My youngest son grew up in tights," crows the actor playing my father.

Monday, July 16

I'm in love with Mario Cuomo. He's Adlai Stevenson with balls. --Nora Ephron, San Francisco Chronicle

The scene at the Mark Hopkins is daunting. In the ballroom, folding tables stand at the perimeter. The lines at each table where Democratic National Committee and assorted VIP credentials are handed out is long and slow-moving. The Ranger and I are engaged in our first credentials scam--it seems as if it's all journalists talk about: "What kind of pass did you get?"--and our names don't appear on anyone's list. Finally, we find ourselves nose to nose with a harried young woman.

"Name?"

"Ron Reagan."

There is a bristling of her neck hairs. Without looking up, she scribbles down my name. "You don't know how I hate writing this name," she says grimly.

Still, we haven't gotten the credentials we need. I need a rest. I abandon the Ranger and head for the bar with a vague plan to suck down a gallon of orange juice.

Meanwhile, back at ground zero, something has awakened in the primitive portion of the Ranger's brain. The frustration and general nastiness have rekindled a living memory--some life-or-death struggle, perhaps, in a Cambodian jungle. He's become a dervish, spinning from table to table threatening, cajoling, wheedling and intimidating. I remember that this is the guy who, figuring even Communists wouldn't shoot infants, strapped a baby to his chest before crossing into East Berlin. By the time I return, our VIP passes are in hand. Now it's time for the real credentials--for the convention floor itself.

(The vast majority of journalists will be confined to the outer fringe of the convention floor with hall passes. A lucky few will be given a chance to go onto the floor for 30 minutes at a time, provided they stand in line for 45 minutes each time they want to do so. A select handful get go-anywhere floor passes like those given to delegates, millionaire TV reporters and multimillionaire D.N.C. contributors.)

We stand nervously in the hallway, listening to the raucous, oddly high-pitched laughter coming from inside the room. It is the room. I've checked the little slip of paper Deep Pockets gave me just to be sure. I knock. The hooting and squealing die immediately. The peephole darkens as an eye scrutinizes us, blinking once, twice. Presently, the chain is unlatched, the dead bolt thrown back. The door swings open to reveal a nine-year-old boy. Perfect! Great cover. But when we get inside, I realize that, of the four other people in the room, none is over 14. Playing cards are scattered across one bed. These children have been playing draw poker with floor passes that cost the networks and D.N.C. sugar daddies up to $10,000. A tall, dark-haired kid, apparently the leader, hands me an envelope with two passes. "These are only good for one day," he warns. "Come back tomorrow if you want more."

I look at the credentials. Beneath the small holographic patches, designed to prevent counterfeiting, they read D.N.C. Member.

A section of the parking lot outside the Moscone Center has been designated "free space." It's sort of a safety valve intended to keep the weird at bay. At the moment, the gathering is harmless. White-robed devotees of obscure religious sects corner those too naive or enfeebled to flee. One fellow is handing out strips of cloth he calls "ribbons against Reagan." Another, the sign around his neck identifying him as America's Sakharov, has pitched camp with a clear view of the break dancers.

The Moscone Center was not intended for conventions. Boat shows, maybe, but not large gatherings of humanity. Long, low and stiflingly hot, it looks like a Zeppelin hangar. The interior has been transformed, to the extent possible, into a giant television studio. The predominant color scheme is TV blue. Giant video screens hang over the podium, and facing the rostrum at oblique angles are giant, monolithic network booths.

In the CBS booth, sequestered in his own three-by-five cubicle, sits Mark Siegel. A longtime member of the D.N.C, he is working with CBS, identifying the faces on his monitor to the anchor booth upstairs. From Mark's perch, we can see that Gary Hart's forces have scored a stunning visual coup. His red, high-tech-lettered signs stand out against the blue. Mondale's placards, like the candidate himself, simply fade into the background.

During a lull in the action, the Ranger makes a big mistake. He tries to strike up a conversation with one of the directors in the booth. The guy turns and looks at us as if we were a couple of cat turds. "What are you doing in here?" he demands. Then, without waiting for an answer, "Get the hell out!" These booths are a bastion of privilege reserved for television people only. The idea that strangers--print, journalists at that--could wander right in is more than this fellow can stand. He's still screaming as the door slams behind us.

Jimmy Carter has never been what you would call an electrifying speaker. Vacillating between plaintive whines and scolding admonitions, his speeches tend to die a-borning. What a contrast to Mario Cuomo, whose ripsnorting keynote address has the delegates smelling blood. This is the real beginning of a four-day bash-Reagan fest. Speaker after speaker vies with his cohorts in painting the most vivid picture of my father as a coldhearted fascist warmonger. It's imperative that the delegates and, ideally, the public at large be made to believe that Ronald Reagan plans to put the elderly and the handicapped to work barbecuing minority children on the South Lawn while he and his fat-cat country-club cronies sit back, licking their fingers. From now until November and probably beyond, Reagan will be the liberal Democrats' great Satan.

I'm in my room dressing for the Washington Post party when the Ranger calls from the Westin St. Francis. He's having a drink with the doctor of Gonzo Journalism, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Early in my discussions with Playboy, it was proposed that I think along the lines of Gonzo Journalism. Not wanting to piss off Hunter, whose work I admired and who has been known to pack a .44 Magnum, I countered with the idea of Bonzo journalism. The Ranger and I have since adopted Bonzo as a password, using it after two knocks and a pause at either of our hotel-room doors.

When I arrive, Hunter is seated behind a line of gin and tonics--his first order, it turns out--spilling tales of dark loathing. The night before, in a fit of pique, he had called newswoman Linda Ellerbee a slut and subsequently got into a fistfight with her camera crew. The evening ended with Hunter punching out a wall. His hand still looks like a slab of tenderized beef.

The doctor won't be joining us at the Post party, but it's agreed we'll share a cab as far as Tosca, a linoleum-floored bar in North Beach from which Hunter plans to do some serious reporting. After dropping Hunter off, our cabby asks, "Was that the Dr. Thompson?" Cabbies are a well-read group in San Francisco. When the Ranger, sitting in back, says that it was, the cabby mentions an item in that day's paper by Herb Caen, the city's longtime chronicler. My quote about Bonzo journalism has been picked up and made to sound as if I'd made a mistake, not a joke, about Gonzo Journalism. The cabby wonders whether young Ron has a sense of humor or is just dim. From the front seat, unrecognized in my six months of hair, I mention that I've often wondered the same thing about this young Reagan fellow.

The Post party at Levi's Plaza is a vast improvement over the one held by Time. They've rented a huge room, for one thing, and the temperature remains tolerable. And the food! They're offering everything from grilled chicken to sushi. Good food is important: The more people eat, the more they can safely drink. It can mean the difference between a dignified gathering and a drunken row. I confess, though, I have trouble picturing Katharine Graham waving a broken bottle in anyone's face under any circumstances.

Celebrities are everywhere: Richard Reeves, Warren Beatty, Governor Richard Lamm of Colorado. Off in a corner, I spot a woman high up in the Hart campaign. Hart has sounded spunky all week. In fact, he's making noises as if he still has a shot at the nomination. "Yeah, they still think he can win," Hart's campaign worker says. "They're crazy, is what I think."

When things start to thin out, a few of us squeeze into Los Angeles Times reporter Robert Scheer's rented car, heading for the Cadillac Bar and a bash thrown by Mother Jones. There I'm met with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. As an earnest young man tells me, "This is the last bastion of the New Left," and they're not sure whether I'm a spy, a convert or someone they should toss out just to be on the safe side. Oddly enough, the Post party was easier to get into. You gave your name to a woman at the door and waltzed right in. Mother Jones requires guests to wear a special button and pass muster with a gang of security guards. Leave it to the New Left to turn right at the drop of a credential.

Two a.m. I'm back in my room trying to fall asleep. Someone below my window is playing Rock-a-Bye Baby on a trumpet.

Tuesday, July 17

ABC decided part of Tuesday night's Convention was a "dinosaur event" and cut away to a rerun mystery program.

--Ben Brown, USA Today

This morning comes the first hint that violence may erupt on the fringes of the festivities. A group protesting the possible arrival of the Ku Klux Klan has gathered in front of a drugstore near the convention. The Klan, a group leader suggests, relinquishes its right to free speech, since it arms its members against Jews and blacks. The only appropriate response, he continues, is paramilitary action by militant blacks. I make a mental note to watch any Klan rally from the top of a tall building.

On our way into the Moscone Center, the Ranger and I run into Hunter, Pat Caddell and actress Margot Kidder, a.k.a. Lois Lane, who is on assignment to Vogue. A flimsy rumor is floating around that Mondale is losing delegates. Supposedly, he's now 20 short of the 1967 needed for nomination. As Hart's pollster, Caddell ought to know, but he's not talking. Watching him stride into Hart's command central, a sort of trailer camp in the back of the hall, I get the impression of a fragmentation grenade about to blow. I have an impulse to throw a lead blanket over him and hit the deck.

Margot, running a bit hyper, is wired for any action. Thinking herself "incognito" in revealing white jump suit and big shades, she's been tailing delegates and using her connections to infiltrate every camp. "Hell, I've donated lots of money to their campaigns," she laughs. Sitting on the floor outside the Railroad Lounge, a watering hole for the press, she takes about 30 seconds to run down her act: "Hart's an asshole. I'm for the freeze; that's my emotional commitment. I interviewed Hart. I said the D5 is an offensive weapon; he said no it's not, it's launched underwater. Can you believe that? What a liar. I really went after him, but he just walked away.... I'm really dry.... I like your sister. We met over the freeze. She's great. I don't understand Hunter. He just wants to drink beer and watch it all on TV.... This is the first thing I've ever done--2500 words for Vogue. Can you believe that? What am I supposed to do with 2500 words? I've been following delegates.... Let's get a drink."

Ugliness erupts on the convention floor. Jesse Jackson has proposed an amendment to the party platform that would outlaw runoff primaries when no candidate has 50 percent of the vote. The idea is to help black candidates get elected, particularly in the South. Andrew Young has risen to speak for the opposition and is being viciously jeered. For a fleeting moment, it seems some of the more physical Jackson delegates may climb right up onto the podium and kick Young's ass.

Jackson's first order of business in an emotional speech is to apologize to everyone he's infuriated over the past year. That's a lot of "I'm sorrys." Apologia extended, Jackson launches into his familiar rolling, rhyming cadence. Tears begin to flow among his delegates. Cries of "Preach, Jesse, preach" ring out. The acoustics in the hall are so bad that even down front, 50 feet from the podium, I can hardly make out what's being said. Fortunately, two men in front of me are excitedly repeating every word.

The speech over, I make a break for the exit. A wall of people is blocking the way and I end up standing in front of a short, rotund but powerfully built black woman. "Get out of the way," she snaps.

At this point, I'm hemmed in, unable to move. "Don't worry," I try to assure her, "there's nothing to see at the moment."

She's not convinced. "There's plenty for me to see and it ain't the back of your head!" I move. I can see the headline: "Reagan's son disrupts convention, is stomped to death by delegate."

Otis Chandler stands in the doorway, granitelike, welcoming people to a party thrown by his newspaper, the Los Angeles Times. Big names file past: Tom Brokaw, Walter Cronkite, David Broder. These parties have become the central arena. The convention, it sometimes seems, is a peripheral event, a mere excuse for the larger media get-together. Consider that there are more than 14,000 journalists in town, as opposed to 4000 conventioneers, and the idea doesn't seem farfetched.

One of the drawbacks to these gatherings is the presence of gossip columnists. Before I know it, I'm going mano a mano with a woman who's wondering which designer made my suit and would I take off my shoes and point my ex-dancer's feet? I'm saved by the arrival of Hunter Thompson. Hunter radiates a powerful energy that draws people to him. Even network anchor men, themselves used to being the centers of attention, pay court. Unfortunately, so does the gossip columnist. She's not even sure who Hunter is, but he's obviously someone, so she's interested. Starting with the old "Who made your suit?" routine, she quickly gets down to brass tacks and before long is actually on the floor, grappling with one of Thompson's shins. God knows what she's after there. Tattoos?

The Hooker's Ball, scheduled after tonight's convention proceedings, should offer the kind of buoyant decadence worthy of Fellini. Instead, we have a grim, tawdry affair reminiscent of Fassbinder. Fifty bucks gets you in the door, but we manage to strike a deal whereby we can stay for 15 minutes, free. Inside, drunken photographers reel through the haze, attached to sleepy prostitutes. The women are pleasant enough; after all, they're collecting money for their parent organization, COYOTE (Call Off Your Old Tired Ethics). But it's too obviously a professional hustle. When our 15 minutes are up, they are decidedly up; the woman who let us in is practiced at keeping time and says we gotta go, business is business. As we leave, I ask one of the hookers how good business has been during the convention. "Are you kidding?" she snorts. "Business sucks. This isn't like the Republican Convention would be. The Democrats are all out fucking each other."

Wednesday, July 18

A man who had been asked to sit down last night while Jesse Jackson addressed the Democratic National Convention bit three delegates on the convention floor, police said.

--San Francisco Chronicle

When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Or so I've heard. Anyway, it sounds like a good idea. Instead of building to a peak as these things should, this convention is fizzling early. The conclusion is undramatically foregone. Reporters, tired of chasing nonexistent stories, have taken to the curio shops and long lunches. Delegates are plodding along more from habit than from fervor. This great exercise in democracy is gradually, entropically grinding to a close.

I spend the day wandering about Chinatown, scorching my innards with "the hottest Hunan in town" and picking up souvenirs. If you let your vision blur, parts of that neighborhood look like Hong Kong. English is definitely a second language and the street life is marvelously un-American. After four days of politics and finger food, the vegetable markets and kung-fu theaters are a blessed relief.

Back at the Moscone Center, Aaron Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man gives way to the strains of the Marlboro theme. Gary Hart is at the podium, milking applause. After five minutes, there's not much more to milk, but that doesn't deter Hart. Every time the scattered huzzahs dwindle to inaudibility, he nods with a "Thank you" to a hard-core cadre down front that takes up the cry again. This goes on for ten, 15, 20 minutes, until Hart is right where he wants to be--smack in the middle of prime time. I've long had a suspicion that Hart is a few bricks short of a full load. He seems uncomfortable, not only with people in general but with himself as well. There is something coldly reptilian in his demeanor. His speech does nothing to dispel this notion. Through binoculars I can almost see the forked tongue flicking out, the translucent inner lids sliding over his eyes.

The text of the speech itself, reportedly crafted by Kennedy speechwriter Ted Sorensen, looks pretty good on paper but drops dead from Hart's lips. The boredom, however, is just beginning. Next: nominating speeches. The prospect of hearing the candidates' praises sung for two more hours is almost unbearably painful. This is a sentiment shared by many among the folks seated near me, and the sense of ennui soon reaches a desperate pitch. Faced with monumental tedium, people will babble about anything. When the subject of ex-governor Jerry Brown's foreplay technique is broached, I know it's time to flee.

At Tosca, CBS' Ed Bradley is regaling a select crowd with tales from the convention floor. The action in the back room, an invitation-only pool hall, is swift and mean. The brand of pool being played here would offend the likes of Minnesota Fats. For one thing, the room is too small for the table. All kinds of sawed-off cues must be used. Then there's the fact that the players, frustrated by their inadequacy, tend to resort to violence. Comedian Robin Williams, also hanging out, wisely assenting to rack the balls only, dubs the game slam pool.

Hunter Thompson and I team up against a couple of locals. I haven't touched a cue in about five years, but, for some reason, all my shots are dropping. We're running away with the game. The local boys are not taking it well. Bad losers. One in particular, a drunken fire smoldering behind his eyes, is circling the table, looking for an opening. Suddenly, holding his cue as if lining up an angle, he lashes out at Hunter with a vicious groin shot. The doctor, his reflexes amazingly sharp after a lifetime of abuse, manages to side-step the blow. It's an unwritten rule in this room that underhanded tactics like these be allowed to pass without mention. But when the local begins splintering beer bottles against the walls, Hunter takes offense. "You filthy, swine-sucking bastard!" he screams, brandishing his cue like a javelin. The awful carnage about to ensue is forestalled only by the arrival of another round of beers.

When the two-a.m. curfew forces us to leave, the Ranger and I wander toward the Manx through darkened streets. Five days down, one to go.

Thursday, July 19

Mondale can not, whatever he does, kiss her [Ferraro]. --Patrick H. Caddell, Democratic poll taker

Jimmy Carter never touched me. --Walter Mondale, former Vice-President, quoted by Maureen Dowd in The New York Times

Tonight belongs to Geraldine Ferraro. She could get up on the podium and do half an hour of shadow puppets, and the roof would still come down. But when she says her nomination has meant more for women than anything Ronald Reagan has done in three and a half years, she's not just blowing steam. Nothing else, not even Sandra Day O'Connor's appointment to the Supreme Court, carries such symbolic weight. Her speech, though, is less than electrifying. Someone, probably from the Mondale camp, has slowed her staccato Queens delivery. Her rhythm is unnaturally measured. But the delegates don't care. The women, in particular, tears streaming, are beside themselves with joy.

Following Ferraro, we're treated to one of those made-for-TV campaign films designed to show us that the candidate, in this case Mondale, is just like you and me--only a good deal more saintly. Here's Fritz wandering through lush woods, musing in familiar, nasal tones about trees, fishing and peace on earth. There's Fritz lakeside, chomping into an ear of corn and ruminating about family, togetherness and a balanced budget. He demonstrates an astounding lack of screen presence.

Originally, Ted Kennedy was supposed to introduce the film. Now, Teddy may embody any number of unattractive qualities, but he's no sucker. He's thinking about 1988. No way is he going to play m.c. to a strip of celluloid. This is his opportunity to show the Democratic Party that Mondale is a second-rater headed for the party's ash heap. After a hammy, old-fashioned stem-winder of a speech, the crowd, primed by Ferraro, ends up in the palm of Ted's hand.

The strategy works. Mondale enters to the theme from Rocky and delivers probably the best speech of his career--a cautious appeal to middle-of-the-roaders. But the enthusiasm of the crowd seems forced. Most of the delegates I've spoken with admit a sense of futility. "Wait until '88," they say...and the name that pops up most often is Mario Cuomo's.

I am suddenly seized by a curious notion: What did Mondale's opponent in the general election think of his speech? Ducking through the crowd, I make my way back to the CBS booth and con my way inside. On Mark Siegel's private hotline, I place the call to the White House. My father, having heard Mondale's speech, is just about to turn in.

"Well?" I ask.

"On or off the record?" he responds. Dad has caught on quick to my new line of work.

"OK, off."

His answer is both funny and unprintable. Now I know what it's like to be a reporter with a hot quote he can't use.

Back in the Railroad Lounge, Jimmy Breslin is chewing the end off a cigar and telling me about an incident of the night before. Riding in a van, part of an official motorcade headed for the convention, Breslin saw his vehicle fall out of line. No big deal, he figured; we'll just catch up. A motorcycle cop, taking the van for an uninvited intruder, had other ideas. Pulling his revolver, he threatened to blow the driver's head off. Breslin gives every indication of longing to track down the cop and administer his own style of corporal punishment. Me, I'm used to edgy security guys.

The Ranger and I walk up and out of the Moscone Center into the evening air. The show is over, and the fog, notably absent for days, is now rushing over the hills from the sea. We have one last stop to make: the Washington Square Bar & Grill. The Washbag, as it's known to familiar patrons, has long been a hangout for the upper crust of political journalists. Tonight, they'll be there for a final blast.

The scene outside the restaurant is unremittingly bizarre. A crowd of about 100 people, gripped by celebrity fever, has gathered outside, noses pressed to the windows. Inside, Walter Cronkite, George F. Will and Art Buchwald, to name a few, are trying to eat without succumbing to stage fright. It's hard to tell if anyone in the Washbag is actually enjoying being treated like performing goldfish. Lesser lights, seated against the windows, have a nervous, hunted look. Why would anyone subject himself to such madness? The Ranger and I come up with a black-hole theory of fame. Once the number of celebrities in a given place reaches critical mass, a magnetic force is generated, pulling in other celebrities. Nothing else can explain the strangeness at the Washington Square Bar & Grill.

We're packing it in early, heading back to the Manx along now-familiar avenues. "Well," asks the Ranger, "what did you think of all this?"

"Fun," I reply. "More so than I'd expected."

"Think you'd like to do it again?" he continues.

I shake my head. "Not likely. I can see why they're only held once every four years."

I'm suddenly seized with an undeniable need to relieve myself. Not one to habitually pee on public streets, I can nevertheless recognize an emergency. Fortunately, there's a dark alley handy. Buttoning up my Levi's, I become aware of another presence nearby.

"Psst!" Oh, great: "Reagan's son arrested for indecent exposure." "Psst!"

Turning around, I see a man half hidden behind some trash cans, a Playboy insignia barely visible on his blazer pocket. Christ, they're worse than the CIA.

"What do you want?" My hands are balling into fists.

"I was just wondering," he purrs, teeth gleaming in the dark, "have you ever been to Dallas?"

"We need passes that will get us anywhere, any time. It's time to call in some chips."

"Every hour's TV programing leads off with a music video called "Rap Master Ronnie."