The promise Nevada demonstrated just seven weeks ago during its January caucuses was faint, but it was the best Ron Paul supporters had at the time. Paul earned his best victory – second place – with 13 percent of the straw vote, just shy of Mitt Romney's 51 percent.
While McCain garnered enough straw votes for third, in my precinct the mood was much different. There was no buzz about the neighboring desert-dwelling U.S. Senator from Arizona. His campaign was nonexistent; he was just another white-haired, pro-war, pro-anything far-from-free Republican. Of the 36 folks participating in my precinct, three supported John and, while delegates are nonbinding in Nevada, zero were interested enough to move on to the Clark County Convention in support of him.
Fast forward to Saturday's county convention at the Orleans hotel-casino in Las Vegas. The place was wall-to-wall with sheep-like creatures moving about, offering robot-like responses to whatever the hour's man on the microphone said about Democrats, McCain or anything else supposedly party-line divisive.
Speaker after speaker, with party business sprinkled in between, each politician provided the same old maddeningly non-specific porridge you'd receive in North Platte, Nebraska and Guthrie, Oklahoma. From Rep. Jon Porter assuring the audience that McCain is the man for the job, to our governor and former Congressman Jim Gibbons saying, "We owe it to our troops to make John McCain president," the crowd scarfed down every one-liner with the same gusto they did in 2003 for war in Iraq.
Two days before the convention, a colleague and I, both delegates in support of Ron Paul, drove to the rundown strip mall where county party headquarters is located. That Thursday served as the final day for conventioneers to pay the $25 registration fee or be subject to an additional $10 for the convenience of waiting in longer lines at the Orleans. Inside sat three weathered volunteers with no visible indication of customer-service training or even minimum-wage employment.
"You need something?" one lady asked in a hurry.
Like every other unfamiliar face entering their doors in mass that day (not to mention the weeks leading up to), I informed her we were there to register for Saturday's event.
The volunteer checked for my name on a list that was prepared by another volunteer. I was not noted. Suspicious that I might be a Democrat when I did not have my "sheet" from the January caucuses to prove I'm a Republican delegate, she directed me three feet to my left to another (and much older) volunteer.
After multiple agonizing attempts to enter my name into the county database, the volunteer laughingly told me that he's "not very good with computers" to lighten the mood. At least it calmed my curiosity as to whether or not the prestigious Republican Party extensively tested this volunteer to determine his computer-competency level to verify voter registration.
Long story short, I called the country registrar and confirmed my party affiliation and government approval to participate in this bizarre circus.
Meanwhile, my colleague left headquarters to run to a neighborhood casino and find an ATM. Apparently, the Republican Party does not accept plastic. Instead, they serve as one of the few remaining venues where you won't see a sign reading: "We do not accept personal checks."
The next step? Return the following day to pick up our convention packets.
When I did, headquarters fortunately had my name on a volunteer-produced list, but forgot to print my nametag, which is a requirement for access to the convention. "Go stand in that line over there," a volunteer instructed.
It was the only line, and a lengthy one, too. It led to a room with a single volunteer looking up and confirming that each person in line was a verified member of the Republican Party before handwriting our names, voter registration numbers and commission districts on a tag. He used the same system that, the day before, could not identify me.
While waiting for my turn in this organized mess, I had the pleasure of standing behind a swollen-nosed Republican talking to his daughter about how America needs to send all terrorists and illegal aliens to "Paki land" then nuke it so we don't have to worry about them coming back here. Nine minutes without moving in line, I shared a few frustrating words with the process and left.
At 7:45 a.m. the day of the convention, things were about as different as one might expect when the powers that be insert the next pro-war candidate into the White House – my name was not on their list; I had to stand in longer lines; volunteers just did what they were told. When I finally received all of my material, more volunteers funneled me into a satellite room because the main ballroom was full.
One fire exit later, I was in the main ballroom. My colleague, though, was on his way out. Prior to the convention's 9 a.m. start, the party thought it would be worthwhile to hire half-star entertainment to humor the masses with elementary jokes and hair-gripping lyrics reworded to poke fun at Democrats. Between the Republican-recreated songs of oldies "Lollipop" and "The Twist," the pre-Internet era PowerPoint animations and Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonations, he had had enough. Two hours was way too long for his impatient kind.
I ignored the nonsense, for a while, by editing material and reading a book recently given to me: H. L. Mencken's Notes on Democracy. Mencken's first paragraph was entirely too appropriate an introduction (considering my environment) on the idea that the man at the bottom of the scale, "by some strange magic, becomes a sort of superiority."
And here we all were, hell-bent convinced that we have influence on party planks in a system hell-bent on ensuring we don't. Never mind the simple math of the process. Forget the idea of superdelegates, and even the Electoral College to further minimize the power of a single vote. The audience was so engaged and wide-eyed at the idea that they were involved in democracy that they ignored the fact their party doesn't care enough about them to even designate paid staff to handle the voter registration list. Every task related to the bottom-feeders of democracy involves a volunteer. When the big guns have to interact with "the bottom of the scale," even in neutral settings, a podium separates the two.
An hour later, I cashed out. More delegate seats were available than there were interested delegates. So, I was, by default, moving on to the state convention, where Silver Staters will narrow their "voice" to 34 people. The only thing different about the next step will be the brisk Reno air.
March 12, 2008
