Delegates and Conventions

by Burton S. Blumert

Delegates to political conventions rank amongst the lower forms of animal life. They are mindless adherents who fit Lenin’s description of movement followers as "the swamp." They know nothing of the struggles around them, and are never part of the true decision process. They are viewed with contempt by the real party operatives, who keep them at arm’s length except when soliciting their labor.

In real world political conventions, the delegates, aside from the prestige they feel at winning the assignment, are rewarded with gifts, favors, celebrities, and – best of all – sumptuous parties.

All that is required of the delegate is that they follow orders and bring an ample supply of adulation to the combination revival meeting and rock concert they call a convention. In this environment, the delegate, like a moth to flame, seeks out every TV camera. Unfortunately, they are generally uglier than the population at large.

All of the above was true for the Reform Party delegates at the recent presidential nominating convention in Long Beach except that gifts, favors, celebrities, and sumptuous parties were missing. Still, the Buchanan delegates brought plenty of adulation for the candidate.

With hardly a whimper, the patient Buchanan delegates endured the entire first day of the convention jammed together, first in the vestibule outside the main hall and then in different rooms awaiting delegate certification. The air was foul as the air conditioner succumbed to the torrid heat outside. Without full comprehension, these worthies knew that their suffering was related to the presence of the "rival faction."

One sad soul described the ten hours as being in one of "Dante’s lower circles of Hell."

As a Buchanan delegate from California, I marched in lockstep understanding the need for the painstaking care as the courts or the FEC were likely to review the proceedings.

Much of day two was devoted to the one-sided parliamentary struggle between the Buchananites and their triangle of enemies. Finally, with all secure, it was time for the convention program

Snapshots and Soundbites

Prior to Buchanan’s nomination, and the four "keynote" endorsers, the program could not have been more dismal. My personal low point was the appearance of "Granny D." Granny is the nonagenarian who trekked across the country promoting campaign finance reform.

That seemed safe enough, but she used her 70 minutes (!) of prime time to harangue us all with a commie interpretation of the history of the reform and progressive movements in the United States.

After forty-five minutes she began to extol the greatness of the evil Teddy Roosevelt, and how he smashed uncontrolled corporate power. I broke ranks.

"Put the commie back on the highway," I mumbled.

It got worse. She was mouthing every socialist platitude. By now, out of control, I rose, fist in the air, shouting: "Throw this old windbag out."

Just as I seemed to be gaining support from the California delegation, other delegates physically subdued me as the California state chairman muttered through clenched teeth, "Don’t create a scene. The C-SPAN cameras are covering everything."

As they pinned me to the ground, I relished the headline that might have been: "Buchanan delegate beats up 90-year-old woman."

Overheard in the Pennsylvania delegation:

"Which one is Justin Raimondo?"

"He’s standing to the right of the podium."

"Good lord, he looks like Madeline Albright."

"No, no, that's a convention clerk. Justin is the nice looking, slim fellow next to her."

Poor Justin. His anti-war, pro-Pat speech was a barnburner. As he neared the crescendo that would have pushed the delegates to frenzy, convention chairman Gerry Moan frog-marched him from the podium.

Why was Justin yanked? Theories abound, but my insider says that a KLA operative disguised as an ex-journalist issued the order.

In the hotel elevator, I found myself with a fellow delegate laden with "Go Pat Go" buttons and pitchfork.

Cowering in the elevator’s corner was a Natural Law Party devotee clearly attempting to put the pitchfork in transcendental terms.

"Hah!" I shouted to the miserable, terrorized clump. "What do you say about Pat’s bold move in selecting a black woman as his VP?"

"Your Buchanan is a repressed slave master," he hissed.

"Huh?" was my best response.

"He covets our black women. First Lenora Fulani, now Ezola Foster, and maybe Maxine Waters next."

And from the Buchanan Brigadier, the burning question: "If Pat dies, and she’s president, where will her loyalties be if we have a crisis with an African country?"

"This is my floor fellas," I said, "See you later."

Kudos to Gerry Moan. He remained affable throughout the most difficult circumstances, and his impersonation of Jackie Gleason was the best I’d ever seen.

Two out of every three delegates seem to have a cellular phone. This explained how they stay informed, in contact with someone watching C-SPAN.

Finally, I am pleased to report that Pat was sensational. He looked rested and tanned (after all, he wasn’t in the hall with us!). And he was never more eloquent. Ezola and her husband, both beautifully attired, will return elegance to Washington.

I am certain of these final snapshots, as I left the swamp on Saturday and watched the convention's last day on C-SPAN."

August 17, 2000

Burt Blumert is owner of Camino Coins, president of the Center for Libertarian Studies, and publisher of LewRockwell.com.