Black Republicans

There are more than we think, they tell me, but as far as I can tell (and as hard as teams of journalists search), they are not to be found.

I spoke with a black conservative blogger last night who told me despite her best efforts she hasn't been able to find a single black delegate.

Officially, there are 36 black delegates, close to 80% less than in 2004. But a lot of these folks are from Mississippi or Louisiana and were rushed home to take care of Hurricane Gustav (as everyone else is evacuating, it was thought Republicans needed to be de-evacuated and re-evacuated)---this means the Republican party is looking even more lily-white than its already white-washed self.

This is not to say there are not black people here at the convention---there are 15,000 members of the media in town after all---but as far as official Republicans there has been an all out desertion.

I've spent the week trying to prove this obvious fact wrong, speaking to plenty of people at parties and functions, talking to folks on the streets of St. Paul and Minneapolis. But every single time I meet a black person here they're either on staff with a non-profit, working for the media, or just there for the party like us.

Last night we finally did succeed and met what appeared to be a black man who was indeed a Republican. He said he was with the RNCC Outreach committee---his job was to reach out to "ethnic minorities" and pull in the "Arabs, Koreans, and African-Americans" by focusing on safe neighborhoods and school choice.

From the ubiquitous Obama stickers, pins, T-shirts, and folk art I've seen this week, and the energy and enthusiasm for Obama's historic candidacy, Republicans won't even be able to get black votes by co-opting socially conservative black churches as Bush spent millions doing in 2004.

There's a much better chance that John McCain will even surpass Barry Goldwater's record of receiving the smallest percent of the black vote in the history of American politics(Goldwater received 6% of the vote in the 1964 election).

Minneapolis

We are here in Minneapolis, adjusting to the wetter, more humid climate.

This is a grittier and grimier city, more chaotic, less planned than Denver. I love it already.

My first foray was in the Warehouse district at the end of the light rail at 10pm on Sunday night---jam packed with the clubbers and scenesters and go go girls and boys.

My second foray was waiting for the bus just North of town, next to a mosque which was across the street from a public housing project watching people drink liquor and smoke dope at 10am.

My third foray was near the hostel, in little Vietnam where there are more Pho joints than you can shake a stick at.

Delightful and easy, a city of layers, a place whose energy and cacophony and homeliness and neighborhoods are made visible, made more pronounced, by the ostentatious black cars and suits and blondes brought here by the Republicans.

The Friendliest People in the World

It has been said many a time on this trip that Coloradans are through and through, by and by, the most consistently friendly people we have ever met.

I'm sitting here at the coffee shop discussing school debt and downtown revitalization with the barista. I just met a nice man named Wolfgang who told me about the weirdness of his parents and the strange, arbitrary series of events that led to his naming. Last night a woman in Boulder spent 10 minutes giving us directions and a man on house arrest (for marijuana distribution) spent an hour on top of a mountain ridge reminiscing about life, politics, and travel. We've had conversations with people on the street and in elevators, while walking on the highway, with cab drivers and caterers.

But still, Coloradans are damn nice people. We've met caterers and videographers who in between serving us hor d'ouevres and videotaping our partying offered us tours of the city, nights out on the town, and hidden hiking spots in the mountains. We've smoked pot with folks in our neighborhood and met people from Mississippi and the Phillipines and New York who have moved here. We've wandered the city with a woman we met while hiking back from Mile High Stadium and brought break dancers to delegation parties where they immediately took center stage (one of them grinding up with Rep. GK Butterfield).

Wherever we go, people are welcoming and exceedingly kind. A man offered me his ticket on the light rail so I didn't have to get out of the train and purchase one. A cab driver drove us across town and without reason told us we didn't owe him any fare. We met DJs on the street who put us on a guest list. The folks at the grocery store engaged with us in long conversation. The cops laughed and joked with us and clerks in hotels were ready to meet our every need even though we had no business there.

I'll miss it and hope to go back soon.

Nice to see Esse Quam after a couple months, and Patrick after nearly two years.

We experienced queues tonight like we never did in Boston four years ago. I felt like I was at CMJ again, waiting in long lines to claim to be on the guest list for an event of unknown quality.

We failed in getting into the GQ party, which although it wasn't a salute to Gavin Newsom this time, seemed like fun.

Planned Parenthood, our welcome in Boston, was not so fruitful this time around. Esse Quam conned a media ticket to their party at the Samba Room and managed five helpings before the bar ceased to be free. But Patrick and I drew first blood at the Nevada and Iowa delegations' party at the Marriott. I snapped up some hors d'oeuvres, and the concierge set us up with a free round at the Rock Bottom brewery across the street.

We resolved to head home as Esse Quam left the Samba Room, but it wasn't to be. We wandered up to some gated party with a band that may not have even been convention-related. Esse Quam was really silly by this point, and he wisely attempted entry by racing in past a bouncer, who shoved him out and scolded him: "I cannot have that."

Plan B was climbing the wrought iron fence, but he couldn't get over it. Eventually we got in through the front door. Once inside, after much debate over whether Patrick and I would bail him out lest he attempt a skinny dip in the fountain, Esse Quam and I enjoyed a game of "Robin, you point at a person, and then I'll talk to them."

Somehow, things got weird on the way out and we came close to a fight with some Denver residents. Their party was two dark-dressed guys who were eager to throw punches, a conciliatory blonde who tried to keep her pals at bay, and a green-sundressed, homophobic girl, who became the second woman who has spit on me.

Everyone's home safely and had a good time. Tomorrow looks great.

Tomorrow

It's the eve before and we are preparing for a week of tomfoolery, free food, and touching of VIP bodies.

Stay tuned.