PHILADELPHIA—We are in the midst of a crisis. As I sit down to file this, the phones and Internet are out not only at the Hampton Inn HQ but also at all nearby hotels. Have the power companies picked an inopportune time for maintenance, or is something more sinister afoot? The last news I saw was about my fellow Sanders supporters trying to burn down the AT&T subway station just outside the Wells Fargo Arena. Our man let us down at roll call today, and no one is sure where to go from here. Someone put it well the other day when he said that Sanders "fed us a bunch of Mountain Dew and now he wants us to go to bed."
Even plainer was the handmade sign I saw this afternoon that read "BERNIE SANDERS WAS NEVER GOING TO SHIT MAGIC FUCKING RAINBOWS."
We are also completely out of booze here, and more than once we have been told that it is no longer possible to purchase alcoholic beverages of any kind in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. At least the TV is still working: Jet Li is riding around on a motorcycle with a machine gun and stuff is exploding.
While I’m touching on official business, I should mention the fact that Mobile HQ has moved, effective as of Tuesday for the rest of the week, from Chili’s to the Fox and the Hound, a roomy sports bar on Spruce Street. An attempt was made there this morning to revive my model diet of champagne, coffee, and cigarettes. I asked once again what non-carbonation method sparkling wine was available—perhaps something in the prosecco line? The closest thing they had was Korbel Brut, well known to me from the 7-Eleven where I sometimes buy cartons of smokes and definitely not one of America’s premier examples of méthode traditionnelle. It was insisted that I go for it anyway. By noon I was two glasses in and feeling all right. Would I serve it to the Marquess of Salisbury? No. But it’s probably the best I’m going to do on short notice at an eatery named after a Disney film in a city whose culinary reputation rests exclusively upon an artificial-cheese-covered sandwich.
The coffee there in the early afternoon was at least fresh, which is better than can be said for the Cleveland Denny’s at 3:00 in the morning. I couldn’t stick around, though, because I had to attend a panel put on by the Atlantic about young women in politics featuring Alex Wagner, Amber Tamblyn, and other feminist luminaries. Despite my past support for the Democratic Women’s Leadership Forum, I found the 10:1 female-to-male ratio slightly intimidating, especially when I found myself at the door with no purse to be searched. Still, my colleague and I had a swell time. I had a glass of red wine, four Stellas, a chicken skewer, a soft pretzel, a sausage roll, and a large stack of sesame seed crackers. Any guesses what was on the playlist? Yes, "Survivor." Yes, "Girl on Fire." Yes, "Brave." Yes—alas—"Fight Song." When the talk started, Wagner reminded us that drinks would continue to be served after the panel discussion. "Get your wine on!" she said. I had every intention of doing this, but first I had to ask a question, which meant waiting for half an hour’s worth of very heavy stuff about intersectionality and transwomen and the data showing why nonwhite women voted for Sanders instead of Clinton. They only called on two of us. I can’t remember the first question, but mine was about transwomen’s health and reproductive rights—specifically, were they being denied them? Surely the fact they were arbitrarily born sexually heterogametic with male genitalia should play no factor in determining whether they are allowed to have abortions.
The answers were over my head. "All advocacy begins with elevated consciousness," said Ayanna Pressley of Boston. When I asked more plainly whether anyone was trying to prevent transwomen from having abortions she was stumped. "You got me on that one." Tamblyn, who said that she didn’t "know any statistics on that," wasn’t much help either, though she was kind enough to add that "for me as a heterosexual white woman to talk about reproductive rights and sit on the board of directors for Planned Parenthood, I have to not just talk about my people." Amen to that, sister! But I still have no idea whether any constituency is actively working to prevent Bradley Manning or Bruce Jenner from accessing women’s health care, which is pretty depressing.
After the panel concluded my colleague and I spotted a couple carting mimosas back to their table. At 5:35 p.m. this was surprising to say the least and also very heartening. "To be honest, brunch is a state of mind," one of the pair explained. When I asked whether they knew what sort of sparkling wine was used and whether they thought I could get some sans orange juice, they demurred. However, on the whole our conversation was pleasant. We explained that the Washington Free Beacon is a D.C. start-up with a strongly defined brand and a dedicated local following and encouraged them to check out the site. It was a victory for journalism and marketing.
Before long we decamped to the Hampton, where I napped for half an hour with a baseball cap over my head before heading over to Ruby Tuesday for dinner and what must have been a decent number of Miller Lites. The last of the hotel supply of beer was consumed poolside just after Bill Clinton’s rambling biographical speech. Slick Willie, my candidate of choice in the 1996 Nickelodeon Kids Pick the President election, has been many things over the years, but boring has rarely if ever been one of them. Last night was a rare and sad exception.
Oh well. At least the Internet is working again. A colleague has just fetched me some hot water, and I’ve fixed myself a nice relaxing cup of Swiss Miss.