CLEVELAND, Ohio—Did you hear what John Kasich said yesterday? Of course you didn’t. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that during the primary campaign I was kinder to the governor of Ohio than any other journalist in this country. I love his dorky suburban dad persona: the lame jokes, the "aw shucks" calls for everybody to get along, the no-nonsense attitude about dope, the hugs—all of it. But even I see that something is wrong when hundreds of people wait for over an hour in the merciless Cleveland heat to watch Kasich give a short uninteresting speech at the Rock and Roll of Fame in full knowledge of the fact that he would not be taking questions, about Trump or any other subject. I spent a good chunk of my day being broiled in that line in the hope of asking what his favorite Pink Floyd album is.
This is what happens when there is nothing for the media to do. There are too many journalists in this city and not enough things to cover. On Tuesday morning the convention center seemed deserted. Over at the Media Row filing center a Nintendo was set up. A friend of mine says that one reporter played it for something like two hours. I suspect that by now many of the thousands of people staying far away in places like Akron and Oberlin and Richfield have decided to stay in their hotel rooms and cover the convention via TV. There are "events," of course: receptions where, with the right contact, you can drink for free and get material for a 300-word piece about what Rep. Blue Blazer McEntrepreneurship said about the state of American opportunity in 2016, and plenty of people will jump at the chance. What else can they do? The Cleveland protest angle continues to be a nonstarter. More than $50 million has been spent on security for the convention. Yesterday white supremacists are said to have tossed urine at Black Lives Matter protestors—or was it the other way around? Either way, this is the closest thing to a riot that has happened all week, and I suspect that the people who arrived on Sunday licking their lips at the prospect of arrests and shootings and arson will remain disappointed.
Speaking of disappointment, I am ashamed to admit that my attempt to consume nothing but champagne, cigarettes, and coffee for the rest of the convention lasted around eight hours. On the way to Kasich’s speech yesterday I stopped at the Winking Lizard with two colleagues. I told the waitress I was on a very restrictive diet and asked if they had any non-carbonation-method sparkling wine. When she said no, my colleague suggested I substitute Miller High Life, the Champagne of Beers. He also pressed upon me the fact that there was no way I would survive the rest of the day in the heat without solid food. Did they have caviar, which, like cocaine, is also allowed under the rules of my diet, at this Chili’s-style casual dining chain? The answer was no. I ended up with chicken tenders and fries because we were pressed for time. For what it’s worth, I blame Cleveland here, not myself.
In a previous dispatch in this series I committed the journalistic equivalent of mortal sin, namely, talking about my cab ride. I’m afraid I have to succumb to temptation again to tell you about Sammy, my Uber driver on Tuesday afternoon. Here is the text message sent to my colleague just before we were picked up. "Hi this is the driver I’m at 9th and Lakeside please make yourself very obvious I’m in a green cube with a black bra on coming down 9th Street and I’m at Lakeside thanks what are you." It will astonish you to learn that this note—we only noticed the existential implications of the last question hours later—was the least bizarre thing about Sammy, who turned out to be wearing a grey t-shirt rather than ladies’ underwear. (The "bra" he was referring to was a black leather cover on the hood of his car.) Sammy is probably the most dangerous professional driver I have ever taken a ride with. We narrowly avoided three collisions and were forced to take the business of navigation into our own hands. "Don’t miss your turn, Sammy," Sammy would mutter to himself as he whipped his little Nissan into a left-hand turn through a stop sign, forcing the driver with the right of way to slam on his brakes. Sammy also told us that, while he was not a Cleveland resident, he sang the National Anthem at the first game when the new Indians stadium opened. Maybe Tom Friedman has been unfairly mocked. You really do meet extraordinary people in cabs.
Some of you will have heard that Milo Yiannopoulos hosted a shindig last night that was billed as "the most fab party at the RNC." Let me be the first to report that there was absolutely nothing fabulous about it. Never mind the crowd: I really didn’t mind standing behind Peter Brimelow in line for 15 minutes or listening to Robert Stacy McCain say—glowingly—that our host was "Sam Francis reincarnated as a gay British aristocrat." Neither of them cared that I smoked, which is more than you can say for the average upper-middle-class white liberal walking down M Street in Georgetown. I could even stomach the gigantic prints of Milo and friends in states of undress that ranged from very partial to full. The worst thing was the bar. In a little room filled with round white tables that reminded me of an Elks Club Ladies Auxiliary reception we were given a choice between Barefoot Pinot Grigio and a red from the same vintner—if I can use that word—that I did not bother trying. Everyone was given two free drink tickets; after that, the disgusting beverage, which was served from those hideous mini bottles at room temperature, was something like six dollars a pop. I have been presented with better wine selections at dive bars in towns with populations of 600. If this faux-woke trolling is how white supremacy is breaking into the mainstream of the GOP, I think we can all rest a bit easier. In the meantime let us take our cues from the British Parliament and deny Yiannopoulos entry to this country.
After leaving Milo’s, I called an Uber with colleagues, one of whom had been with me earlier in the day. Once again our driver was Sammy, who informed us that he had taken a nap. He missed only one right turn on our way back to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, probably because I pulled up the directions on my phone and coached him through the route. The drinks at the Third Eye Blind concert put on by the Recording Industry Association of America were better than at the earlier party and totally free. I am on record calling Third Eye Blind the worst band of the ’90s and spent most of the show looking at Cheap Trick memorabilia downstairs in the museum and supplying cigarettes to College Republican bros outside. No one should be surprised that Third Eye Blind behaved like ungrateful dorks: This was their only shot at (probably not very much) money and relevance. Dinosaur Jr. and other great acts from that decade still play sold-out shows at cool venues. Can we ask them to play in 2020?
On a positive note I am pleased to announce that, like the sheeted dead ere the mighty Julius fell, my Twitter account has risen from the grave and that, per my wife this morning, our next child will be a girl. In other news: I will probably be on a riverboat with Newt Gingrich this afternoon. I should find some sunblock.