Thursday, September 02, 2004
Getting Drunk with the GOP
You party with the Republicans so I won’t have to.
Tuesday, 6:00PM. Gotham Hall. There’s almost as much security outside Gotham Hall as Madison Square Garden. To get in you need to be on the list, present a photo i.d. and an invitation, which is then exchanged for a faux-convention credential thingy on a lanyard--those ugly things that all the journalists have dangling in front of their bellies. Then you get the radioactive wand treatment. All this security takes time, and the delay creates a huge line that snakes down thirty-fifth street from Broadway to Sixth Avenue. The whole project seems pretty ridiculous, especially when you catch sight of eighty year old right wing betty, Phillis Schlafly getting searched for dangerous weapons.
The kid in front of you in line looks like he landed in New York City straight from the cast of Bob Roberts. He’s worried that the protestors across the street might attack at any moment. But the kids across the street don’t seem the type. They’re skinny and probably just having fun before classes start at NYU. One of them unfurls a bed sheet with the words “Free John Hinckley” scrawled in spray-paint. Now you’re worried that the guests might attack the protestors. After all, this party is honoring Michael Reagan, who one Republican will later tell you is “the good son.”
The rule for these things is you go straight to bar. No talking to anyone without a drink in your hand. And if it’s a cash bar, you walk right out. Fortuntely, it’s free. There’s no Jameson’s, so you drink scotch and take in the room. A very skinny Ann Coulter dressed in what appears to be a tiny, black band-aid is chatting with G. Gordon Liddy. The editor of the New Republic is ambling about nervously, and the editor of National Review seems suspiciously sober. Grover Norquist is parading around with a dusky beauty you later learn is his wife. Karl Rove appears and announces there are only 63-days to the election, and says something else which you don’t listen to because you’ve been distracted by a red-head (un)dressed in some sort of bodice that laces up the back and squeezes things together nicely in the front. Unfortunatley, it is not Wonkette, which means that playboy posing Bonkette is probably not hear either.
[More of the same from the boys at Page Six]
Tuesday, 6:00PM. Gotham Hall. There’s almost as much security outside Gotham Hall as Madison Square Garden. To get in you need to be on the list, present a photo i.d. and an invitation, which is then exchanged for a faux-convention credential thingy on a lanyard--those ugly things that all the journalists have dangling in front of their bellies. Then you get the radioactive wand treatment. All this security takes time, and the delay creates a huge line that snakes down thirty-fifth street from Broadway to Sixth Avenue. The whole project seems pretty ridiculous, especially when you catch sight of eighty year old right wing betty, Phillis Schlafly getting searched for dangerous weapons.
The kid in front of you in line looks like he landed in New York City straight from the cast of Bob Roberts. He’s worried that the protestors across the street might attack at any moment. But the kids across the street don’t seem the type. They’re skinny and probably just having fun before classes start at NYU. One of them unfurls a bed sheet with the words “Free John Hinckley” scrawled in spray-paint. Now you’re worried that the guests might attack the protestors. After all, this party is honoring Michael Reagan, who one Republican will later tell you is “the good son.”
The rule for these things is you go straight to bar. No talking to anyone without a drink in your hand. And if it’s a cash bar, you walk right out. Fortuntely, it’s free. There’s no Jameson’s, so you drink scotch and take in the room. A very skinny Ann Coulter dressed in what appears to be a tiny, black band-aid is chatting with G. Gordon Liddy. The editor of the New Republic is ambling about nervously, and the editor of National Review seems suspiciously sober. Grover Norquist is parading around with a dusky beauty you later learn is his wife. Karl Rove appears and announces there are only 63-days to the election, and says something else which you don’t listen to because you’ve been distracted by a red-head (un)dressed in some sort of bodice that laces up the back and squeezes things together nicely in the front. Unfortunatley, it is not Wonkette, which means that playboy posing Bonkette is probably not hear either.
[More of the same from the boys at Page Six]
