A few words about the Republican National Convention, or it's alternative title: Women with big hair and the men in white shoes who love them.
"White" certainly was the operable word in Tampa. I had to feel bad for the one black guy the networks kept cutting to during all the speeches. They tried everything to make him look like a crowd. Different camera angles. He probably had his own wardrobe assistant suggesting: "Put on the cowboy hat now!" and "Try the handlebar mustache! You know this poor guy had to be some prairie state legislator's driver.
The G.O.P. calls itself the "Big Tent" party, but after listening to them for three long days, it sounds like a lot of us are going to have to enter that tent through the servants' flap.
You've got to love political conventions. They're like professional wrestling: sure you know how they're going to turn out, but every few years, it's fun to watch. Could have used more body slams into the turn buckle though.
I'm pretty sure a lot of people are going to go home with a serious case of red, white, and blue poisoning. I don't know why they bother holding these circuses, since the whole shebang could be conducted at a Denny's over a Grand Slam breakfast while Mitt introduces Paul to a single, lock-down pool camera. They are to spontenaeity what Truman Capote was to mule skinning. Shiny, smooth, and seamless, like spending a three-day leave of absence with a Ken doll.
But now it's on to Charlotte, where the Democrats will perform the same damn dance with a different spin: spinning to the left, twirling to the right. At least the Democrats won't have to worry about dodging a hurricane, but scattered thunder showers are predicted for the entire duration of their carefully orchestrated boogie-down. Charlotte and Tampa in the dead of summer – and these are our great political minds at work. No wonder the economy sucks!
The opinions of Will Durst do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Crosscurrents.
