We are halfway through the Democratic National Convention right now, and while Kamala Harris’s newly minted army of online myrmidons may feel like their souls are soaring, mine is positively snoring. The journey has been long and hard, my friends, two days already packed with interminable boredom and contentless gruel — in the words of Kevin Killeen describing February in St. Louis, “the expedition is getting desperate; people are throwing things aside.” Both Michelle and Barack Obama spoke last night — to a palpably delirious reception by the crowd in the United Center — but the main takeaway, if any, from Tuesday is probably going to be Lil Jon rapping “Turn Down for What?” as he delivered Georgia’s delegates to the Harris campaign during the formal roll call. (It even raised a smile from me.)
In other words, the DNC has proven to be a low-energy affair to date, devoid even of protester anger. (Tim Walz is speaking tonight, so I’ll be attending dressed up as a surgically implanted IVF embryo making another case about “stolen valor.”) Everybody’s happy to be there, for sure — the 2020 convention was essentially canceled due to Covid, so for many Democratic operatives, it’s the first time they’ve been able to meet up in nearly a decade. The contrast between the social energy in the arena versus the product going out over the airwaves can’t help but put one in mind of the second half of a delirious drug trip — the bad half, the terrible descent after the approaching crest of the roller coaster where all the fun is in getting up high.
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