Convention Time Without Pickles

The Flying Dragon is bringing back some great concessions.  They have a clever song that's played at intermission about "concession time"  and how they all sorts of stuff but no pickles.  Ah, but they do!  They have a big jar of pickles at the concession stand, and they are surprisingly popular.  I wouldn't want one, at least as a theater treat.  But some people do.  some people really like them.

I love political conventions.  I have since 1968, when I was 13 and would listen with paper and pencil in hand, a list of handwritten states before, and excitedly record each state vote that occurred.  I loved tracking the votes, the percentages, anticipating any twists and turns.  The speeches were dramatic and colorful, with some people cheering and some people booing.  There were even floor fights over the platform or the rules of the convention itself.  These votes?  They were my pickle.  It is what I looked forward to.

By 1972, the Republicans had learned the lesson about conventions.  They had it organized and controlled and all the very life drained out of it.  On the roll call vote for President, all the votes were for Richard Nixon, except for one lone vote from one delegate in New Hampshire.  Another candidate had secured one vote in the New Hampshire primary, and by state law he could not be released.  When it came the time in the roll call for New Hampshire to vote, the representative from that state spent a good ten minutes abjectly apologizing for that one vote.  It sickened me.  What an anti-democratic display.

For the 1972 Democratic convention, the Democrats behaved like Democrats, thank God!  They squabbled and fought over everything.  George McGovern did not give his acceptance speech until 3 in the morning.

As time passed, political conventions grew more and more lifeless.  Any sign of conflict was viewed negatively and snuffed out as quickly as possible.  They became extended campaign commercials.  The parties would do anything, ANYTHING, to avoid a brokered convention.  Even accept weak candidates like Mitt Romney just to avoid the appearance of conflict.

But like Charlie Brown anticipating kicking the football that Lucy held, that this time it would be different, that this time she would not snatch it away, I kept hoping that by some fluke one of the conventions would be exciting and meaningful.  I still feel like a brokered convention would actually be a good thing, a good process for the parties and the people to go through.  I think 2008's close race between Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton actually helped galvanize the party and inspire interest.

But now, I realize that the age of pickles at the conventions are gone.  And for the first time in my life, I feel no joy or interest in either of the political conventions that are headed our way.  I got better things to do than watch a week long infomercial.  Even for the best President of the modern era, Barack Obama.

I miss the pickles.