Twelve Hours I Won't Ever Get Back

I arrived at 7:45am and didn’t realize I was about to experience the longest day of my life. In a high school auditorium. Surrounded by way too many opinionated people. Who smell like essential oils.

The El Paso County Democratic Convention took place this past Saturday in downtown Colorado Springs.

God help us. God help us all.

Big props to John Morris, Chair of El Paso County Democratic Party. He’s used to throwing this intimate gathering for about 200 of The Springs' most dedicated yet demoralized Democrats.

Over 1700 progressives showed up this year. Progressives who are sick of the nonsense, excited about the possibilities and quite ready to rock.

Oh yeah. They were a handful. (Wait until you see the video.)

Some were veterans of the various liberal movements in town, but most were new to the dance. They had a certain optimism most old-timers couldn’t help but envy. An optimism that was contagious. Although this was my first county convention in Colorado, I’d been involved in enough events back in Florida to understand the trepidation so many people experience when television cameras flash their lights and the microphones come out.

Is it safe to admit to being a Democrat?

Oh hell yes, this year it is.

After speeches given by the likes of Ken Salazar, Mark Udall, and Hal Bidlack – seriously boys, call me – the crowd settled in for a day of nominating committees, counting over a thousand hands in the air, and witnessing steady beratements toward everyone from a*holes in the back known as “Balcony Boobs.”

Balcony Boobs were worse than the Hillary Contingent – tough types ready to jump on Obama fans given the slightest provocation - because Balcony Boobs arrived late and got stuck in the cheap seats.

Seriously though, Hillary Contingent. Much love.

My favorite audience member was a retiree from Michigan who sat next to me knitting all morning before heading home after John Morris promised nine more hours of “Sir, I move to question” and “So motioned” and “Only a half-hour for lunch? That’s barely enough time for one cocktail!”

In my defense, I was thirsty.

During afternoon activities, I sat next to a nice guy who's kids are pumped about Obama, behind a fun South Carolina activist who didn't hate me because I'd guessed Georgia, and in front of rowdy women who made me laugh.

Could have been worse. Could have been stuck with the Balcony Boobs.

At the end of the evening, we all split up into our House Districts to elect delegates to the State Convention. Each hopeful had to give fifteen-second speeches before The Vote. Several got up and promised to represent the unrepresentable. One woman claimed to be disabled, a few bragged about their youth, and several were former Republicans who switched in time specifically because of Obama.

Even in our relatively small House District, people weren't playing around. You were to *sell yourself*. Tell them *why* you should be one of the few, the proud, the delegates.

Newbies who wanted to go to the State Convention looking for a date or a good time didn't get the votes needed. These people were motherf*ckin' serious. And you'd better be, too.

Then it was my turn. And for once, I didn’t know what the hell to say. So this came out of my mouth,

“I’ve been a precinct captain and active politically since Dukakis. That alone ought to get me the sympathy vote.”

Take that College Boy and Wheelchair Lady.

“As far as which group I represent, take your pick. Female. Vegetarian. Irish descent. Practicing Jew.”

Crickets.

Tough crowd.

“But do you like Guinness?” a guy asked.

“Free Guinness,” I said.

They voted me in.

Victorious, I sat down.

Then it hit me.

“Shit,” I said to the woman next to me. “I've got to do this all again in May.”

I could've sworn Wheelchair Lady laughed and College Boy shot me the bird.

But maybe they were just happy to get out of there.

I'll never know.

Until I see them in May.