Casual observers may think this year's Democratic party nomination fight was a dreary affair. After all, the whole business was effectively decided in March, almost five months before the nominating convention. The candidate generally considered the frontrunner at the beginning of the process emerged victorious. So where was the drama?
Political junkies know better. From the moment Al Gore decided not to run in December 2002 this was a rollercoaster ride. Moreover, the fact that it ended early was no accident; Terry McAuliffe, chairman of the Democratic National Committee, designed a schedule that would settle matters by spring, to avoid protracted bloodletting.
As happens every cycle, the initial field was divisible into two groups: those with a realistic shot at winning and those without a prayer. Some people get into these races for the hell of it, or out of a deluded sense that lightning might strike (it never does), or as a way of furthering a personal agenda. The Rev Al Sharpton was such a candidate, as were former senator Carol Mosley Braun, retiring senator Robert Graham, and Representative Dennis Kucinich.
Passions were running high among Democrats. It wasn't Bush's regressive tax cuts, or his opposition to gay marriage, or his perceived willingness to despoil the environment, or even his abrogation of international treaties that elevated the level of Democrat rage; these policies remained an extreme version of ideas the Republicans had been championing for a generation. What was seen as new, reckless and threatening to the American polity were Bush's theft of the 2000 election, his smudging of the line between church and state, his expressed contempt for foreign allies and for the UN, his attorney general's zeal in jailing suspected terrorists and foreign combatants without regard to due process, the systemic abuse of prisoners held in Afghanistan and Iraq, and the White House counsel's memos defending these practices. These were not merely controversial policies - they were viewed as an assault on constitutional norms, and provoked a different sort of opposition. The red thread running through everything, the single outrage that served as a synecdoche for this whole nexus of outrages, was the war in Iraq, with its trumped-up justification and inept execution.
Iraq was the elephant in the room during the early months of campaigning. The fringe candidates were fervid in their opposition to the war, but among the plausible candidates no one was willing to hazard unambiguous dissent. George W Bush's perceived popularity and the unquestioning support for the war in the broadcast media were too intimidating and gave the misleading sense of unanimous public approval; consequently the serious candidates all mouthed a version of "Me, too," or "Yes, but," on Iraq.
With one exception. There was a candidate whose campaign occupied the twilight zone between mainstream and fringe - Howard Dean, an obscure former governor of a small New England state. He was intelligent, he had a commanding public presence and his tenure in office was judged successful. He seemed destined to end up near the back of the pack. But then he decided to gamble everything on a single roll of the dice. He was probably motivated purely by conviction, but tough-minded calculation could have brought him to the same point. The only way to break through, to establish himself in the minds of voters, was to say something different from the other serious candidates. He chose to oppose the Iraq adventure in a startlingly forthright fashion. It is the kind of risk you take when you have nothing to lose.
The case he made was forceful and cogent. Dean and his inspired campaign manager, Joe Trippi, demonstrated that there was a huge bloc of Democrats waiting for someone to articulate their misgivings. With a deft use of the internet and an outspokenness rare in US politics, Dean found himself soaring in the polls and raising staggering amounts of money. By late 2003, his nomination was looking inevitable. (Around this time John Kerry's campaign was broke and his poll rating in single figures.)
It was a prospect that made Republicans salivate and gave traditional Democrats the vapours. Although nothing in Dean's record suggested radicalism, he was portrayed as an ardent leftist. Professionals of both parties saw him, rightly or wrongly, as a sacrificial lamb, a George McGovern, a Walter Mondale, a Michael Dukakis, a landslide loser.
Nevertheless, his Democrat opponents knew that however much better their own chances in a general election, Dean was a giant obstacle on their path to nomination. He had money, he was collecting high-powered endorsements and receiving media coverage to die for. And so the other candidates were forced to reassess political realities and re-evaluate their stance on the war. This often involved some graceless rhetorical gymnastics, but by January 2004, everyone in the race other than Joe Lieberman was an opponent of Bush's Iraq policy. The question was: was Dean's lead so large, the loyalty of his supporters so intense, the fortune he had amassed so great, that he could not be overtaken?
Complicating the calculus further was the late emergence of Wesley Clark. (Full disclosure: my wife was an adviser to the Clark campaign, and I served briefly as a pro bono speechwriter, travelling with him in New Hampshire in early December 2003.) Clark had not been a Democrat, but his beliefs were generally liberal, he was a war hero and a former Rhodes scholar, he was intelligent, and his opposition to the Iraqi adventure was long established. He chose not to compete in the first contest, the caucuses in Iowa - he had declared his candidacy too late - but instead entered the first primary, in New Hampshire.
It was a shrewd strategy. If, as was universally expected, Dean handily won Iowa, two developments were sure to follow: those who lost to him would find their standing tarnished, and panicky party honchos would start scrambling for a viable alternative. By campaigning unopposed in New Hampshire while the other candidates were camped out in Iowa, Clark hoped to establish himself as that viable alternative: an anti-war non-Dean positioned to pick up the pieces when Dean imploded. Clark's anti-war credentials were as convincing as Dean's, but unlike Dean, he could not be caricatured as a leftist, sandal-wearing former governor of a twee little yuppie enclave.
We will never know if it might have succeeded, because Dean, contrary to universal expectations, did not win Iowa. Buyers' remorse kicked in before the sale was made. The other candidates had modified their positions by now, rendering them more acceptable to anti-war Democrats. And partly because of Dean's campaign, partly because of events in Iraq itself, support for the war was diminishing across the country; Bush no longer seemed invulnerable. Iowa Democrats no longer saw themselves as registering a protest; they now knew they might be voting for a president. The man they turned to was the same man who had been designated the frontrunner before any campaigning had got under way: John Kerry, junior senator from Massachusetts.
Kerry is a Vietnam war hero, a serious man who had early on been identified within the party as papabile. His opposition to the Iraq war was about as muted as it could be - since he had voted to authorise it, he was not free to attack it with the same gusto as Dean - but his position was deemed adequate. That he held a nuanced position came as no surprise to those who knew his record. He had been a cautious politician for most of his Senate career. Perhaps because his roots were in the 1960s anti-war movement, because he came from liberal Massachusetts, and because he had stumbled during his first Senate term by appearing to embrace Daniel Ortega just before the latter flew to Moscow for aid, he may have felt the need to compensate by tacking to the centre. His wariness was frustrating to Democrats rabid in their anger at Bush, and it made Kerry vulnerable to charges that he was a "flip-flopper." But it also contributed to his appeal, since arguably moderation might make him more acceptable to the independents and undecideds who would determine the next president. Iowa's Democrats decided to ignore their misgivings and back him.
Dean did not even come second in Iowa; that place was taken by a little-known senator from North Carolina, John Edwards, whose charm and talent were becoming more evident with every passing day. In the ensuing primaries, with remarkable unanimity, Democratic voters followed the lead of their Iowa brethren. This is not how Democrats usually behave. Will Rogers once said, "When Democrats form a firing squad, they arrange themselves in a circle." The party is notorious for its scruffy fractiousness. Not in 2004. Democrats despised George W Bush with such focused passion that, possibly for the first time in its history, the party's core voters (no one else votes in primaries) gave up their cherished first choice to vote for the candidate they saw as most electable.
This final result might have been anticlimactic had it not been for Dean's early rise and fall, and the frantic repositioning that resulted from his presence in the race. The nomination itself might not have been worth much if Dean had not demonstrated the political profits of criticising Bush's truculent foreign policy. The party owes him a huge debt.
Sunday 25th July
I am flying from San Francisco to Boston for my third Democratic convention in a row. With luck, the oratory this time won't be as vapid as the last two. Vapidity was a luxury the country could afford in 1996 and 2000. The situation is different now; something serious is at stake. Chatting with the young man sitting next to me, I learn that he has no connection to the convention, but is flying home from holiday. He isn't indifferent to the politics in his midst. He says his parents are Republicans whose support for Bush is wavering, while he has recently become a Democrat, passionately opposed to the current administration.
What is an American political convention? It used to be a gathering of party activists assembled to adopt a platform and select a presidential ticket. Both were real endeavours. Until FDR hopped on a small plane to Chicago in 1932, the nominee didn't even show up. The nomination was the party's to bestow, and it was regarded as unseemly for anyone to seek it.
It has been over half a century since a convention nominated a candidate whose identity wasn't known weeks or even months in advance. Is the whole enterprise therefore a charade? People complain that political conventions are nothing more than television shows. Does this notion have merit?
No. It seems to me reasonable, every four years, for a party to assemble, to define itself, to choose its campaign themes, to present its candidate to voters. There is no question that the whole operation reeks of showbiz and stagecraft. But the hours of political blather on display at a convention have an authentic democratic purpose. They tell you how the parties intend to sell their candidates, and how the parties understand the country and its concerns. The whole business is at bottom a product launch, but that is why it is valuable. The product being launched is the next US president; the exercise is far from trivial.
On the other hand, given the new level of security concerns, the vast expense of a convention, the disruption to the host city and the appalling willingness of the major broadcast networks to ignore the entire thing anyway (about which more later), there is widespread speculation that the whole extravaganza will be jettisoned before the next presidential cycle. It is possible, as I sit in this aeroplane heading east, chatting with the newly minted young Democrat seated on my right, that I am heading towards history's last old-fashioned Democratic convention. For all the silliness, dreariness and good old American bullshit in view, I would be sorry if this proves to be the case.
Boston summers can be miserable - as this week will demonstrate - but it's a beautiful night tonight, crisp and balmy. My wife, Laura Tyson, who arrived several days before, is at some policy event or other - the kind of thing only a wonk could tolerate - so I have dinner with my friend Richard Cohen, a columnist for the Washington Post. It is always interesting to hear Richard's take on things; by inclination a liberal Democrat, he is nevertheless sufficiently sceptical about his own side that by the end of the electoral confusion in 2000 he declared in print that he thought George W Bush would make a better president than Al Gore. And he backed the Iraq invasion until this spring, when, in a series of candid, pained columns, he recanted.
Tonight at dinner he is in a thoughtful mood. He's been astonished and appalled by Bush's ideological rigidity; he has met the man and liked him personally, found him easy-going and tolerant, and was unprepared for the harsh character of his governance. And Richard feels that he was persuaded to support the Iraq war against his better judgement by a sustained campaign of lies. He is not convinced, however, that Kerry is a good enough campaigner, or a compelling enough character, to wrest the presidency from Bush. When I mention that I have never heard Kerry give a good speech, Richard is quick to agree. And when I add that some of Kerry's closest advisers and friends have insisted that he's capable of rising to whatever the occasion demands, Richard is unimpressed.
It is a sobering dinner. The country, according to all the polls, is divided right down the middle and the two sides are furious with one another. Is Richard right? Did our side, in its eagerness to close ranks as quickly as possible, buy a pig in a poke?
Monday 26th July
A pleasant run (insofar as a run can ever be pleasant) along the Charles river this morning. The weather is overcast but cool. I follow a route supplied to me in the hotel lobby by former Clinton adviser James Carville, a strange fellow but a reliable guide. His political advice is at least as good as his advice on jogging routes. I hope that he has Kerry's ear.
A couple of hours later, I am dismayed to learn that instead of granting credentials for the entire week in one go, the Democratic National Committee has chosen to issue new credentials daily. This necessitates a mile-long schlep to the same hotel every morning the convention is in session simply to secure one slender piece of green paper. What a pain.
Security is ubiquitous. There are groups of armed cops on almost every major street corner. I saw a police car speeding up Boylston Street this morning, its sirens blaring, with the words "Bomb Squad" on its side. That is enough to give you pause. Getting into the Fleet Centre in north Boston, where the convention is being held, turns out to be an ordeal. Very long lines of people move excruciatingly slowly through metal detectors, sometimes being frisked. During the Clinton administration, getting into the White House itself was easier than this.
Ordinarily, a convention opens with something called the keynote address, given by a rising star in the party (an interminable keynote address at the 1988 Democratic convention almost derailed Bill Clinton's career). This time, for some obscure reason, the address is scheduled for the second night. Tonight, the opening session has instead been designated presidential night, featuring two former Democratic presidents, Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton, and one should-have-been president, Al Gore.
The gossip swirling about these speeches is interesting. One bit of dish, trivial but titillating, concerns the Clintons. At first, Hillary wasn't scheduled to speak during the convention but merely to stand silently among other Democratic women senators while Barbara Mikulski of Maryland spoke for all of them. Heated protest and extensive discussion resulted - the Clintons are not shy about asserting their prerogatives - and eventually Hillary was granted a speaking role, ostensibly to introduce her husband. According to one rumour she was accorded two minutes. (A more anodyne version of the story has it that the Clintons were given an hour in toto, and could divide it as they chose.) Once at the microphone, Hillary spoke for 20 minutes, provoking apoplectic reactions among the convention organisers. Nevertheless, Bill finished his speech at 11pm precisely, demonstrating that he knew how long his wife's speech would last and shaped his remarks accordingly. Oh to have been a fly on the wall while that connubial compromise was being negotiated.
Another story, which I heard from a variety of sources, is more politically telling. All three speakers were eager to lambast George W Bush. But Bob Shrum, old hand and ex-employee of Edward Kennedy, who is controlling the convention for Kerry, has decreed that the evening's tone should be upbeat and positive, avoiding direct attacks on the president. Shrum's polling has shown that voters are offended by negativity. This strikes me as a self-defeating strategy when confronting a sitting president. His conduct of the office is the overriding issue before the country; all other issues are subsumed by it. Of course poll respondents claim to dislike political negativity; that is the the virtuous answer, equivalent to saying one disapproves of war or poverty. It doesn't mean listeners would reject a forceful explanation, if one were offered, of why Bush should be retired.
Nevertheless, that is the diktat. Jerry Rafshoon, communications director for Jimmy Carter during his presidency, was responsible for liaison between the Carter and Shrum offices, and he told me that Carter's speech draft was initially judged by Shrum's people as too harsh. While revising it, Rafshoon received a proposed alternative penned by someone in the Kerry operation. "It was complete pabulum," he told me. Working together from the original draft, Carter and Rafshoon softened the tone slightly, but retained much of the original thrust. "Carter doesn't usually get involved in partisan politics any more," Rafshoon explained to me. "The Carter Centre is bipartisan, so he tries to stay above the fray. But he travels a lot, and based on what he's heard about the damage Bush's foreign policy has done in the world, he's angry. It's been a disaster for human rights. If he can't talk about that, there's no reason for him to bother." Confronted with this take it or leave it approach, the organisers have compromised.
The Shrum-Kerry restrictions, although misguided, seem to have inspired an impressive degree of ingenuity, forcing Gore, Carter and Clinton to devise shrewd ways of camouflaging their assaults. For example, Al Gore - who had also been told to tone down his remarks - has reworked his speech so that it now raises a series of questions. Addressing those who voted for Bush in 2000, he says, "Is the country more united today?… Has the promise of compassionate conservatism been fulfilled?… Wouldn't we be safer with a president who didn't insist on confusing al Qaeda with Iraq?" And so on. You can almost imagine him, if someone from Shrum's office should object, protesting, "Hey, I was just asking."
It is a strong performance, and an almost unrecognisable Gore. My friend Chris Caldwell observes that because Gore had been given so little time, he had to talk fast, and was forced to "speak at the speed of his intelligence." The result was more energised and less smarmy than the Al Gore of countless parodies.
Jimmy Carter, his autonomy established, can be more direct. After describing the near-universal sympathy for the US after 9/11, he says, "But in just 34 months, we have watched as all this goodwill has been squandered by a virtually unbroken series of mistakes and miscalculations… the US has alienated its allies, dismayed its friends, and inadvertently gratified its enemies…" And in the most frequently quoted passage, he declares, "We cannot lead if our leaders mislead." Accusing Bush of lying is forbidden at this convention, but Carter has found a way around the proscription. He gives voice to the anger felt by almost all the delegates here. It is a better speech than any he delivered as president. Later that night, when I mention to Al Gore how effective Carter was, he agrees, and adds, "Carter's angry."
Much of Clinton's speech, hewing to the Shrum line, is a typically persuasive presentation of familiar Democratic themes. But Clinton too finds a way to attack Bush, by pointedly praising Kerry for qualities which Bush conspicuously lacks. "During the Vietnam war, many young men - including the current president, the vice-president, and me - could have gone to Vietnam and didn't. John Kerry came from a privileged background and could have avoided it too. Instead, he said 'send me.'" A little later, he states that Kerry possesses an "insatiable curiosity to understand the forces shaping our lives, and a willingness to hear the views even of those who disagree with him." And later still, he says, "Strength and wisdom are not conflicting values - they go hand in hand. John Kerry has both." James Carville, who later proudly claimed authorship, explained his handiwork: "Even his most fervent supporters wouldn't claim George Bush has wisdom."
Evenings like this are a reminder that in 19th-century America, political oratory was a form of popular entertainment. It is heady stuff, hearing former presidents rouse a huge crowd. We Democrats have felt like exiles in our own country for the past four years; tonight suggests that we are not as isolated as the media would have us believe. Is this an illusion? Well, that's what elections are designed to determine.
After the gavel comes down, my wife and I cross town to a party hosted by Al and Tipper Gore. The Clintons, said to be on bad terms with the Gores, put in an appearance and the two couples huddle with every appearance of amity. Al is upbeat, holding court on a patio outside the restaurant where the party is held, relishing the affection of well-wishers and delighting in the effect his speech has made. I keep hearing people exclaim to one another some variation of, "We're actually going to win!" It is hard to remain immune to this sort of optimism.
Tuesday 27th July
Or maybe not. This morning, National Public Radio leads with the latest ABC-Newsweek poll. Bush's approval rating has risen three points. Whoops. Presumably the polling was conducted before the convention began, but still… It is easy to forget that the convention is an echo chamber. We hear our fellow Democrats cheering and we think it is the country.
Another problem is the astonishing fact that the three major television networks have decided to broadcast, in aggregate, only three hours of the convention. Three hours! It is unbelievable but true that Al-Jazeera is covering this convention more extensively than the major American networks. The only speech broadcast last night was Bill Clinton's.
In a conference at Harvard's Shorenstein Centre held just before the convention, the network anchormen tried to have it both ways, declaring that they had pleaded with their bosses for more airtime, and then justifying the bosses' decision by pointing to other sources of information: cable outlets, online services as well as newspapers. This is indefensible bullshit. If, as in the past, the networks had provided gavel to gavel coverage (three hours a night for four nights), viewers might have watched about three hours of it. But by showing only three hours in all, they ensure that no one is likely to watch any of it. The networks are sending a message: don't bother tuning in, this isn't important. (The overnight ratings confirm this: almost no one is watching.)
The networks defend themselves further by saying that since there is no conflict at a convention, no real news is being made. This is beneath contempt. Once every four years, the world's only superpower selects its leader. At a crucial stage in the process, four days of television coverage does not seem excessive. And ignoring the party conventions favours the incumbent. The incumbent, after all, is a known quantity, his record is known, along with his personality and philosophy. When voters tell pollsters they don't know John Kerry, what they really mean is they haven't seen him on television much. This is why the convention is a crucial part of the electoral process.
My wife and I have breakfast with a small group of old Washington friends, former Clinton administration hands and one or two others. These are people we have rarely seen since we left Washington. Distressingly, there are three recently broken marriages represented at this table of eight people. It is well known that holding office puts a strain on families, but evidently no longer holding office is worse.
One of our number, a former congressman who knows the electoral map intimately, offers a stunning prediction: Kerry will win by a landslide, and the Senate and House of Representatives will go Democratic too. He is not normally a cockeyed optimist, this man, and he knows something about the efficacy of the Republican steamroller, being one of its victims. Despite his bona fides, it is hard to say whether more of us take heart from his confidence or entertain doubts about his sanity. It is not that he is alone in thinking a Kerry victory possible, but he is very much alone in claiming that electoral college arithmetic makes it all but inevitable. Most of us, although we express the thought in guarded language, are worried about Kerry's campaign skills, and distressed by his reluctance to confront Bush head on.
I expatiate upon this worry at lunch with Christopher Caldwell. Chris is a conservative Republican, but he isn't doctrinaire, and while we disagree about many things, it is always instructive to talk to him. My worry, I tell Chris, is that Kerry seems to have chosen an amoeba-style strategy: with Bush crushed so tight into the right-most edge of the political landscape, Kerry appears determined to ooze over every vacant inch. The logic is clear - why should he limit himself when there's so much political space available for occupancy? - but sometimes voters prefer a straight-talker with whom they disagree to someone without clear principles. The Bush campaign has already drawn blood by characterising Kerry as a "flip-flopper." Although this contradicts their other charge, that he is an out-of-touch Massachusetts liberal, it has a certain resonance. Kerry doesn't stay in focus. His determination to play nice during the convention reinforces that impression.
Chris is unexpectedly soothing; we are like rivals in love reassuring one another about each other's chances. Since Chris is a Massachusetts native, he has watched Kerry in action for decades. He tells me not to underestimate Kerry's intelligence or his political acumen. And, he adds, Kerry is a good "closer," someone who knows how to go for the jugular at the end of a contest when it counts. Chris doesn't exhibit the certainty of the former congressman, but he thinks the smart bet right now would be on Kerry, not Bush.
This is almost hilariously at odds with the opinion I hear tonight at dinner. My wife and I join a good friend, a financier who has known Kerry much of his life and who is now fundraising and advising the campaign. We are joined by another fundraiser. Both are grimly pessimistic. "The Republican attack machine is close to unbeatable," says the financier, "and they haven't even got into gear yet." When I protest that the first night of the convention went well, he counters, "No one's watching. The networks aren't covering it. No one cares. Kerry isn't going to get a bounce out of this convention. And then the other side will start in on him. They'll say he's a liberal flip-flopper, and how can he answer that?"
Dinner is good, but my appetite doesn't survive this conversation, despite the martini with which I begin. Some things even a martini can't inoculate against. Looking back on today's conversations - on the yo-yo of emotions as I talk to the optimists and pessimists, all so sure of themselves and their positions - I can see that this will be a stressful autumn.
Ron Reagan speaks tonight. The late president's son isn't as handsome as his father - his chin is weak rather than square - but he radiates a similar comfort in his own skin, and seems more intelligent. His speech isn't partisan, but a plea for the resumption of embryonic stem cell research, a Reagan family cause. The Bush administration has restricted stem cell research for religious reasons. Reagan is clear, forceful and serious. It is an impressive performance. He surprises me - surprises the hall - by concluding with a veiled endorsement of the Democratic ticket.
Teresa Heinz Kerry also speaks. Her delivery is slow, her Portuguese accent vestigial but sexy, her words unexceptionable. She has a reputation for being a loose cannon; if Kerry wins this election, the east wing will be a lively place indeed.
The keynote speech is delivered by Barack Obama, senatorial candidate in Illinois. Obama is an African-American (his father is Kenyan, his mother a white American) graduate of Harvard Law School, currently a member of the state Senate in Illinois - a Democratic rising star, with future president written all over him. Obama lives up to his advance billing. A slender, boyish, endearingly earnest speaker who also commands a high order of eloquence, he gives a near flawless performance, building to a rousing peroration that has the delegates on their feet, roaring their approval. Almost nobody outside the hall hears it. The networks haven't deemed it worthy of broadcast.
Wednesday 28th August
I meet Eric Alterman for breakfast. For some reason, we have ended up at a crummy cafeteria with rude service and bad food. Each of us probably blames the other for this choice. Eric is a prickly character, but has a shrewd political intellect. He writes a column for the Nation, conducts a terrific blog (www.altercation.msnbc.com) and wrote What Liberal Media?, an indispensable book about politics and news coverage. We are both feeling a little despondent today.
We have our disagreements - not only about the correct way to spell "Erik" - but we are usually on the same side. And right now we are experiencing similar disquiet about Kerry's strategy. Staying undefined, mouthing platitudes, maintaining a sunny disposition; it just doesn't appear to be working. Kerry has a compelling case, Eric believes, and the country is receptive to hearing it, but the candidate is too cautious, too fearful of offending. Eric is far to the left of Kerry; indeed, his orientation would make him a natural part of Ralph Nader's constituency. But he thinks Nader's participation in this year's election, and the last, calamitous. Eric likes Kerry, and his detestation of Bush and of the way America has been governed in the last four years outweighs the blandishments of ideological purity.
After breakfast, I bump into another old friend, a newspaperman who, through personal connections, is only one step removed from the Kerry speechwriting operation. He describes the efficient way John Edwards's speech, due to be delivered tonight, has been written and prepped. Then he offers disturbing news. He mentions a recently published photograph of Kerry sitting in a deckchair on a Nantucket beach staring out to sea, contemplating his acceptance speech. Much was made at the time of the fact that the candidate was writing his own draft. "You used to write speeches for Clinton," my friend now says, "so you know what happens when a candidate goes into seclusion to commune with his soul and commit his innermost thoughts to paper. What happens is NOTHING! That's what happens! Nothing! Not a usable word! Kerry speaks tom-orrow night, and they've barely gotten beyond, 'My fellow Democrats!'"
I'm laughing, but it's pained laughter. My friend goes on, "They've got all sorts of drafts coming in now. Ted Sorenson is writing one, full of Camelot rhetoric, a bunch of other people are taking a shot. Shrum's going to assemble the drafts and collate them. You know how that's going to turn out, right? A badly cooked stew. No coherence, everything but the kitchen sink. The trouble with a guy like Kerry… he's just too damn rich. It fosters bad habits. Getting this speech written is like Teresa going shopping. There's too much available to him, no perceived need to choose."
This is disheartening enough, but when I mention my own concern, that Kerry and Shrum are almost phobic about appearing negative and that it is inhibiting them from going after Bush's failures, he confirms it. "Absolutely," he says. "It's all going to be vision." He rolls his eyes at the word. "It's going to be optimistic. About hope." He shakes his head, disgusted and mordantly amused.
"And there's something else," he adds. "Because the draft will be finished so late, Kerry isn't working with a coach." He tells me that Edwards rehearsed briefly with a consultant named Michael Sheehan, a man who used to coach Bill Clinton. (When I assisted Mark Katz in writing some Clinton speeches years ago, we used to attend those sessions, and I was always impressed with his professionalism.) Sheehan flew up to Boston from New York for the day. "He took one look at Edwards," my friend says, "and decided he was fine, he had nothing to tell him." But, he goes on, since Kerry isn't a natural orator, since he is often robotic on the podium, he would have benefited from coaching. No chance this time.
He is laughing uproariously as he tells me all this. Although a Democrat, this fellow is such a cynic, takes such pleasure in the infinite variety of human absurdity, that he seems more delighted by the cock-up than anything else. But as he walks away up the street, still laughing, I feel my own smile fade.
Lunch with a friend who works for one of the news networks. He shares my indignation at the absence of coverage, and agrees that it sends a message that the convention is a meaningless ritual. Even worse, from his point of view, is the fact that he has to cover the damned thing anyway, for his network's unvisited website. He also confirms my impression that for over a year, television news was too cowed to present any stories that ran counter to the administration line on Iraq. But he claims that this changed after the Kay report into Iraq's WMD. "We still can't use the word 'lie,'" he says, "but we can point to discrepancies."
I offer my assessment of the situation. "When you're running against an incumbent," I say, "there are two separate contests, and both have to go your way. First, the incumbent has to lose on his own, has to lose the voters' trust. Only then will they begin to look at the opponent. Once they do, if they can picture him as a president, then he's got a chance." Such was the case in 1980. Jimmy Carter's ratings were low by that summer, but the race with Reagan was neck and neck up to the end. People wanted to vote against Carter, but they weren't sure it was safe to vote for Reagan. The latter's performance in the presidential debate reassured everybody, and after that the haemorrhage began. I suggest that Bush is in a similar position to Carter: the electorate has judged him a failure, but they don't yet know whether they trust Kerry.
My friend doesn't agree, quite. "Uh uh, they're not there yet. It's close, but Bush enjoyed so much trust after 9/11, it still hasn't gone completely." This election, he thinks, is a race between reality and popular perception. Reality is gaining steadily, but it may not overtake perception by 2nd November.
We are both experiencing a growing sense that, despite two nights of good speeches and good feeling, the air is rushing out of this convention. Maybe it's because no one outside the hall is listening. Maybe it's because the nominee seems like a stiff. Maybe it's because we have seen how rough the other side fights, and seen our own side - every nominee in the past 20 years other than Clinton - not knowing how to fight back. Maybe it's because the delegates' passions, more intense than in any election year I can remember, don't seem to be shared by the nominee.
Tonight my wife has secured us a place in one of the suites overlooking the hall. The food is better, the view is good. And the suite is star-studded, not only with political stars like Richard Holbrooke, but also with a whooping, flag-waving Sarah Jessica Parker, dropping by with her subdued husband, Matthew Broderick. Kim Cattrall wanders in for a brief visit too. But there's no sex in this city. It's Boston.
John Mellencamp sings "Small Town." A surprisingly thrilling moment, a splendid coup de théâtre, as the audience, thousands strong, holding their American flags aloft, sways in rhythm to the music.
My wife has picked up a vague but puzzling rumour: Kerry has some sort of surprise in store for the following night. What sort of surprise can it be? Announcing his cabinet in advance? No, Tom Dewey tried that in 1948 and was vilified for his presumption. "If elected, I will go to Baghdad," à la Eisenhower? No, too hokey. We stop speculating. There isn't enough information to work with.
Edwards speaks tonight. The speech follows Shrum's guidelines, avoiding overt attacks on Bush, instead invoking the recurrent motif, "Help is on the way." It strikes me as reasonably effective, although people who have been following Edwards say it is one of his weaker performances. Still, he is an engaging personality; he adds strength to the ticket. Later, as Laura and I are leaving with Richard Holbrooke and his wife, Kati Marton, Joe Klein of Time waylays us. He wants to know what Richard thinks of Edwards's speech. "A great speech," Richard declares. Joe disagrees. "Fourth best of the convention so far," he says.
Farther along the same corridor, I experience my own golden convention moment. Coming the other way is Vermont's senator Patrick Leahy. Leahy was recently told by Dick Cheney to perform an onanistic impossibility because he had been inquiring into the felonious dealings of Cheney's old company, Halliburton. Leahy is an affable man, and when our eyes meet he suddenly swivels, puts a hand on my shoulder, and says, "Isn't this a great convention? Haven't all the speeches been terrific?" I smile back at him and then say, on a rogue impulse, "Senator, go fuck yourself." It's one of those existential moments when a second seems to last an hour. Then he laughs. Phew!
Thursday 29th July
I am breakfasting with Bob Reich, former secretary of labour, and on my way there I run into Sam Brown, once a student radical who helped organise the protests that disrupted the 1968 Democratic convention, later a diplomat in the Clinton era, now a fundraiser for Kerry. When I tell him my misgivings, he reassures me: "The man can be great! You should see him talking to voters! Persuading donors! He can rise to any occasion! He'll rise to the occasion tonight!" If this is his sales pitch, Sam must believe it; he can't think I'm going to write him a cheque.
I cross the Charles river and meet Bob Reich at a hotel in Cambridge. For a certain female element of the Democratic party, Bob has glamour; when we greet each other in the lobby, he is besieged by autograph-hunters and ladies wanting to pose for photographs. He acts embarrassed, but I think he eats this stuff up. It wouldn't surprise me if he runs for governor of Massachusetts again, and wins this time.
Later, over fruit, we exchange family gossip for a few minutes, and then I pass on what I learned yesterday about the problems with Kerry's speech. On this subject, Bob is sanguine: "If Shrummy's in charge," he pronounces, "it'll be fine. The text doesn't worry me." He is worried about its delivery, however. And like a growing number of us, he is bothered that we are functioning in a hermetically sealed news environment; regardless of what is happening at the convention, nothing is leaving the hall. Bob doubts there will be any post-convention bump. "This party has never been more unified - we aren't acting like Democrats at all - but no one knows it."
And even more than I - he has been astride this hobby horse for years - he is disturbed by the blandness of Kerry's campaign. He believes the party must be more forthright about what it stands for and what it opposes; it cannot win elections by fashioning itself as the not-Republican party. "It isn't over yet. But we're going to have to do a lot better," he concludes.
I have lunch with sphinx-like historian Michael Beschloss. I lament, he listens. Circumspect as always, Michael gives no indication of how he views current events. Anything within the last four decades is too recent for Michael to hazard an opinion on. Sometimes he will let slip an attitude about, say, Lyndon Johnson. I must remember to ask him what he thinks of this convention when 2044 rolls around.
Tonight is the big night, the night of Kerry's acceptance speech. I confess to arriving at the Fleet Centre with a feeling of dread. If everything they are saying about the speech is true, this night, the only night when all America will be tuning in, will be a sinkhole. My mood isn't helped by the weather, which is hot and muggy, nor by the crowds, more numerous and obstreperous than on any previous night.
Inside it is worse: swelteringly hot, and my seat is so high up that I'm risking a nosebleed. After watching Wesley Clark's stirring speech, and the surprising number of generals and admirals who have recently converted to the Democrats' side, I reach a command decision of my own: I'm leaving. I will watch the rest in my hotel room. The sightlines are better, there is air conditioning, and I can take off my trousers if I want to. And I won't have to fight 15,000 other Democrats for a cab when the speech ends.
I feel a little guilty about this plan, until I remember something Richard Holbrooke said to Laura and me yesterday: he planned to watch Kerry's speech on television because that is the way to judge how it appears to the country at large. This assuages my nagging sense of journalistic abdication.
I am back at the hotel in time to see Carole King singing "You've Got a Friend" to the convention. On cable, of course. The networks aren't covering anything except Kerry's speech, in splendid isolation. King's performance is lovely, but she is starting to look a little like Golda Meir. Disconcerting. The next decade won't be gentle to us baby boomers.
Next, still on cable, the Heinz boyz are shown expressing fondness for their stepfather; the Kerry daughters tell a humanising story about their father and a pet hamster; Kerry's Vietnam shipmates provide first-person accounts of his heroism; and then Max Cleland rolls out. Cleland left two legs and an arm in Vietnam and was later elected to the Senate from Georgia. He was defeated in 2002 by a Republican with the unlikely name of Saxby Chambliss, who ran a television ad juxtaposing Cleland's face with that of Osama bin Laden. This bit of schlock did its job, but the Republican victory may prove pyrrhic. It stands as a symbol of a party that, since the rise of political consultant Lee Atwater in the late 1980s, has fought campaigns with callous disregard for decency. And it has alienated many veterans who would otherwise have voted Republican. Estimates suggest that up to 30 per cent of the veteran vote will go to Kerry this year, an astonishing number compared to recent elections.
Cleland's presence is inspiring all by itself. And he gives a rousing introduction to Kerry. This audience is in a high state of emotional readiness. Oratorical foreplay doesn't get much defter than this. But what now? Rhetoricus interruptus?
Kerry makes his entrance through the hall, a move trademarked by Carter in 1976. He certainly looks confident. Pausing at the podium before starting to speak, he also looks - that American word, that American concept - presidential. But it is only when he begins to speak, more quickly than his usual plodding pace - like Al Gore, he is benefiting from the networks' niggardliness with time - that I begin to grasp the surprise Laura caught wind of: Kerry is violating Shrum's guidelines. It is soon clear that we have been suckered into expecting something far more anaemic than what has been prepared. The other speakers were deliberately tamped down to put Kerry's aggressive rhetoric in high relief.
This is not to suggest that he is Henry V before Agincourt, merely that he is responding to and implicitly embracing the anger seething in his party. We have been waiting a long time for this. "I will be a commander in chief who will never mislead us into war," he says. "I will have a vice-president who will not conduct secret meetings with polluters to rewrite our environmental rules. I will have a secretary of defence who will listen to the best advice of our military leaders. And I will appoint an attorney general who actually upholds the constitution." This is pointed stuff; it addresses most of our complaints about the Bush administration. A bit later, he says, "Saying there are weapons of mass destruction in Iraq doesn't make it so. Saying we can fight a war on the cheap doesn't make it so. And proclaiming 'mission accomplished' certainly doesn't make it so… As president, I will bring back this nation's time-honoured tradition: the United States of America never goes to war because we want to; we only go to war because we have to." He also takes a neat swipe at Bush's claims of divine sanction by paraphrasing Lincoln: "I don't want to claim that God is on our side… I want to pray humbly that we are on God's side."
There is more, much more, and while most of it doesn't challenge Bush as directly as these few pointed passages, it lays down markers; Kerry is letting it be known that he will not be outmanoeuvred on "values," on patriotism, on defence, on terrorism, on fiscal conservatism, let alone on traditional Democrat themes. He is signalling that he knows how to fight back. When he's done, the hall erupts. Despite a mishap with the traditional balloon drop - I learn later that the Democrats have stopped payment on their cheque to the balloon contractor - enthusiasm cannot be dampened. It was not great oratory, but it was enough, it will serve.
Friday 30th July
I was warned by the hotel last night that I can expect a 90-minute queue for taxis to the airport this morning, so I schedule a wake-up call at the ungodly hour of 5am. When I get down to the lobby, it is deserted. Suckered again. I will have hours to kill at the airport. But I take the opportunity to check email before leaving. A friend who works for one of the television networks has sent me his organisation's overnight poll. So, did Kerry get a big bounce or a small bounce? Neither. Bush has risen another three points, and assumed a small lead for the first time in weeks.
It doesn't make sense - and indeed, within a few days this poll will be contradicted by many others. But it is another kind of unwelcome wake-up call. This election is up for grabs. Later, sitting in the airport waiting to board, I know that for the next 100 days we're all in for a very bumpy flight.
