We are safely back in Detroit, and the not-the-rona head cold I caught has let up a bit, so your humble Shypixel is going to pass the time telling you, in granular detail, every single thing that transpired in this here universe of ours over the past few days. Or not that, and instead just rattle off some random shit that happened each day that I thought might be interesting to you, our dear and generous readers. Yeah, definitely that last one.
The Plan: Go check out McCormick Place convention center early, find someplace awesome to have lunch and do some pre-gaming, then hit United Center for some Hillary and some Joe.
McCormick Place looks like it might be actually kinda nice, but I can’t be sure, as it was very hard to see most of the grounds through all the security fencing, and once you got inside security, there was no access to the grounds. We wandered through a labyrinth of sky tunnels, looking for notables to accost, friends of Wonkette, and the bar. Mostly the bar. I met the real actual Kamala Harris, who was totally not a cardboard cutout at a vendor stall at all, and was the real Vice President of The America So Help Her God. Or maybe it was a cardboard cutout, who can know? We bought shirts, and hoodies, and wandered through Dempalooza, their name for it, not mine. My name for it was yawn. We yeeted our drink-starved selves to a lunch spot near(-er, -ish) United. Yes I say “yeet,” it’s a thing with my daughter.
Outside the center, we perused some local vendor stalls, where your Editrix did some cultural appropriation and bought a lovely pink and green bag that might have had a certain sorority symbol on it, and she might have been almost immediately called out on it by a nice older lady who had been a member of that certain sorority, “Oh, were you a member?” “Ma’am,” said Rebecca, “I think you know I was not.” She kindly advised Rebecca to hold the purse with the emblem on the inside. No stolen valor.
The restaurant, Forbidden Root, was beyond delicious, with open-air seating, and we sipped drinks and caught up with the great wet fart that were (not) the 500,000 protesters we’d been told to expect. No riots, no tear gas, no burning cars. But we had heard that the Proud Boys had made an appearance, because of how they are drawn to coups like Navy Seal-cosplaying land sharks. I met Random Italian Man. He was having drinks with the most beautiful Black lady in the whole world, who was six feet tall and was wearing the most fabulous sun hat. He saw my press pass, and wanted to ask about the protests. I told him that they had been much smaller than expected, an experience I hear Stormy Daniels has some knowledge of, but that the Proud Boys had showed up.
“Proud Boys? Who are they?” he asked.
“Those are the January 6th guys.”
He spit and cursed, “Gangsters!” He told me that if these guys give me any trouble, to come and find him, and he would take care of it.
And then we finally got to the big show. Security was much more friendly than they had been in Milwaukee, so I have no stories of sharing lights with attendees, no Alices. They weren’t even batting an eye at vape pens, which sometimes contain pot. /evilgrin
Inside the Center, we divvied up the Hall Passes and Arena Passes, and set out to get the lay of the land. Turns out that if you had an Arena Pass, you were confined to the hall, and if you had a Hall Pass, you got into the Arena. Um … OK. So I didn’t get to see AOC speak, but that’s OK, because you can feel her eye lasers of justice just fine through the TV screen. She was electric. Like lighting up an elephant with copper sandals electric, but only the metaphorical, GOP elephant, not a real elephant, that would be cruel. And no Thomas Edison did not do that very thing, but someone else did.
Also seen by us, on the TV, in the hall, with our Arena Passes: Hillary Rodham Clinton. By this time we were ensconced near the periodical press gallery (three folding tables), looking to hobnob. Becca and I had just been booted out of the Creators Lounge, where we had found our beloved Charles Pierce, for not being creators. Weigel was there. He and Charlie did not get kicked out with us. They got kicked out later. From where we were being constantly jostled, we did not get to watch much of Clinton’s speech. Unable to reach the floor, we admitted defeat, gathered Dok, and headed to the Rideshare area, where I did NOT steal the We Heart Joe sign pictured above from a little boy. His mom made him leave it when their ride showed, so I didn’t have to. We got home in perfect time to see Joe.
Joe, we love you. We would have personally driven a bus of 300 immigrants to several locations to vote for you, and we would have done it with joy. Thank you Joe. We heart you for who you are, and for all you’ve done, and for knowing what sacrifice means. We will always heart you.
The Plan: Split up to maximize our in-depth political coverage by attending media parties by day, and more United Center action by night. It’s a simple plan, sure hope everyone RSVPs to the correct events.
So, did everyone RSVP to the correct events? No they did not, and by they, I mean me. I did manage to RSVP correctly to the Axios party’s early event, so we all got to see Shawn Fain talk some serious shit about Trump, which included the line, “I do not like having Trump on my body.” He finished his sentence by saying, “in big letters.” His shirt, he was talking about his TRUMP is a SCAB shirt. There goes my hot scoop… Another lady spoke too, and I’m sure she was important, but I had no idea who she was, so, yeah. [It was Valerie Jarrett, and she was charming. — Trix]
It was cool, the food was very good, and I assume the drinks which they were not serving for this party, but were saving for the later party, were very good too, I don’t know, I never found out. But where I had found a pleasant distraction for the afternoon, Rebecca had found her forever home. And why not, the place had a lovely river view, nice people walking around with delicious morsels of fancy food, and the promise of an open bar in the future. That’s my Becca, always thinking of the future. Rebecca had many years before been kicked out of a Politico party by the same guys who run Axios now. But she is a middle-aged woman in her 50s now, who likes her comforts. “I LIVE HERE NOW,” she kept saying. “I LIVE AT THE AXIOS PARTY.” Little did she know, she did not. Because it did not go all week but rather ended that day.
We had to clear the room for Latinos for Kamala (maybe not their real name, I don’t know, wasn’t paying close attention), and we did not have the required genetics for that meeting, so we did what we do, and went looking for some drinks and maybe a little light lunch to go with them. We succeeded, because of how we are good at this, and then returned to the Axios party to reap all those sweet sweet media drinks. The check in lady remembered me from earlier, and smiled warmly as she informed me that I had not RSVPed for the later event, and they were full, so would I kindly fuck off. She was quite nice about it though, so no hate spamming Axios, at least not for that reason. [Seriously all the check-in people and security were warmly professional and lovely; what is that even about? — Trix]
Everyone else got in fine, so I told my wife, “Wife, I am a grown man, and I have been to a bar by myself before, I will be fine.” Rebecca agreed. “Yes,” she informed our party. “The worst thing that’s going to happen is he’s going to get drunk and be TOO FRIENDLY ON PEOPLE.” And boy was I. Fine, I mean. Was I ever. While everyone else went to milk some Axios largesse, I wandered across the street to Harry Caray’s and ordered some bourbon on the rocks. Harry Caray’s has a mean pour. Are you, like me, old enough to remember those “fill it to the rim, with Brim” commercials? Because this guy was, and he did, but instead of gross institutional coffee, it was Bulleit. Did I have another, yes I did. Did I have a third? Reply hazy.
I made all the friends, because I am a good and happy drunk, and by the time Rebecca came looking for me, I had talked my way into the Axios party and was having the best time being TOO FRIENDLY on this lovely gay couple I had just met, and had so much fun introducing them to my lovely wife. Were they relieved she showed up to save them from a TOO FRIENDLY drunk pixel? Maybe. It happens.
What happened inside this later part of the Axios party? No idea, wasn’t there. Ask Becca, or Dok, or Robyn. They all RSVPed correctly. I know that I did make a homeless vet cry. We were talking, he about how he was thinking of moving to Florida because Ron DeSantis knows how to treat veterans, and me about how no, he does fucking not. When it was clear we would not come to an understanding, we said our goodbyes, and he wondered aloud if I might have a few dollars. I gave him $40. As he was walking away, I thought better of it, called him back, and gave him another $20, looked him directly and seriously in the eye, as only a drunk man can, and said, “You’re gonna be alright.” That’s what did it, what made him cry.
As I was clearly too drunk to remain in public without personally solving homelessness and poverty in Chicago, Rebecca took me back to Wonkette Mobile HQ so we could watch Bernie, and Tammy, and Doug, and that nice Obama couple give their speeches, and also remain financially solvent. Man those Obamas. Between the two of them, they brought down the house, literally. Yes, literally, they had to rebuild the entire stadium. I’ve already told you about how Barack made me very emotional with his magic words. (It was this one, from before, not this next one, which will follow.)
The Plan: Go on an architecture boat tour, then intensive coverage of night three.
Earlier in the week, I had overheard a passing tour boat telling its passengers about how this one building had been where Al Capone had a hidden speakeasy, accessible only by a secret freight elevator, and this is the type of Prohibition-era trivia factoid that piques my interest, so I was looking forward to hearing more about it. I was not disappointed, but also I was, because OUR tour guide said that some other tours will tell you that story, but it was not true. The bar in question did not open until after Prohibition ended and Al and his syphilitic ass were rotting in a cell. I’m not entirely sure I believed her though, because some OTHER tour boat is apparently out there spewing lies, so maybe they are all liars, about everything.
The rest of the tour was nice. Our tour guide completely ignored Trump Tower as we cruised past, and it really did seem like she took pains to point out a few small things around it, just to make the omission obvious. Someone, probably a Trumper, did ask about it on our way back to the dock, and the tour guide rattled off an obviously canned response at double speed, and then pointedly asked for another, non-Trump related question. There were a few knuckle draggers on our boat that were clearly upset about that. Haha, fuckers, people hate your spray tan Jesus. We were also persuaded that the Chicago fire was probably Space Meteors. We are an easily convinced People. Sounded right to us!
We had, by this time, figured out how the press passes worked, which is so stupid and dumb. But also, we didn’t have enough for all of us, and nobody wanted to just stand in the hall, so some of us went home (Becca, Dok, and I), while others of us (Evan and Robyn) went to the freshly rebuilt United Center for Tim Day.
We watched Nancy Pelosi give a bland, but serviceable speech, which is OK, her strength comes from other sources. Mayor Pete did his thing, and he will be on the Democratic ticket someday. Bill Clinton, or rather, the shadow of Bill Clinton, give a speech that was devoid of charm and made me sad for Bill Clinton. Hakeem Jeffries was good, and doesn’t he sound a lot like Bernie, not so much in his voice, but in his meter? Like Pelosi, I think his strength is in vote counting, not speeching so much, and that is also OK.
And then came Tim. My darling Tim Tim, or as you all know him, Dad. He told us all about how he wasn’t mad, just disappointed, and who touched the thermostat, and hi hungry, I’m Dad. Also, he topped off our oil, and checked our tire pressure. He did not reveal his secret hot dish recipe, so Plankton will have to try again next episode. He made his son Gus cry, which was sweet, and endearing, and a touching moment of family love, so naturally the ghouls in conservative media wasted no time with their beta-male tweets.
That went over like a fart in church, but not a regular fart in church, a fart in church that smells like sulfur and comes out sounding like a demonic voice saying “Hail Satan.” Yup, just like that. Then Tim Walz tucked each and every one of us in, even the ones watching on the TV, and gave us a kiss on the forehead, and wished that we would sleep sweet. Then we all ugly cried and said “That’s my Dad!”
The Plan: Use the extra passes Evan had procured somehow, not saying how, please speculate, to go, all together, as a team, to the coronation of Queen Kamala Harris, Mother of Dragons, and Vice Queen Tim Walz, Father of Gus.
You may have sensed that none of our days went according to plan, and so may be surmising that things did not go according to plan on this day. Never surmise, you make a sur of mi and se. We showed up to United Center nice and early to stake out our seats in the nose bleeds. Good thing too, as NBC apparently decided to save money by not getting their own block of seats, and just have some poor intern trying desperately to reserve 48 seats all by herself. We ourselves almost lost our seats every time we had to use the bathroom, the ushers were very aggressive in seating people. Dom actually did lose his, but did not miss it, he was actually working on the floor.
All day, the buzz was about who would be filling up the mystery bloc. Would it be Beyonce? Would it be Taylor Swift? Would it be Beyonce and Taylor giving each other onstage abortions? I overheard a staffer absolutely confirm that it was W. Could you imagine that? How many shoes would that man have had to dodge? Would we summon Satan straight from the pits of Hell? Turns out it was none of these. It was Pink and the (nee Dixie) Chicks. Um … OK. Wow. Neat. (Both times, Becca — not a particular fan of either though she doesn’t hate them or anything — cried.)
My absolute favorite moment of the night was when we made Elizabeth Warren cry, with our massive love. I don’t think she was prepared for how much love we all threw at her face when she walked out. For three minutes, we loved her, and made her cry. A cousin of mine recently said it was crazy to love a politician, because they will never love you, but we proved the lie in that. E-Dubs loves us, and we love her.
DL Hughley gave Kamala an apology that I think will play very well in Peoria, if by Peoria you mean all the guys out there hemming that they just can’t vote for a cop and hawing that she locks up Black people. He had been one of those guys, and he was wrong, and he had the balls to walk out on a stage and admit that to all the world.
Gabby Giffords and Mark Kelly were touching, and Adam Kinzinger would have had a bright future in the GOP if he’d have just kissed the orange sphincter of Trump’s ass, because he can speech, and looks steely and all the things GOP voters salivate over. Leon Panetta made us collectively yawn, and we had Roy Cooper announcing that North Carolina was back in play. And then there was Big Gretch. Gretchen Whitmer was great, and we love her, and she was stunning in suffragette white. She is definitely running in the future, and she should. Also, she pronounces it, “MARE-ee-largo,” as a good Michigoose should, and I am forever saying it that way, from now on.
Was there anybody else?
The next President of the United States, inshallah, Kamila Harris, brought the house down, again. This time things were actually falling from the ceiling. Maybe they were balloons, maybe they weren’t. It was amazing, and joyful, and then it was over and thousands of people started making their way to the rideshare area. We were not among them, because we are very smart people, and instead decided to hire a pedi-cab. It was the right decision, as our driver got us to the Cobra in no time flat, mostly by riding into oncoming traffic the whole fucking way.
The Cobra is a punk dive that on this night was populated mostly by tankies, women in camo jeans, and white dudes wearing keffiyehs. They were accosting anyone coming in with DNC lanyards, because that is how you win minds and influence people. They were dicks, and we largely ignored them until Rebecca had to start taunting one of the women with her incisive wit. (This one again.) We closed down the patio and made our way home.
The AP says the honeymoon is over. Bullshit. That was the wedding, where America married Kamala, and reverse adopted Tim as our pawpaw, and everyone knows the honeymoon comes AFTER the wedding, or there would have been a shotgun involved. All the news outlets agree that now comes the time for hard work. Fuck that. I’m sick, and I’m tired, and my feet hurt from wearing the wrong shoes to look cool, and I’m done writing this recap, so Imma take me a rest. You should too. Because we all have a lot of hard work ahead of us.
And also, too, and as well: We heart you Joe Biden.
Wonkette is supported entirely by YOU! Thank you for sending us all to Chicago, where we slept and ate and drank and riverboated and made friends on your dime. We love you.
