And now a few words about the Republican National Convention. AKA: Women with Big Hair and the Men in White Shoes Who Love Them. And white certainly was the operable word in Tampa. Mashed potatoes on paper plates with a side of leeks white.
Word. Absolute absence-of-any-color-whatsoever white. Whiter than "Stepin Fetchit done seen a ghost" white.
The only speaker to mention Mitt’s name out loud on purpose was Ann Romney in a gracious and endearing turn. Facing the tall task of climbing the plateau of humanizing her spousal cyborg, this mother of five boys constructed an entire flight of stairs by herself. But with a husband stiffer than Rick Santorum on a gay pride parade float, it was the basement stairwell of what needs to be skyscraper scaffolding. Baby steps.
Paul Ryan growled the requisite Veep Nominee pit- bull snarl. Then gave 40 minutes worth of credence to the Romney pollster who proclaimed earlier in the week “We’re not going to let our campaign be dictated by fact-checkers.” The Janesville Congressman trotted out more bad lies than Employees Day at St. Andrews. The Old Course.
Normally these gatherings are to spontaneity what Richard Simmons is to mule skinning. Lots of shiny smooth seamless spandex. A 3 day holiday in a hall full of Ken dolls. But in a dubious celebrity stretch, some soon- to- be ex- staffer woke Clint Eastwood from a nap to upstage the nominee’s acceptance speech by losing an argument with an empty chair.