This CAN'T be real

Today was surreal — the kind of day when you spend a half your time soaking everything in and the other half thinking about how you’ll never forget everything you’ve…soaked?

The day kicked off with an excursion to a tranquil park tucked between congested strips of asphalt, just in front of Colorado’s capitol. Spencer and I had been searching for a drug law protest rally, figuring it’d make for some good blog fodder. The rally was nowhere to be found; all we saw was a handful of weathered ex-hippies carting a giant “Free Our Weed” banner up the capitol steps. (Police asked them to leave about two minutes after they’d reached the top.)

Gee. Who’d have thought folks organizing drug protests would have a hard time getting their shit together?

Alas: No story there, but we stumbled upon something infinitely cooler instead. We noticed a cluster of neo-flower children and psychobilly fans flocked by a small handful of news crews, so went to explore. As it turned out, we found he already-infamous Recreate ’68 crew.

For all the negative press these guys are getting, they’re awfully tame. Today’s events? A lesson for the public on what rights protesters have, how not to overstep those rights, and mostly, how to keep out of legal trouble.

One role-playing scenario featured an undercover cop/”provocateur”, a demonstrator and a second, hidden police officer. The scene played something like this:

Undercover cop: “Hey, man. Saw you at some of those protests. How you doing? Wanna help me throw this mailbox through the Niketown window?”
Demonstrator: “Okay.”
(Pair proceeded to go for the imaginary mailbox.)
Hidden cop: “You’re under arrest.”
Demonstrator: “Bummer.”

…A brief explanation of what went wrong ensued. Organizers reminded the audience — a crowd of about 30, mosty kids in band t-shirts and tattooed old guys who looked like they’ve spent their fair share of time riding Harleys — not to break the law in the first place. They followed with a series on tips to avoid getting a charge penciled on a rap sheet. (Don’t give the cops a fake name; ask if you’re being detained, and if you are, keep your mouth shut until you speak to a lawyer, etc.) Suffice it to say, from all appearances, Recreate ’68 seems to be far more interested in reprising a youth-driven peace movement than bringing back the violence and brutality of the 1968 Chicago convention.

We’ll see. I could be completely wrong.

Fieldwork:
Censored :).

Elitch Gardens, or: The Least Ethical Place on Earth!

One of the first things reporters are told at the Columbia Missourian is a warning: Don’t take gifts. In essence, don’t let sources buy positive spin from you. Now, in Columbia, folks don’t necessarily have cash to throw at 19-year-old reporters to garner positive press about their latest planning and zoning proposal.

It’s a whole ‘nother ball game out here.

The Elitch Gardens Media Party was nothing short of Pleasure Island. As Emily said, you had to wonder if at some point, we’d all turn into donkeys. Now, since I’m not actually reporting on anything, here, I indulged…but the whole time, I was thinking, “MY GOD. My professors would be so disappointed.”

Free admission. Free rides. Free games. Free prizes. Free food.

Free beer.

It was almost disgusting, really, watching members of the media get drunk for free and make off-color comments about how the DNC bought their spin. Oh, wait. That was me.

More than once tonight, I stopped and exclaimed: This is the greatest night of my life. I doubt I’ll ever get these kind of perks again, and if I do, it’s going to take a hell of a lot of scraping my way up rungs of a political or journalistic ladder.

We ran around Elitch Gardens, hopping on roller coasters and dashing to various food kiosks grabbing cotton candy, funnel cakes and Dippin’ Dots. (Incidentally, those things are like $6 a pop when you actually pay for them.)

In the beer garden, you didn’t even have to leave your seat. Volunteers brought snacks straight to you — bizarre pasty puffs stuffed with some kind of cream cheese, gourmet pretzel bites, mini chicken empanadas, the most decadent brownie bites in the universe.

Outside, strategically selected 80s tunes pumped through the theme park, punctuating the mania wih new wave beats designed to appeal to folks in the average demographic in attendance. (I figure the average reporter there probably went to college in the mid-80’s.)

And the free drinks. Oh, the free drinks…served in biodegradable plastic cups made out of ethanol, since the convention’s going green this year. God bless America.

As the evening drew to a close, fireworks erupted from three directions. The uber-patriotic, red-white-and-blue display lasted a good 10 or 15 minutes. At one point, a gorgeous British photographer came up to our cluster of girls and commented on the display. We decided the DNC hired him to make all the young, female reporters swoon.

It was a hell of an unforgettable night. Our speakers thus far weren’t kidding: the media is the sole dicator of the convention’s success. And based on tonight, let me tell you: The Democrats certainly know who ultimately butters their bread.