A Personal Call from the Democrats

There was an urgent message on my machine when I got home: "Tomorrow: Kerry! At the Alliant Center! He will be there! We would like to know if you can come. Please give us a call so that we can coordinate.”

Coordinate what?? Is this a personal invitation? Is it like being a delegate to the convention? Do I get to be in the front rows, applauding wildly (is it because they heard my loud cheers on Karaoke night yesterday?)? Do I act as a protector of the Kerry spirit, boo-hissing loud protesters, interveners and disrupters of the democratic process? Do I act as body guard too, jumping up to shield him from rowdy types that occasionally leap to the stage (did they read my post of outrage at the Barrymore for not carrying out a rowdy type from last week’s concert?)? How SPECIAL am I anyway?

Not very, I’m afraid. I’ll go there and I will be just one of thousands. They will have called every listed democrat this side of Milwaukee. I did this for Clinton and Gore when they rolled into Madison. I was a face in the crowd.

For a minute, I had believed that I was on their hot list. Then I remembered the size of my contribution to the party and reality set in.

The Kid in me

There are a number of bloggers who will provide excellent recaps of last night’s gathering of sociologists and tag-alongs at the Karaoke Kid (later in the day you may check here, here and here). I will not be one of them. I am about the last person on earth who should ever write about Karaoke. I never pay attention to rock groups and artists any more and it took me a long time to understand that a reference to Fiona Apple was not a comment about a brand of fruit from the Farmers' Market. But since I pick up songs easily, even as I am not listening to them, I do know words and melodies to the strangest collection of songs and so the urge to join up at the Kid is always strong. But no summaries: I do not know who sang what and when – it’s all a blur of TV monitors and different combinations of people standing up, sometimes falling down and dying (yes, there was a reenactment of a death performed with painful accuracy by the author of JFW), often singing with eyes closed as if their (okay, our) life depended on it.

So how is it that this pop-cultural ignoramus gets herself to the Kid so faithfully and shamelessly each time the trumpet sounds? Well, isn’t there an ancient song out there about Fools Rushing In Where Wise Men Never Go?

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