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Dick Gephardt is a clumsy oaf. Or: my long, fruitless search for the Clintons
by Chris Wright
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MONDAY, July 26, 2004 -- It’s getting to be something when you turn your nose up at Tom Daschle. "You going to the Daschle thing tonight?" a friend of mine asked, referring to a reception for the South Dakotan Senator at Anthem, the swanky downtown restaurant. "Nah," I replied. "You think anyone’ll be there?" These are heady times in Boston. For the first time since George Washington and John Hancock were here at the same time, our celebrity-starved town is undergoing something of a VIP glut -- everyone from P. Diddy to the Pope is rumored to have been spotted sauntering around. Okay, so maybe not the Pope, but Affleck’s been seen. That’s confirmed. Of course, the most well-represented celebrities in town right now are the politicians. Not the delegates, mind you, those T map-reading, sidewalk-clogging nobodies who’ve been breathing up all our air over the last couple of days. I’m talking the Kerrys here, the Gores, the Kennedys, the Clintons. And not only are these people in town, they’re doing things, like going to baseball games and parties. Wouldn’t that be something, to find yourself nibbling a piece of cheese beside the former Commander in Chief, perhaps sharing a personal joke over the carving station. "I’m sorry, Bill, but you’re beyond Hope." So it was I set out this morning in search of Mr. and Mrs. C, the Holy Grail of DNC celebrity spotters. The first stop on my Clinton quest was an obvious one: the State House, where Joseph Biden was giving a speech on foreign policy. It seemed possible the former First Couple might want to see old Joe make an early lunge for the Secretary of State job. Alas, by the time I got into the State House (a pack of Tums I’d left in my pocket kept making the alarm go off), Biden was on his way out. The Clintons were nowhere to be seen. Biden, meanwhile, stood in the midday sunshine posing for photographs with admirers. "Let me see that," he said, taking a digital camera from the hands of a young guy -- prepared, no doubt, to thumb the erase button if the hair wasn’t up to scratch. I moved on. Outside the Wang Center For the Performing Arts, a group of young men stood and sang a kind of madrigal: "Vo-o-ote for Ly-yndan LaRooouche...." Naturally, LaRouche wasn’t actually partying at the Wang -- Dick Gephardt was. The Congressman was glad-handing furiously when I saw him, and grinning like he’d just won the lottery. "John!" he’d say, pumping and grinning, "Susan!" I grabbed a mimosa, stuffed a large slice of ham in my mouth, and pushed my way through the crowd. "Representative!" I said, holding out my hammy hand. To my surprise, he took it. "How’s Boston treating you?" I asked. "Excellent!" he replied. Then he said it again: "Excellent!" And again: "Excellent!" With this, Dick Gephardt turned away and caught my mimosa with his elbow, spilling it down my shirt. Excellent. At the Westin Copley Place, meanwhile, the National Jewish Democratic Council was hosting a slap-up lunch for Senator Joe Lieberman. I did the math in my head: Lieberman-Gore-Clinton -- one degree of separation. Democratic bigwig Steve Grossman was making introductions as I walked into the dining room. Most of the people there looked important enough, but none of them was instantly recognizable. Then I saw Lieberman, smiling beatifically at a front table. No Bill and Hillary, though. So I left, pausing only to pick up an official DNC yo-yo on the way out. Shortly afterward, in a nearby men’s room, a delegate and I discussed the motion-activated towel dispensers. "Wow!" the guy said. "Good deal!" For me, it was little comfort. This his how it went for me the whole day. I went to a barbecue at Fenway Park (I’ll bet Bill loves pulled pork), only to find it had been cancelled. I showed up at a special "President and Senator Clinton Reception" at 60 State Street, and was informed by the security people that Bill and Hillary "never showed up." From here I went to Faneuil Hall, on the off chance that one of the Clintons might be chatting to MSNBC’s Tim Russert, who was broadcasting live from the marketplace. Nope. Desperate, I decided to try the Fleet Center, where both Bill and Hillary would be talking that night. It was a long shot, but you never know. Having a cigarette outside the media tent, I got into a conversation with a reporter from American Prospect magazine. "Have you seen the Clintons?" I asked. "No," he replied. "But I saw Howard Dean last night." After a moment’s pause, he added, "Twice." Later, I saw Fox’s Sean Hannity. And somebody else I sort of recognized. And ... well, that was about it. Back at the office, I asked my friend if she was still going to the Daschle thing. She was. "I might go too," I said. "I’m definitely going." I hoped the mimosa stains on my shirt wouldn’t hurt my chances of getting in.
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