As the most people-hating extrovert you will ever meet, I dislike, nay, abhor conventions. They are useless except as meat markets for protesters to show off their oh so pretty bonnets, wealthy fortysomething Republican men to pitch drunken woo in the direction of the hordes of ambitious young pencil-skirted women, and Donna Brazile to inevitably get lost in the bowels of the convention center. But today made it worth it. Because today, I got to see the “Didgeridoo Man,” a green poncho-clad fellow named Sklar, accosting the young pinwheel-carrying brunette and her boyfriend who both held tight to their “Jonas Brothers Fans for McCain” signs. It was entertaining to say the least.
So conventions really are good for something, after all.