Fantastic piece in The Stranger, Seattle's alternative newspaper: http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/stuck-in-a-room-with-mitt-romney/Content?oid=14623016
Highlights:
Highlights:
A couple in the crowd behind me discusses the pluses and minuses of taking a shortcut diagonally through the park to our right. If you think Im walking through a park in the middle of the night, youre ****ing kidding me, she hisses at him. This park is less than a city block square, and brightly lit by streetlights and Christmas lights. You can see clearly from one side to another. Its empty. It has maybe a dozen tall, skinny trees, and its ringed on all sides by squadrons of policemen, Secret Service, and the National Guard, not to mention the swarms of people leaving the convention, a couple thousand, easy, in my line of sight. And this woman is deathly afraid shes going to get mugged, because muggings happen in city parks after darkshes probably seen it on TV a hundred times beforeand shed rather not get mugged.
I try to picture the mugger this woman imagines. Hes either black or Latino, hes carrying a knife or a gun, hes got gold teeth, and hes stretching his body to something thinner than five inches around to hide behind one of those trees. Its not crime this woman is afraid of, its vampires. Its superstitious thought. Its the kind of thinking that overrides logic in place of something youve seen on TV.
But you can see that Romney is uncomfortable with this positioning. You can see this isnt how he wanted it. Every once in a whilewhen hes momentarily startled by the raucous Republican response to one of his coded Obama-is-foreign lines, say, or when he gets heckledyou can see real fear in Romneys eyes. Its the fear of someone who suddenly realized he let himself get too drunk, or nearly got into a car accident because he was dopily roaming his hand around the floor of the car, looking for the sandwich he dropped. Someone who spent his whole life chasing something, only to find that he really didnt want it. Not like this. Never like this.
They roar like monsters in the darkened halls of the Forum, but I look at the people around me, milling forward in the embrace of waist-high concrete barriers to their left and right, trying to get back to their cars, or their buses, or their hotels. Theyre grumbling about the blisters caused by their good pair of shoes. Theyre hungry. Theyre tired. But they are unmistakably human beings. That bald man whose wattle hangs down over his shirt like a meaty necktie, that woman whose perm looks as arid and dry as a tumbleweed. These are peoples grandparents. Real human beings will weep when they die (and for most of this ancient crowd, the day that they die will probably be sometime soon). Theyre scared of the imaginary world of the 1950s in their heads dying forever, and the problem is that scared people make dumb choices.