I was in a bad mood when I took an empty seat in Kansas’ delegation a couple of hours ago to watch Time Warner Cable Arena prepare for the last day of the Democratic National Convention. I was going to write about how glad I am that the DNC is finally — finally — coming to an end when I heard a familiar voice over the speaker system. A tall man in a newsboy cap approached the mic on stage and asked someone to give him “just a little more piano.” Then from his guitar came some all-too-familiar chords.
I know you’re sick of the DNC. I am, too. I’m sick of the traffic, and I’m sick of having to write about something a lot of people could care less about. If I’m tired, I can't even imagine how exhausted cops and trash collectors must be.
But when else would Jon Stewart spend a week in Charlotte? When else would MSNBC film from the EpiCentre? And how often do you see the intersection of Trade and Tryon on CNN?
I’m tired, and I’m tired of this convention. But today I worked from an impromptu James Taylor concert. That’s kind of cool.
Delette Nycum was my great-grandmother.
Goddamn this town is a drag.
His voice just creeps me out. That is all.