As we walked north along 7th Ave, balloons in hand, a man wearing a smock popped out of a restaurant. “I wish I could come!” he said. “I have to work.” We told him that it was okay.
In small groups that added up to some debatable number—a half-million is showing up in the Times—folks stood in the sun, sweating into their shirts and costumes. We joked about rapid-response police blimps. We yelled at Madison Square Garden. Most of the chants were pretty dumb, as always, but I remember loving to chant when I was 19. I imagined my Republican friends laughing at me as I stood damp and tired, surrounded by people beating on plastic buckets with their palms. Fine; they can laugh—none of them are voting this November, anyway. I drank a gallon of water, and took an air-conditioned train home. Now I'm waiting for the convention to start. I'll watch every speech, if I can. It's sickness, but I love it.
