The Democrats True-Life Tales from the Omni

By Richard Stengel

"I am not a member of any organized political party. I'm a Democrat."

-- WILL ROGERS

Democratic Conventions usually mean funny hats and bitter spats. Typically, they are ornery, out-of-control encounter sessions populated by overweight, cigar-puffing pols and eccentrically dressed activists shouting indecipherable slogans. But this affair was so organized it was downright Republican. Pearls and silk dresses were as much in evidence as bizarre headgear. No cigar haze wafted to the ceiling: the party made this its first no-smoking convention. . The aisles were crowded, but the speaker did not pound his gavel and yell for the marshals to clear them. The clusters around the states' computer terminals resembled Wall Street trading pits. And the delegates were so thin. "It used to be," says Political Consultant Mandy Grunwald, "that the quintessential Democratic conventioneer weighed about 250 lbs. Now everyone is slimmed down and aerobically fit. Big-spending Democrats are gone, and so are the big- eating ones."

The wrong words bring out the Wright stuff. Scandal-tarred House Speaker Jim Wright desperately wanted to make a speech in prime time. Democratic Party strategists, preferring that the oleaginous convention chairman be an invisible man, reluctantly agreed to relative darkness: ten minutes of non- prime-time oratory.

Wright was ready. But as soon as the twin TelePrompTers on the podium began to roll, he discovered that the ghostly text was not his prepared speech but that of Senate Majority Leader Robert Byrd, who was scheduled to follow him. Wright, a stump speaker of the old school, improvised.

You keep knockin' but you can't come in. 8:35 p.m. Monday: Senator Al Gore, Wife Tipper and two daughters arrive at the gate of the Omni. The guard stops them; none of them have the proper credentials. Gore is irked. Tipper, sporting a button picturing Dukakis, Jackson and her husband, shouts, "Power to the people!" Gore tells her to be quiet. She shouts it again. Gore deputizes someone to go inside to get the proper credentials. As they are waiting, Tipper says, "Let's go dancing" -- but presumably not to rock music with suggestive lyrics. The right credentials are obtained, and the Gores waltz in. Did the security guard not recognize the erstwhile presidential candidate? "I didn't look at his face," she replies.

While you were out . . . The convention bought the cover-up, but in fact it was Dukakis Campaign Manager Susan Estrich, not Dukakis First Friend Paul Brountas, who caused the notorious phone-call-that-missed. When Lloyd Bentsen was picked as the vice-presidential nominee, Brountas gave Estrich Jackson's telephone number and the responsibility for calling with the news before Jackson left his Cincinnati hotel room for the airport. Seems that it somehow slipped her mind. When Dukakis explained to reporters that his campaign manager had not given him the number, Brountas realized Estrich would be wounded and decided to take the fall.

A ticket to ride, or honk if you love astronauts. At an Ohio delegation party, perennial Vice-Presidential Also-Ran John Glenn presented Lloyd Bentsen with a red-white-and-blue bumper sticker reading DUKAKIS GLENN. An overoptimistic Glenn supporter had ordered up 10,000, and the Ohio Senator was intent on unloading them. "Since I park next to you in the Senate garage," he informed Bentsen, "I'll expect to see it every day."

Going to the hoop-la. Football metaphors were in the ascendant during the convention (Dukakis: "Every team has to have a quarterback. That's the nominee"), but rangy basketball players posted up and down the convention floor. Four former professional B-ball players were delegates. Maryland Congressman Tom McMillen (6 ft. 11 in.) played for the Washington Bullets. Walt Bellamy (6 ft. 11 in.), a Jackson delegate from Georgia, played center for the Atlanta Hawks, among others. Arizona Congressman Morris Udall (6 ft. 5 in.) played one year for the Denver Nuggets. New Jersey Senator Bill Bradley (6 ft. 5 in.), a former New York Knick, opened his convention speech with a quick 2 points: "This is the first time I've performed in the Omni in long pants."

Power has its pushy privileges. Mario Cuomo, who is even more imperious in public than in private, strode into the Hyatt Regency Hotel, where Dukakis and his staff were in residence. The lobby, ground zero for mover-and-shaker watching, was as jammed as a Bloomingdale's white sale, and the elevators were as slow as a Bill Clinton nominating speech. New York's Governor stood impatiently in a crowd waiting for an elevator. When the doors opened, loyal functionaries cleared a path and commandeered the car -- a singular act in this city of practiced charm and charming impracticality. An irked Southern woman remarked loudly as the Governor strode onto the elevator, "Just like a New Yorker."

Not so fast, ma'am. Bespangled, bejeweled Pamela Harriman approached one of the security metal detectors outside the Omni. She confidently strode through the narrow archway. Buzzzz. Off came the tasteful gold necklace. Try again. Buzzz. Off came the tasteful gold earrings. Try again. Buzz. Catcalls rose from the restless crowd of more than a hundred waiting to get in. Finally, she took off her tasteful gold belt and marched through, chin held high. The crowd cheered.

Speech-writers just don't get enough thanks for what they do. Bob Shrum, the , private wordsmith for the Kennedy family's public utterances, was called in to cobble together something for the convention's Kennedy reunion. He not only wrote John Kennedy Jr.'s introduction of Uncle Ted and Ted's it's-O.K.-to-still-be-a-liberal pep talk, but he also penned the Senator's gracious thank-you for his nephew's gracious introduction.

Mr. Lowe goes to Washington. The Democratic National Committee was baby sitter to a contingent of Brat Packers and other Hollywood luminaries: Ally Sheedy, Judd Nelson, Justine Bateman, Ed Begley Jr., Ed Asner, Morgan Fairchild and the ubiquitous Rob Lowe half disguised by scholarly-looking glasses. Their cicerone in Atlanta was Tom Hayden, who escorted them to seminars and around the convention floor. While on the floor one day, Fairchild spied Joe Kennedy Jr. Unable to get his attention, she accidentally on purpose bumped into him, then apologized with histrionic surprise, "Excuse me!"

A morning seminar led by Massachusetts Senator John Kerry ranged over such topics as the tax code, superconductivity and voting tactics in the Senate. Later, Bateman, a star of Family Ties, expressed satisfaction. "I've always avoided politics, because it seemed to be so complicated," said the miniskirted actress. "But being here and listening to everything, I really understand it now. It's like a big agents' meeting."