Tiny Silver Death Machine: Election Coverage 2008 Part Two

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Bailout Summit!

Oh my God! McCain, Obama and Bush all in the same room talking about the bailout! Why did no one tell me this was going to happen? I would've...

A Call For Change

Why do our elections always have to be like this in America? I am so sick of the media being run by a bunch of boys. I don't know what their...

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?

ABC 12:30 p.m. EDT/11:30 a.m. CDT In a last-ditch effort to revive the stale, 10-year-old game show, producers allow contestants to "phone-someone-who-knows-the-answer."

Al Davis

Ruthless Raiders owner Al Davis is fascinating for the intensity with which he just doesn't give a damn.

Struggling Mets Combine To Form Carlos Voltron

NEW YORK—Facing the Cubs in the midst of a three-game losing streak, the desperate Mets sprinted out to the field Tuesday, launched themselves high into the air above Shea Stadium, and combined their bodies to form a 400-foot tall fielding...
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Tiny Silver Death Machine: Election Coverage 2008 Part Two

Noted author Don DeLillo blogged for The Onion from the Conventions

We've witnessed these spectacles every fourth September, every four years. The volunteers stand handshake-dazed near their supervisors, seeing images of themselves in every direction. Staffers greet each other with comic cries and gestures of sodden collapse. In Denver there were vendors nearby when we ate breakfast. Stretch limos outfitted with powerful communications technology stalled in murderous crosstown traffic. Helicopters shine searchlights down at the buildings, the crowd. Chanted rhymes emerge like a collective tribal memory. Allegations are advanced concerning faked pregnancies. "This is one of those moments." There is a meet-and-greet with the guy from the Doobie Brothers.

A voice from the subconscious: Toyota Corola.

Here in Minneapolis, a woman with a clipboard, frazzled, efficient. She reads from a printout to a group of staffers a change in schedule from the coordinating committee: the station wagons arrive at noon. In the Free Speech Zone, a man dangles from a wire, the famous performance artist from New York. Everywhere, security: badges, metal detectors, small plastic cards with magnetic stripes. Police, silent in riot gear, truncheons like humming, efficient software. Someone says: "So she was technically never the actual Miss Alaska?"

They feel a sense of renewal, of communal recognition. The women, crisp and alert, knowing people's names. Their husbands in little hats shaped like elephant heads, something about them suggesting massive health insurance coverage.

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