At the end of a long first day at the 2024 Republican National Convention (RNC), I ordered a beer from the Drink Wisconsinbly Pub (a bar across from the convention centre), found a table and lit a cigarette.
“How did you get a lighter in here?”
Shonda Little, a lively journalist from Oklahoma, had had her lighter confiscated by the Secret Service, possibly because she was being a smartarse.
She lit a smoke and started spouting crazy factoids. Like how in one day she had counted 27 separate state police uniforms at the RNC. Or how she had some newfangled prescription Rayban-framed smart glasses that could take photos and record video without people realising. Or how she and her colleague had staked out a table just behind where Fox News had set up a recording rig, and they were hoovering up a bunch of big interviewees once Fox was done with them.
Then a man with a red lanyard (red = part of RNC operational staff) marched past us and called out, “Trump’s in the building!”
I made my way into the convention and out onto the floor. There were thousands of people crammed in there: clusters of Texan cowboy hats, star-spangled dresses, rabbis, a young woman with a “bride to be” sash with dollar bills pinned to it.
Speakers sang the praises of Trump; people cheered and chanted “U-S-A!” and “We Love Trump!”
Pastor James Roemke told the crowd, in his best Trump impersonation, “You’re going to be so blessed … you’re going to be tired of being blessed, I guarantee it.” The crowd lapped it up. At times, the giant cube of video screens above us flashed tantalising images of the man himself, responding to events on the floor from some mysterious offstage room.
In one snippet, Trump appeared to fall asleep during a speech by Harmeet Dhillon, a National Committeewoman of the Republican National Committee for California.
The speeches ended, and people started to file out. Then, suddenly, Donald Trump appeared at the bottom of a set of bleachers, at the top of a short flight of stairs, about 15 metres away from me. He was awake. People gasped and cheered and pulled out their phones.
A couple of things to note about the first Trump sighting, apart from the much-noted white-bandaged ear:
- When Trump walked down the stairs, he walked like a 78-year-old man, like a grandpa. He walked with a hobble and one hand always on or near the railing for support. He did not stride, or bound, or exude much in the way of vigour.
- If the Democrats had a candidate who was less than 81 years old, they could really make a meal out of Trump’s infirmity. But… they can’t.
Now, the morning after the night before, the daytime crowd is almost entirely MAGA holidaymakers and journos with backpacks interviewing them.
Thousands of people drift around, dressed in their nattiest suits or most star-spangled pants, mingling, looking at stalls and taking photos, while negotiating roadblocks and fenced-off areas and “NO ENTRY” signs. Small groups of law enforcement officers are always quietly patrolling, scanning and lining up for pizza slices.
There’s a whole raft of off-Broadway events taking place, mostly invite-only. An advanced screening of Reagan, starring Dennis Quaid and Jon Voight. “BBQ, Bikes and Blues Western States Event”. “Red, White and Brew: Toast Women Who Make Our Country Great”. “Transatlantic Approaches to China: Meeting the Major Challenge of the 21st Century”.
Inside the Baird Centre building, which is doubling as a media resources hub, the atmosphere is carnivalesque. Donovan M. Garletts, a smiley man with one arm in a sling and a bright red hat with “MAKE LIMESTONE GREAT AGAIN” stitched into it, stands next to a slightly reptilian, larger-than-life-sized carving of Donald Trump’s visage.
It weighs about 35 kilograms (I asked if I could pick it up, and Donovan said he’d prefer me not to), it’s one of a kind, and it’s not for sale, although no doubt there would be takers. Rather, Donovan is on a quest to give this carved head to Donald himself, while (on the side) drawing attention to the excellent work done by the Indiana Limestone Fabricators team. He has been trying to get the bust to Donald for eight months.
I asked him why Trump, rather than Biden.
“We just happened to have an order for other Republican presidents, so that’s why we did Trump as well.”
“So you’re not really a deep MAGA person?”
“No! For us it’s not really about that. We just carve limestone and we enjoy it.”
Next to limestone Trump, there’s a stand with a large sign reading “TRUMP POETRY: THE GREATEST POET OF OUR GENERATION”, and two distinctly hipsterish-looking chaps sitting there, with hardback copies of the collected tweets of Donald J. Trump in a lustrous green-and-gold edition.
“You can do this because Americans don’t get irony?” I ask Gregory Woodman.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Ian replies, utterly deadpan. “We just think Donald Trump is the best poet of all time.”
“What’s funny is that Donald Jr looked through it, and he loved it, just a minute ago,” Ian continues. “He’s going to give it to his dad, I think. So that’s fun — we might end up with a presidential endorsement.”
I pick up a copy and read the epigram out loud: “‘I know words, I have the best words.’”
“So you guys are just here… method acting?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ian sounds genuinely affronted. “He’s just one of the most amazing — honestly — We’re so thankful that he has such a wide… range. He contains multitudes. Like Walt Whitman.”
I buy a copy and ride the escalators upstairs, looking for an unoccupied couch to have a quick nap on. Five o’clock approaches, and on tonight’s bill are a whole bunch of Republicans, including failed candidates Ron DeSantis and Nikki Haley, and Donald’s daughter-in-law (and RNC co-chair) Lara Trump. Everyone is hoping for another “surprise” appearance from the man himself. Watch this space.
