Captive airport dwellers look lost. Still trying to grasp the vast importance of what is about to happen tomorrow night, something that I am a part of, albeit a small, small part, drifting somewhere (not sure yet) in Boston, probably among disappointed, localized Romney supporters, while the greater population of the liberal state rejoices.
Reading the New York Times really puts me in the mood, as it always does. Sets a stage that I wasn’t fully aware of until now, an aurora I felt briefly when the president stepped onto the catwalk in Kent and my jaw dropped for about three seconds before I reined it in, a power that is most distant for everyone and yet simultaneously so close to home. The fact that this election really does mean the world, in every sense of a close-minded concept. This is the biggest event in the world for another four years.
I’ve been tasked with putting tomorrow night into words, on what will most certainly be the loser’s side of events. The concession speech. Looks like I won’t even get in, though I’m prepared to go all out, of course. But it looks grim. It’s helps to have Jake, my photographer, by my side. He is documenting the destruction of Hurricane Sandy on the Jersey Shore; I’m meeting up with him in Boston. Because press credentials close in about two hours, our fate to get in rests on the shoulders of Glenn Bolich from TV2, who is already stationed in the convention center because his flight somehow got switched instead of mine. Doesn’t seem likely, but Jake and I always find a way.
Anyway, let’s think positive. Opportunity abounds. We live for free in Boston for two nights. How’s the weather in BoshWash? Jake says: “Cold, but intact.” Whatever that means.