Like all fever dreams, conventions leave sensual residues, irrational impressions that don’t fit an orderly pattern. Some Tampa and Charlotte hangovers:
Do politicians have periodontal secrets? The smiles of Joe Biden, the Romneys and Obamas dazzle the senses of those who feel aging teeth rotting in their mouths.
Did TV directors spin the crowds? Republican women were blonder. Panning in Tampa revealed a plethora of Miss Clairols of 1965. In Charlotte, delegate scenes looked like outtakes of “The Wiz.”
Won’t Clint Eastwood ever go away? He’s still spending more time explaining the chair than he did molesting it.
Are Democrats prone to Howard Dean screams? Former Michigan Gov. Jennifer Granholm goes over the top, yelling that Mitt Romney ”loves our cars so much, they have their own elevator. But the people who design, build and sell those cars? Well, in Romney’s world, the cars get the elevator, the workers get the shaft.”
Did Paul Ryan Pinocchio himself forever? Now he’s answering questions about his mountaineering as well as marathoning.
Did the parties reverse themselves, with Democrats pushing culture wars and Republicans trying to rebrand whatever the hell they are?
The American montages that remain are, as befitting politics, a mix of the truly moving and the maudlin, the sight of Gabrielle Giffords leading the Pledge of Allegiance intercut with bedecked delegates wildly cheering every cliché that comes down the pike.
Now we can all close our eyes, brace for the SuperPAC ads and wait for the debates next month.
Pass the Netflix clicker.
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