The Summer of Bubba

This blog is dedicated to Ron Brown, who died too young. 

On a spring day in 1992 I was listening on the radio and heard that Bill Clinton's campaign was in the red by $4 million. Although I had yet to decide on a candidate, I called his campaign and pledged $25.

I didn't have a lot of money back then; I'd been laid off from my job and was still looking for work. But it remains to date the best investment I ever made. Almost immediately, I began to receive tschotckes in the mail: bumper stickers, hats that said Rapid Response Team, a copy of A Place Called Hope, and ultimately an invitation to the Clinton Inaugural. Oh, and I got Bill Clinton for president. But most thrilling at the time was an invitation to volunteer for the 1992 Democratic National Convention, which was taking place at New York's Madison Square Garden from July 13 to 16.

Prospective volunteers met in an airless office near Madison Square Garden. A Democratic Party employee gave us our guidelines and, after cautioning us that the decision for President candidate had yet to be made, grabbed a tiny Arkansas flag off his desk, started waving it and crying, "Yay!"

Volunteership itself turned out to be unexciting; stashed in the pressroom over in the Hotel Pennsylvania across the street from the Garden, we answered phones and distributed copies of speeches that were being made on the floor. Thanks to a wonky loudspeaker, we could hear roars from the arena but not what they were in response to. Plus, there were too many of us, and not enough work.

I was bored; the only celebrity I'd seen was P.J. O'Rourke.

Then, as a treat, the Party let the volunteers into the convention. We were restricted, however, to the fifth level, which granted us the same access privileges as the delegates from the U.S. Territory of American Samoa.

Compared to the Samoans, the figures onstage were ants. So, while the loudspeakers blared famous speeches given by people who have since passed into history, I studied my neighbors.

The Samoan men wore guayabera shirts with colorful sarongs. They appeared to have a low center of gravity and a rolling walk that seemed - to me - very attractive.

But after a half hour, I was ready to watch the convention from my living room TV.

Confirming that they had enough volunteers to keep them going, I took off for home, where my boyfriend was unimpressed with my attempts to walk like a Samoan.

But from then on, the meteoric rise of Bill Clinton was undisputed. The culmination was final nomination. They'd sent Clinton, Hillary, Chelsea, and the rest of the entourage across the street from the Garden - to Macy's, in the middle of the night, to look at shirts. Shirts!

When the nomination came in, and Clinton was brought back, the cheering was deafening and not confined to the Garden. It was truly one of the most memorable nights of my life.

But life didn't come to a stand still just 'cause the Democrats were in town. Nossir. That week, up in Albany, the New York Court of Appeals had struck down a six-year-old decency conviction against seven women who removed their shirts in 1986, to protest laws that allowed men to go sunbathe topless but not women. Toplessness was now the right of every woman (in New York)! In honor of the "Topfree Seven," the city went silly: a topless bar owner sent topless women around in a makeshift float, waving like it was a combination Rose Bowl and Mardi Gras. They made a circuit around the Garden while the convention was going on, probably picking up some customers.

Back then, on Saturday mornings, I usually walked a few blocks over to a Dunkin' Donuts, where I would enjoy a toasted, buttered bagel. That I would do this attests to my love of toasted, buttered bagels, since the journey was a freakin' war zone that crossed a line of anti-abortion protesters and the abortion clinic they targeted. A crowd of four, praying, with rosaries extended, was usually there to confront women in orange bibs helping women entering the clinic.

The Saturday after the Convention was no exception - except for one VERY BIG DIFFERENCE: in front of the prayer crowd kneeled four young, beautiful blondes. They were wearing grass skirts, they had flowers in their hair, and they were topless. And, they were giggling.

I stood there for so long, slackjawed, that a woman in orange finally approached me and asked if I'd like to be escorted into the clinic.

As I said, it was a time I'll never forget.