DNC Updasian: Much to Write About Nothing

August 26th, 2008 | 0 comments | Posted by Diana

A play-by-play (sorta) of Diana’s first day at the DNC:

4:55am: The alarm on the radio clock in Diana’s hotel room rings and does not stop when slammed against the wall. Even after unplugged, the clock burps and sighs for two minutes, all the while sounding not unlike the din of her aunts complaining at a holiday party.

7:45am: Diana wakes up for really real, feeling hung over even though she isn’t, wondering if the altitude makes mornings more horrible in Denver.

8:04: While eating eggs, Diana realizes that during the last Democratic National Convention held in Denver (in 1908), women didn’t even have the right to vote yet. She decides to stop bitching and start thinking about tapping the Rockies vibing with all of the other “conventioneers” (see photo above).

9:30am: Sipping on a coffee and gobbling up free wifi at one of the swanky MySpace cafes, Diana sends about 40 texts to friends saying, “Are you in Denver? Letz hook up yo!”–half hoping that most of the people on the receiving end aren’t actually anywhere near Colorado and will just be jealous.

10:00am: Diana wonders what a “Discobama” is. Even without knowing, she wants one.

10:30am: Jen and Intern Jasmine try to explain mobile Twitter to Diana so that she can send updates from the Denver streets. Diana acts like she understands what they’re talking about, cuz she’s Asian, and Asians hate to admit when they’re confused. She’s confused.

10:58am: Diana gets her first response to the text blast: “Totally. I’ve been here for a week.” No one writes back about being jealous.

11:15am: Diana sits at a table next to Rosa DeLauro, a member of the House of Representatives based out of New Haven, CT (site of Jen’s undergrad educasian and home of the world’s greatest pizza). DeLauro is an author of the Paycheck Fairness Act, makes wonderful eye contact, wears wacky glasses, and reminds Diana of the world’s greatest pizza–she is therefore Diana’s new favorite lady.

12:45pm: Diana checks the DISGRASIAN Twitter page to see if it has magically updated with her thoughts, even though she still really doesn’t understand mobile Twittering. It hasn’t.

1:30pm: Diana speaks on a panel with female mavericks like Faye Wattleton and Marie Wilson, feeling totally not worthy.

2:05pm: Arianna Huffington floats into the room, looking wonderful and smart as always, and Diana senses that every other woman is tacitly buzzing with glee. She talks about how failure inevitably opens doors, which Diana never heard growing up. Diana is confused again. To get her mind off of the confusion, Diana thinks about how Arianna looks like the physical emodiment of cashmere and floral perfume, and has very pretty hair.

2:45pm: Diana and Arianna chat, and Diana talks about how happy DISGRASIAN has been about posting regularly on HuffPo and 23/6. Arianna replies, “I love it! I love it!” and Diana thinks, So do we! So do we!

3:30pm: Diana misses Jen, cuz Jen is far away.

4:00pm: Intern Jasmine sweetly asks Diana if she’s Twittered yet. Diana says yes.

4:10pm: Diana thinks about egging the abortion van (a protest vehicle plastered with photos of mangled fetuses) after it drives by for the 57th time of the day. Not because she doesn’t like fetuses…

4:27pm: Diana receives a text: “Ahh, you’re @ the Convention! Have fun!” and decides she senses a mild hint of jealousy between the lines.

4:45pm: While eating a very bad spicy tuna roll, Diana remembers why she never eats sushi outside of coastal cities.

5:14pm: Diana wonders if the Barack and Hillary plushies being sold on the street were made in China.

5:30pm: A passerby tells Diana that somebody is selling Obama and McCain flip-flops. Diana spends a half hour hunting them down to buy for Jen but fails. She decides that, according to Arianna’s logic, this failure will open doors.

5:45pm: Diana and friend Christie spot a car on the street boasting a McCain sticker. Diana is mildly impressed at the dude’s cojones (he’s outnumbered, y’all!), and then realizes that he’s probably not too afraid of getting jumped by all of the Dems renting bikes and playing with Obama/Hillary plushies at this convention. Still, she continues to refer to him thereafter as “the guy with the balls.”

In order to take a picture of the car without getting jumped by its owner, Diana pretends to pose with a flyer for Dikta, a melodic Icelandic band that the dude with the balls probably isn’t scared of, either.

6:oopm: Diana and Christie manage to run and catch the light rail by a hair! As they jump into the last car with the doors still ajar, Diana thinks: Open doors! This must have been the result of the flip-flop failure!

6:01pm: As the train starts moving, it whips wildly around its first corner. Diana, who is standing in a pretty Marni dress and cashmere cardigan, while daintily holding her laptop and bag in her left arm, is suddenly flung around like a rag doll against the back of the train car. She tumbles back against the railing and thinks she has dislocated her shoulder. Slightly mortified, she laughs hysterically and tries to regain her balance, only for the train to whip around another corner, flinging her down three entry stairs, against the car’s sliding doors, and back against more railing. Diana thinks she may die in the light rail. So much for failure.

Instead, the car stops trying to kill Diana, but leaves her with mild whiplash, a welt on her back, and bruises and scrapes all over her arms.

Diana hates the muthafuckin’ light rail! She is going to punch the bejeezus out of it the next time she sees it! She’ll even get that guy with the balls to help her, if need be.

7:23pm: After eating some queso dip, Diana decides to take a nap.

10:05pm: People finally start texting Diana to see if she plans to hit the party circuit tonight. She lies and says yes about every event, often responding, “See u there!” She even looks at her closet and pretends to pick out something to wear.

10:07pm: Diana sends her first successful mobile Twitter.

10:30pm: Diana blogs.

1:10am: Diana sleeps. Sorta.

Source Source Source Source Source Source
Thanks, Gladys, Christie and Arianna!

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