Kamala Harris's Totally Awesome Post-Debate Party In The City Of Brotherly Love
And Wonkette was there!
Once again, it's almost two in the morning and I need to hit a deadline before passing out in the back of my truck. So, let's get right to the heart of this thing: Vice President Kamala Harris absolutely crushed Donald Trump in last night's debate.
But that's not what this is about. This is about what happened before, and after, the debate at Independence Hall in Philadelphia, PA.
The Democratic Party held a campaign watch party in Philly at Cherry Pier, a converted warehouse space along the Delaware River. The initial RSVP was pretty mundane, but the confirmation and press guidance made it clear that there would be Secret Service screening. There wasn't any mention of the Vice President coming, but it’s generally a sign as only a handful of people get that level of protection. And, considering the timing periods laid out in the out in the press guidance, it seemed unlikely President Joe Biden would be making an appearance.
The night before, however, a number of people in the greater press corps were in a panic. Everyone was looking for a coverage angle on the debate. Editors seemed to have forgotten that this debate was still based on the rules set out between the campaigns of Trump and Joe Biden, respectively, and not the Commission on Presidential Debates. A number of mastheads were pissed they would be stuck in the "Spin Room" over in the convention center. Independence Hall was too small, we were told, to accommodate the bulging swollen mass of bodies and egos that is the greater US and international press corps. There would be a small pool of journos and photogs, per usual, and that's it.
Instead, the rest of us could go to the "Spin Room" where we'd get access to campaign surrogates and hype men.
"I don't need photos of a bullshit factory," I told a colleague who asked about my plan. "I can take a picture of a toilet anywhere."
Why waste time running around Philadelphia shooting photos of people watching TV in random bars, or rubbing elbows with spokespeople, talking heads, and blowhards desperate for a government job?
So the only stories left to cover in Philly were the protests, and the watch parties. But which watch party was worth going to? Fox Nation? A lovely gay bar? A shitty dive? Something in the suburbs? Maybe the Turning Point USA thing out by the sewage treatment plant in Oaks blessed by the state GOP?
After dropping gear during the pre-set, I grabbed a hoagie from a bodega and wandered over to Independence National Historical Park. There were a few hundred people milling about with their own 31 flavors of politics.
In other words, it was a fucking circus.
There were over a dozen different news outlets scattered across the park, as well as podcasters, live streamers, and several people typing on manual typewriters with banners that read “Poets for Peace” and “Poems for the People." There were climate change deniers; anti-abortion nuts; pro-Trump supporters waving flags; anti-Trump opponents waving signs. Actual journalists and cos-players were trying to grab the arm of anyone who would talk, and the poor bastards just trying to walk home from work were caught in the middle.
A woman carrying a Kennedy-Shanahan sign with a Trump sticker seemed desperate to be interviewed. I took her photo and thought about asking her a few questions before just walking away. She seemed lost, possibly suffering from her own brain worms.
Eventually I got so fed up with the scene that I found a concrete bench and took a nap. I let the cacophony of the crowd wash over and lull me into quick doze. I could hear the RevCom cultists bitching about their crackpot messiah into a megaphone, and a kid with a DJ setup drowning them out by blasting "American Pie" and Beyoncé.
Around 8 p.m. a few hundred Palestinian protesters had shuffled their way down Market Street to the park. They were barking orders not to trust the cops, and to “protect your comrades.”
But I don’t have any “comrades,” I had a prior engagement at Cherry Pier, and I really needed a coffee and a cigarette. There was no time to watch these kids shuffle their way around Old City until they got tired or beaten into silence.
The warehouse at Cherry Pier was full of a rainbow of people. There were old people, young people, moms and dads; gay, straight, cis, and trans people; white people, black people, union workers, and artisans. There were ice cream trucks and fancy hors d'oeuvres. A screen printing crew was making shirts and tote bags. Large screens were set up around the hall with tables and chairs, some near a cash bar, and others far from the booze. There were air-conditioned trailers with working plumbing and wooden trim along the wainscoting instead of some rank, ass-smelling portable toilet in a plastic closet.
In other words: It was a nice fucking party.
Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro had just done a short speech by the time I arrived. He was already getting mic’d-up for a live hit on some news station and a crew was scrambling to get their feed up.
Delaware Sen. Chris Coons was engrossed in his phone with a lowered brow.
"I'm checking the primary returns," he looked up and said with a warm smile.
"Oh, that's right," I said. "It's primary day! Jesus, and I just drove through Wilmington. What's it looking like?"
He rattled off a bunch of the returns before I had a chance to really write anything down. A print colleague quickly produced a recorder, but all I managed to scribble in my notepad was something negative and rather illegible about Trump.
One of my photographer colleagues and I noted that the Harris campaign, and its supporters, were treating the press remarkably different than the Trump campaign.
"They're so disorganized," my colleague said of the Trump people, detailing some logistical frustrations at recent events they’d covered.
"I've been getting immediate rejections," I said. "The last rejection came within a minute of sending in my RSVP as a wire photographer."
"You must have pissed them off," joked a more seasoned colleague from behind me.
"Probably," I said. "But they'll never tell me what bug is up their ass."
Besides, it's not like I'm going to apologize. After all, in Trump World, apologies are a sign of weakness.
Once the debate started, the crowd whooped and hollered. They grimaced, and swore, and shouted. They winced, and laughed and gasped. They were engaged.
Around 11, Harris’s motorcade arrived, and she and Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff took the stage together. After Emhoff introduced Harris, the two shared a brief moment together that took me a minute to process.
It was a simple quick embrace and a kiss, then Harris spoke for about 20 minutes. She implored people to get out the vote, and some "We won't go back's."
But I kept thinking about that kiss. The look in their eyes. The hand holding. This was a couple that truly loved one another, despite all the insanity and scrutiny of US politics.
And then I remembered that Melania Trump only made a brief cameo appearance at the RNC on night three. It was the only time anyone had really seen her at all. Not that it really matters if Trump's umpteenth marriage is falling apart. Though he did bury his first wife's body on one of his golf courses in a rather nondescript location with an oddly generic headstone.
Which is kind of weird.
But you can give us money, if you wanna!
Doug Emhoff is SO damned proud of his wife.
I love the both of them to bits.
Musk has responded to Taylor Swift endorsing Harris by "joking" that he will get her pregnant if she wants.
The man is just the clammiest, doughiest creep.