The Portland Caucus, Part 1

Saturday was a long day, by design.

Caucus events took place all over the state, or in the case of Washington County, not at all.

Weeks of pre-gaming had come to this point. I had set dual alarm clocks, but that did little to change the fact that I rose on Saturday with a hangover that could likely be seen from low earth orbit.

I decided since it was rumored that Mittens would make a last minute appearance at the Portland Caucus, it might be a good idea to go through the journo bag and rid it of anything offensive, or could possibly be weiged aggregate and used against me in a court of law.

Gone were the peanut shells and the hard candy for long meetings. Gone was that tube of sportscreme for sore aching muscles. Gone were the spare batteries and cables for the non-working voice recorder. Gone was the collection of cables for plugging in just about anywhere.

But somehow, I left in the fruit knife.

You see, next to my bed I keep this orange knife. Not for cutting oranges, mind you; the color of the knife is actually orange. I often find myself eating a quick sandwich before bed, and that knife next to the bed is for cutting it up. Somehow, in the hungover rush to get out of the house to catch the last possible bus to the event, I stuck the damnable thing in my pocket, sheath and all.

So here I was, standing in the long line of people waiting to get in. I was chatting with former Mayoral candidate Erick Bennett, and I reached in my pocket to grab a pen to write something down.

Aw, crap. Here I was, standing in line to go to the caucus with Mittens on the way, and there was a knife in my pocket. You get this feeling when going through the TSA line in the New America. You’ve done nothing wrong, planned nothing nefarious…yet now by the fickle finger of fate you find yourself armed and potentially dangerous.

I ditched the knife in the bottom of the heavy journo bag, underneath all the crap still there. Hopefully, later in the day I might find myself at the bar, and have a legitimate excuse for cutting fruit.

It was the usual convention. Appoint a secretary, check. Appoint a chair, check. Adopt Roberts Rules of Order revised, check.

Mitt Romney arrived, and spoke for himself. I missed whoever spoke for Santorum, in the search for a quick place to smoke a butt and hit the bathroom. I got back into the room just in time for the big show.

“We contacted Speaker Gingrich’s campaign, and they did not reply to us about sending someone to speak for him today. Would anyone here present like to Speak for Gingrich?”