The Democratic National Convention in Chicago has been moving more or less smoothly - Monday's schedule ran behind somewhat - but it has had some memorable moments, most notably the way the Obamas filleted Trump and talked bout all the second chances Trump got that no one in the convention hall would have gotten. (Well, of course, they're Democrats, they blow it once, they're never allowed to try again.) All in all, very impressive.
The roll call? What happened?
Well, the producers of the convention, who obviously learned their skills rom David Wolper or someone like that, decided to play music of every different genre associated with each state when that state's delegation was called to cast its votes and it suddenly turned into Live Aid or something . . . and when it was Georgia's turn, some rapper/DJ/whatever who was a protégé of Robin Hood and was from Atlanta before he moved to Sherwood Forest, turned the convention into a Freaknik.
As a European trapped in an American's body, given what I know bout party congresses in the Old Country, I am consistently amazed by how Americans, in addition to worshipping God and Mammon simultaneously, mix business with pleasure so seamlessly.
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