Confusion At The Convention

I'm the man for the job. I've got a leg up. This is something I know. That's what I told editors all summer long (including the editors of Orato), when I was trying to convince them to hire me to cover the Democratic National Convention in Denver.

See, I'm a freelance reporter, I've covered a few elections, I grew up in Denver, I know my way around the city. One of my best friends even helped design the interior of the Pepsi Center.

And the pitch seemed to work. I returned to my hometown on Sunday with my credentials in hand and several assignments (including this one). What I didn't have was any idea what I was getting myself into.

I had envisioned it all being so simple: set up shop for the week with the rest of the media somewhere near the Pepsi Center, interview a few delegates, check out some of the more than 750 panels, parties and other events nearby, and be sure to spend plenty of time on the street chronicling the massive demonstrations that were planned.

Such a simple plan. Plenty of work, to be sure, but relatively simple. What could go wrong? After all, this is my town, remember?

As it turned out, I hardly recognized my town anymore. Huge two-mile long security barriers had been erected around the Pepsi Center, walling it off like some sort of postmodern Vatican City. And the people, the people are everywhere— not the angry mobs of protesters I had envisioned, more like the total transformation of a mid-size Western town with plenty of space for all into a place with crowds that feel like Tokyo.

George Stephanopolus is wandering the streets on a cell phone as Ben Affleck's limo rolls by—the city has turned into an enormous gossip mill.