The Republic of T.

Let me start by saying that I’m going to give the Log Cabin Republicans the benefit of the doubt that they choose their party and their candidate based on their political philosophy and not just their positions on LGBT issues. I said as much in a comment on a post at Independent Gay Forum that, to me, didn’t seem to extend the same courtesy to those of us at the other side of the political spectrum.

But obviously, if your vote is determined by gay issues, it’s going to go to Obama/Biden. If you think Obama is better for gays but worse (or even dangerously worse) for the country, than voting for McCain/Palin does not make you a self-loather (though Obama’s LGBT devotees will certainly tar you, endlessly, with that brush).

As I said in my comment, I’ll make a deal with the LCR and gay conservatives: I won’t characterize you guys as self-loathing if you don’t characterize LGBT Democrats and progressives as mindless, one-issue voters. After all, none of the people I know or talked to in Denver are supporting Obama/Biden soley on the basis of their positions on LGBT issues, but because we think that McCain/Palin is worse (or even dangerously worse) for the country on a whole range of issues from the economy to health care and foreign policy. It just happens that one candidate/party is better on LGBT issues than the other

Which brings me, belatedly, to LCR’s endorsement of the McCain/Palin ticket.

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Wow. Just…wow.

Rough Transcript after the Jump

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I haven’t had time to write anything about McCain’s VP pick, because I’ve been at home with Dylan — who’s apparently cutting his top front teeth, which makes him really irritable — since yesterday (daycare is closed), and probably won’t have anything to post today for the same reason. I do have a couple of posts I’m working on which, with nay luck, will get posted before the end of the week.

In the meantime, I have a question.

Which is worse. That McCain’s choice of Palin was essentially a roll of the dice? Or that after a vetting process that started in May and encompassed 21 names (though the vetting team only arrived in Alaska one day before the announcement, and McCain met her only once before making the offer) and she really is the best they could do?

One. Heartbeat. Away.

I suppose it had to come to this eventually. John Edwards is the one who had the affair, but now people are angry with Elizabeth.

It seems an odd way to treat a woman with incurable cancer wronged by a cheating husband, the latest in a series of deep hardships in life that includes the death of a teenage son.

But some former followers have questioned the recklessness of keeping the affair under wraps even though her husband — a former U.S. senator, two-time presidential candidate and the 2004 vice presidential nominee — said he confessed the affair in 2006, before the campaign began in earnest the next year.

“I think she’s complicit,” said Brad Crone, a Raleigh-based Democratic consultant. “Obviously, she knew. While she’s the victim, she clearly didn’t stand in the way of the cover-up.”

She didn’t stand in the way of the cover-up? Exactly what would people have her do? Denounce her husband on national television, and then have the cameras follow her to the courthouse to file divorce papers?

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After the last post, I thought I’d share one more celeb citing, as I was on my way out of Denver. This time, I was at the Denver airport, taking the shuttle from security to the departure gate. (Note: this couldn’t be posted from the Denver airport because — like most of my time at the convention — I was never able to get their wifi internet access to work. To add insult to injury, the 24-hour technical support number on the brochure that the woman at the information desk gave to me as dead. It never even rang when I called it. The call just disconnected. Did the same thing when she called it, after I informed her of it.)

I didn’t see her going through security, but I glimpsed a flash of red out of the corner of my eye, turned my head ever so slightly, and there she was, wheeling her carry-on to the shuttle.

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It’s true, celebs abounded in Denver.

You can’t walk within shouting distance of the Pepsi Center here without sighting Ben Affleck, Eva Longoria, Stephen Spielberg or Melissa Etheridge.

After Hillary Clinton’s speech Tuesday, reporters lurched after passed canapés poolside at a posh Denver home where Sean Penn and directors J.J. Abrams and Cameron Crowe filled out a crowd that included Charlie Rose, Sony Pictures (SNE) Chairman Michael Lynton and Liberty Media chief executive Greg Maffei.

It’s no surprise that the mostly liberal cultural mavens of Hollywood cannot contain their enthusiasm for Barack Obama (if that looks like Oprah cheering tonight during his big moment, it probably is.) It’s also brilliantly perverse that while the Republican governor of California is an action movie star, John McCain’s campaign derisively labels Obama as “the biggest celebrity in the world.”

But from a business perspective, it’s hard to explain why so many media folks are here. Rarely has so much firepower come together in one place with so little specific purpose.

I had psuedo-celebrity citings all week. Pseudo, because they always turned out to be wrong, except for one. On Monday, I thought I saw one of my favorite actors. But it was only some guy who looked like Joaquin Phoenix, if he’d put on a little weight between movies. Wednesday, I thought I saw some guy who looked like an unshaven David Spade. I thought I saw George Lucas walk past me as one point, but I decided that if he was at Invesco field, he’d have a private box.

But then I hit the jackpot with my number one bona fide celeb encounter in Denver. I was leaving the press box and leaving Invesco field (to beat the rush), riding the elevator down to the first floor, when the elevator stopped on the third floor, and on to the elevator stepped…

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I walked into the convention hall today, on my way to the LGBT Caucus (and on my way to pick up a credential to get me into the Pepsi Center today), when I saw San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsome. After what he did in San Francisco, and what came of it on the California Supreme Court, I couldn’t just pass him by. (It didn’t hurt that he was taller and more handsome in person than he is in his pictures.) I had to stop and thank him.

I told him, I was just on my way to the LGBT caucus and that just wanted to stop and thank him. To which he responded “Thank you!” One of his aides overheard me say where I was going, and invited me to walk with them since they were going to the LGBT caucus too.

And then we stepped into the hall, and heard the announcement that Del Martin just passed away. She died quietly, surrounded by her family and friends. There was a gasp, and a moment of stunned silence.

And as I thought about Del, I realized that before she died she got to do something that perhaps she never thought she would: after 55 years together, she got to marry the woman she loved. Something Gavin Newsome helped happen, and something that some people with deep-pockets want to keep us from doing.

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My reaction? “Goddamn and Holy Shit! She did it!” I’m (finally) sitting here in the bloggers’ lounge at the Pepsi Center, where I heard her speech, and from where I sit, she did what she needed to do.

In the first two sentences, she unequivocally supported Barrack Obama. Then she talked about her campaign — about the people she was in it for — and then she laid it on the line with one question: “Were you in it for me? Or were you in it for them?”

The answer was clear: You’ve got to be in it for them, and if you’re in it for them, you’ve got to elect Barrack Obama.

But you saw the same speech. What do you think?

So, I flew into Denver yesterday, after not bothering to go to bed Saturday night, because my flight was at 6:06 a.m. and the shuttle to Dulles picked me up at 3:29 a.m. Besides, I wasn’t able to pack until after the kids went to bed. But then I wanted to help the hubby fold the laundry, and wanted to load and run the dishwasher, since I was leaving him on his own with the kids to go off and witness history. Oh yeah, and blog about it.

The problem is, my first day at the convention, I didn’t really see much to blog about. Actually, I sat in on about 15 minutes of the LGBT caucus, and saw Michelle Obama’s speech on a television screen with closed captioning and the volume turned down, and from a distance at that. But, at least I got a pretty good story out of it. So, maybe the day wasn’t a total loss.

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Have you been watching the Democratic National Convention on television? If so, you’ve already seen more of it than I have, I’m in Denver for the supposed purpose of blogging about the convention. (More on that later.) So, what are your thoughts? Can you tell m what I missed. I’m hoping to have time to watch Edward Kennedy’s and Michelle Obama’s speeches via YouTube, if I can find (a) the time and (b) a reliable wifi connection.

But seriously, what did I miss yesterday?

You already know Michael Phelps is an Olympic hottie, and he’s a pretty good swimmer too. But what I didn’t know, and what kind of makes him even more of an Olympic hero to me, is that when he was younger it was predicted that he’d never be able to focus on anything, because Michael Phelps has ADHD.

Starting with preschool, teachers complained: Michael couldn’t stay quiet at quiet time, Michael wouldn’t sit at circle time, Michael didn’t keep his hands to himself, Michael was giggling and laughing and nudging kids for attention.

As he entered public school, he displayed what his teachers called “immature” behavior. “In kindergarten I was told by his teacher, ‘Michael can’t sit still, Michael can’t be quiet, Michael can’t focus,’ ” recalled Ms. Phelps, who was herself a teacher for 22 years. The family had recently moved, and she felt Michael might be frustrated because the kindergarten curriculum he was getting in the new district was similar to the pre-K curriculum in their old district.

…In the elementary grades at their suburban Baltimore school, Ms. Phelps said, Michael excelled in things he loved — gym and hands-on lessons, like science experiments. “He read on time, but didn’t like to read,” she said. “So I gave him the Baltimore Sun sports pages, even if he just read the pictures and captions.”

She will never forget one teacher’s comment: “This woman says to me, ‘Your son will never be able to focus on anything.’ ”

… When he was in fifth grade, during his annual check-up, Ms. Phelps and the family physician, Dr. Charles Wax, discussed whether Michael might have A.D.H.D. — attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. By then, the Phelpses were a swimming family. (Michael’s older sister Whitney at 15 was ranked first in the country in the 200-meter butterfly, though her career would be cut short by a back injury.) Dr. Wax’s children also swam, and he’d noticed Michael at the Phelps sisters’ swim meets. “Michael used to run around like a little crazy person mooching food off people,” said Ms. Phelps.

The doctor suggested sending assessment forms to his teachers. Their consensus: Can’t sit still, can’t keep quiet, can’t focus.

Well, it looks like someone hadn’t heard of hyperfocus.

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Then I’m walking in Memphis

Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale

Walking in Memphis

But do I really feel the way I feel

~ Marc Cohn, “Walking in Memphis”

On my next-to-last day in Memphis, before flying home, I finally made my pilgrimage. No, not to Graceland. I never really had any desire to go there. Besides, I knew that when I got home, most of the people who knew me and knew about my trip wouldn’t ask if I went to Graceland. At least not first. If I was going to visit anywhere in Memphis, there was one place I had to visit first. So when I co-worker told me that several people were planning to visit the National Civil Rights Museum — which includes and incorporates the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated — I knew that was where I was going to go, if I went anywhere else in Memphis.

I remember walking through the exhibit, and finally making my way to the King Room, looking through the glass that protected and preserved it, and then walking through an adjacent room and stepping out onto the balcony next to where King was shot. I remember looking across the street and seeing the window of the boarding house where James Earl Ray made the fatal shot. I remember walking through a tunnel, across the street to that house, and looking into the room from which he made the shot. And I remember walking past James Earl Ray’s car when we finally left the museum.

I stepped out into the sunlight, at last, with the rest of the group —all of us blinking our eyes, trying to get used to the light, grateful for the awkward silence, yet feeling the need to fill it with something profound or moving, but coming up short. The thought I kept to myself was how strange it was that in Memphis people ended up visiting a monument to someone’s death, both named — at birth or at birth as a celebrity — “King.” I didn’t think about then, what comes to mind now: how many deaths will receive no monument in Memphis, or be remembered even a year later.

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I thought of two things when I saw this poll.

The first was one of my favorite songs, from which I borrowed the title of this post. The second was a book I read a few years ago that actually makes it hard for me to answer “yes” to the question in the poll.

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