Travis LaFrance

Get Us the Fung Wah Home!

A throng of anxious Democrats surges forward: there are shouts and jostles and tickets waving overhead at the keeper of the door. A VIP after hours party? A celebrity sighting? A photo op with Alex and Vanessa?

Nope, we're just trying to get on the Chinatown bus back to New York on Friday afternoon. The good folks at the Fung Wah Co. seem to have oversold their famous ten dollar bus seats by about %100 percent, and mob is building, getting little satisfaction from the middle-aged woman with the clipboard and walkie-talkie who now and then orders us around in Chinese.

I'm one of the lucky ones, whose bought a ticket online, and got there an hour early. Of course I was unable to print up my "e-ticket," so I have to negotiate with walkie-talktress, trotting out my "confirmation number" and photo ID. Finally I scribble a ticket on a piece of scratch paper, she scribbles something on it, and I sign it, and she lets me on.

My gut feeling is that they just keep selling the online tickets as long as people are willing to buy them, and then they just hope that not everyone shows up, or that those who do show up are sufficiently demoralized by the near-riot that they regain sanity and sulk back to South Station, write off the ten dollar loss, and cough up ninety bucks for an Amtrak ticket.

But not Travis. I'm a man of the people, and by God I'll ride with the common man. At this writing, I've now been elbow to elbow with him for four hours, and we're still stuck in traffic somewhere in Connecticut. As we inch over a riverbridge I see the damn Acela Express pass us on the next bridge over. The babies next to me have begun crying. I sure with I'd got a seat next to the girl in the miniskirt with the t-shirt that says "Smart, Sexy, and Liberal." Maybe when we get to New York I'll strike up a conversation on secular humanism.

"Whadja think of Obama?" I'll say.

The Princess in the Floating Prison

I stepped out of Blogger Bash for some fresh air, and who did I run into but my old associate Consultant X, who was just hopping into a cab to go to a party for Congressman Y, and insisted that I come. We drove over the bridge with a cabby who spoke no English and could not find the place, and finally we were reduced to uttering simple words like "boat" and "water," which eventually landed us at a harbor slip with a plank leading to a yacht no bigger than a Brooklyn row-house. I slipped off my shoes and almost immediately a brown-eyed maid in a sailor's uniform handed me a bottle of beer. The congressman pumped my hand and went on his way.

Class, Travis. Total Class.

Unlike the bloggers in their slick urban threads, this crowd had the tailored look of old money: navy blazers for the men and cream-colored pantsuits for the ladies. I rehearsed in my mind: port is on the right, starboard on the left—wait no—it's the opposite! Shit, what's a jib? I climbed the spiral stair case above deck and with my mind racing found myself face-to-face the most magnificent doe-eyed creature I'd ever seen. She wore white slacks and a peach-colored blouse revealing a string of pearls around her gorgeous neck, and before I could say a word it was as if someone had activated magnets in our ribs. We drew close. I worried for an instant that my mere presence might dirty her pants, but neither of us was capable of stepping back. I said my name and extended my hand.

"I'm Taylor," she purred. "Feel your calluses!"

I rattled on for a minute about kayaking down the Grand Canyon, and then she rattled on about a Fulbright in France, but neither really listened. Her eyes were blue and her features chiseled. Except for her trip to France, Taylor had never set foot outside of New England. She carried herself erect and spoke with the self-possession of a girl who'd never had a voice raised in her direction. Down below a fellow had stripped to boxers and jumped into the water, and soon he was joined by two fully-clothed and tipsy blondes, and together they swam across the slip to the next ship, glowing there in the radiance of the airport lights across the river. Taylor and I whispered nonsense inaudible to everyone else.

And then he emerged: a lumbering giant with his barrel-chest bursting over his khakis, the junior-partner no doubt in his father's firm. He laid his mitts on my porcelain doll, wrenching her away from me, and her slender hips recoiled visibly. He bent down to say something in her ear and her shoulders turned to gooseflesh.

He was gone, and Taylor turned to me with a look of anguish. "I guess we're going to another party."

"It was good to meet you," was all I could think to say.

Her eyes were suddenly very clear and wet. They pleaded to me: Save me from the country club, Travis. Deliver me from a lifetime of brunches with in-laws at the yacht club in Rhode Island. Take me some place where I can be a woman and not a trophy.

But what could I do? Travis LaFrance is only one man, and Boston has so many thousands of women. I clasped her hand once more and let her fingers slide slowly out of mine.

"Maybe I'll see you again," she said. "I hope so."

Her tormentor reappeared and clenched her wrist, and escorted her down the stairs. I went to the rail and watched him tow her across the dock, and she turned and, taking small steps backward, smiled to me as she was led away.

02:44 PM | July 29, 2004 | Comments (3)

What's a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Blog Like This?

Considering that it was the sort of party where they hand out memory sticks as party favors, the Blogger Bash had a surprisingly high number of vamped-up women in attendance. One veteran of the dot com boom and bust interpreted this as the blogger bubble's death knell. "As soon as sane, single woman started to show up at the dot com parties," he said, "it was all over."

Travis was of course awarded a green wristband that allowed for unhindered free bar access. (I wonder why the Fleet Center didn't consider wristbands as a way to cut back on the hoi-polloi getting into the convention?) In tribute of the recently unmasked blogger, everyone was given a name tag that said "Atrios" at the door, which gave occasion for this exchange:

She-Blogger: "Who's this Atrios, anyway?"
Travis LaFrance: "If you have to ask, you'll never know."

Then I explained the joke, which immediately didn't seem all that funny. And even though she'd never heard of the guy, she-blogger was starstruck: "Well, can you point out the real Atrios? I'd like to meet him."

So then I asked what sort of blog she authored.

"It's about encounters I have in my travels. "
"Oh."
"Mostly with men."
"Ah."
"Sort of like Sex in the City."

But then when I asked for the address, she wouldn't tell. Turns out that she's kept it a secret for all the months she's been blogging.

TLF: "So you mean that nobody besides yourself has ever read your blog?"
SB: "Yes."

I suppose she's sort of like Emily Dickinson in that way. Or Kafka.

On a Yacht: Where Else?

It's 4 AM. Details tomorrow.

We Don't Need No Stinking Badges

Don't believe the naysayers. Credentials in Boston are about as hard to come by as the clap in Tijuana. And approximately the same price, too. Once you're in, all you have to do is borrow a ticket from a friend, take it outside to another friend, and voila—you're all in. In the amount of time it took Travis LaFrance to complete the procedure, my accomplice, waiting in a bar on Canal Street near the Freedom Cage, had already been given three passes by a stranger in a bar—one of which was a coveted red pass (floor) and another of which was a luxury suite pass. So by the time we passed through the metal detectors we had no fewer than five passes between us. I sure hope the Republicans or the terrorists don't figure this system out.

I jaunted up to the elevator, luxury pass in pocket, to claim my place in the suites. But wouldn’t you know it the fire marshal had shut Level 6 down completely. And then I couldn't even get a seat in the cheap seats. It turns out that a bunch of irresponsible assholes were abusing the system, and scamming their way into the seats of legitimate pass-holders. Have they no shame?

So I ended up watching John Edwards speak on a television screen out by the hot dog vendors. Toward the end I wandered away from the TV set, talked my way past an usher to a seat, and it was if I had passed through the looking glass into the television set, and there I was in the stands, waving my sign and clapping my hands.

Barack and Terese: The New Swashbucklers

As a globetrotting adventure author with a flair for elegance, I've often bemoaned the slate of Democrats as a bunch of milquetoast paper-pushers (Geppy) and outright weenies (Lieberman). Where's the panache? Where's the exotic? Who will be our Teddy Roosevelt, slaying wildebeests on safari in Botswana?

As of last night, they've arrived: the son of a Kenyan goat herder who shot to the top of the Harvard Law Review and an immigrant from Mozambique who speaks five languages and married not one but two U.S. Senators.

Now these are some people Travis LaFrance could hang out with. You know: bumping across the Serengeti in a Land Cruiser, late-night chats about metaphysics aboard a sloop off the Azores, rushing into the Sudan by helicopter with Kofi Annan and a team of Swiss surgeons. The highballs are stout and the Gauloises burn from silver-tipped holders. Therese will lean in close and chide with her continental purr: "The prince says that you and Barack are not to leave the palace grounds until you've finished drafting the new constitution."

That's what I call restoring American prestige across the globe.

Now just wait for the future presidential primary between Obama and John Edwards, when Barack gets to say, "I've always believed that in America, the son of a goat herder can defeat the son of a mill worker, and become President of the United States."

Make Me Merry, Let Me See Kerry

LaFrance here: live from Blogger's Boulevard in the Fleet Center. For all the yapping about tight security and tight access, I waltzed into town with my hand in my hat and had four tickets offered to me by sundown. Of course it doesn't hurt to be an internationally acclaimed literary stylist.

The ticket-trading scene out front was described to me as "drug deal-esque"and I suppose it bears some resemblance to a Grateful Dead show parking lot situation I recall from my bohemian days. Back then a fellow could trade a few hits of acid or a small puppy for a ticket, and the less resourceful would just wander listlessly pleading for a "miracle" or muttering: "Make me merry, let me see Jerry." I'm not sure what you're expected to trade for access to the Fleet Center, but it seems pretty loose.

Though frankly I'm not sure what the big deal is. It smells like mansweat up here--and where are the cocktails? My green pass was turned away from the rooms where free drinks flowed, an unfortunate result of staffing the door with illiterates. Tomorrow I'm going to bring some crystals and see if I can't trade trade them out front for a red pass.

Star-Struck in Boston

So I made it to the heart of it all, and immediately I've learned that the most exciting activity is celebrity watching. I've yet to see anyone more famous than myself, but I've heard reports of seeing Al Franken, Jeneane Garafalo, and most impressive--Andre 3000.

Now, I've been Andre's biggest fan since way back when he used to call himself Andre the Giant. Fact is, I'd been under the impression that he'd died a few years back--it's always inspiring the way these professional athletes can re-invent themselves.

So I'm going to keep my eyes peeled. It's can't be too hard to miss a guy who's seven feet tall!

Dude, this is out Woodstock!

Not that the Democrats are a party of class division, but if they were, one might neatly divide convention attendees into two groups: those with credentials who arrived by plane, train and car over the weekend, and those without, like me, who were slouching toward Boston today on the Fung Wah bus line, two days late and about fifty dollars short of an Amtrak ticket. For those not familiar with this miracle of modern transport and capitalism, the Chinatown bus whisks travelers from New York to Boston for a mere ten bucks—a few dollars less than the price of a mixed drink in Manhattan. Much has been written of the line's veritable rainbow coalition of riders:

The passenger list on the bus veers towards the eclectic, with elderly Chinese men rubbing elbows with skinny hipsters who dress exactly like them, from the blue New Balance sneakers with taupe socks to the Member's Only jackets and vintage ski caps. . .

The rule proved true this morning. To the best of my assessment, all the white people aboard were under 30 and convention bound (I deduced this from the t-shirts that said "Billionaires for Bush" and "My Bush would make a Better President"). (OK, fine, I'm 33.) Most of the non-white people were accompanied by someone either under 10 or over 80 years of age, and I frankly don't expect to see any of them at Bloggerfest tomorrow night.

Halfway to Boston we pulled into a Roy Rogers somewhere in Connecticut, and I was suddenly aware that I was not the only loser who thought he was going to bum-rush the no-invite events for free drinks and cheese poppers. I overheard this conversation while waiting to order my cheeseburger:

Guy sporting the Marky Mark look in baggy camo shorts, wife-beater tank-top and beginner stubble: "You guys have passes or are you just going to hang out?"
Guy with Bono glasses: "Nah, my buddy is working the door, though, and he said he might be able to hook us up."
Camo: "We were hoping to see Howard Dean and Michael Moore today, but it looks like we're not going to make it on time."
Bono: "It's gonna to be going off up there."
Camo:"Totally."
Bono: "Do you know of any parties tonight?"

Now here's the scary part. About 40 of these Chinatown buses go to Boston every day. Look out Boston, because in the famous words of Grand Funk Railroad: We're coming to your town, we'll help you party it down--We're an American band!

P.S. If these guys get "hooked up" at the door, then God help us and all our security measures.

Yes on Women's Lib

So far I've only missed the speeches of two presidents and one vice-president. This was beyond my control. While the action was happening at the Fleet Center, I was still straightening out my credentials from my home/office here in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, and inadvertently missed the train to Boston.

You might think that this Polish neighborhood is a strange home for an author of my stature--certainly with my book advances and the like, I could afford to live in a place where English is a first language. Let me assure that I moved to Greenpoint for its European sophistication: tubes of kielbasa hanging in the butcher shops, vats of sauerkraut, the occasional drunk face-down on a park bench in McGoldrick Square babbling in his mother tongue. Travis LaFrance lives the Bohemian life.

As an example, let me share a brief encounter I had at the neighborhood laundromat while waiting for word from the DNC. As I pulled my clothes from the dryer, a young Polish lass asked me in her hesitant English if she could use the machine. I answered yes, and even pointed out benevolently that there were a few minutes remaining from my quarters. As I retreated to the folding table, I noted with satisfaction that American fashion had been good to this blossom. No more than 20 years of age, she wore a pair of men's pajamas rolled over at the waistband and a snug halter top revealing a tanned belly button with a ring through it. I studied her, contemplating how she epitomized concepts the multiculturism and women's liberation that make me so proud to be a Democrat.

Just then a tiny piece of fabric hopped from the girls' hands and landed in the basket next to her. I looked closer: it seemed to be a lacy black underthing of the slimmest dimensions. Ah, what finer emblem of an immigrant girl's Americanization than a sexy butt thong! But then I realized with dismay that the girl wasn't aware she'd dropped the thing. I was presented with an ethical dilemma. If I alerted her, she might unfairly suspect me of peeping. If I said nothing, the lonely strip of lace might never be reunited with its mistress.

Finally I put right over pride, and I approached the girl, picked up her thong and handed to her. She gave me a curious glare. She sang out in her native language, and within moments I was surrounded by hulking young Poles with shaved heads and soccer jerseys. Although we shared no language, their raised voices and furious gesticulating made it clear that they appreciated my assisting their sister or cousin or girlfriend. One of the fellows gave me a stout yet good-natured slap on the back, while another did me the honor of toting my laundry bag out the door and depositing it in the street with a rough-hewn old-world directness that I sometimes feel is lacking from my countrymen.

And I hurried out of there, proud of my country, and proud to be heading to Boston to celebrate my country. Needless to say my deft charm employed in the laundromat with this vixen will get me far with the she-bloggers in Boston. Perhaps I'll run into Wonkette and Washingtonienne who would surely appreciate the steady hand of a Man of Letters to guide them in their literary pursuits.

Boston, here I come!

I Step Down to the Blog

I've often pitied the Internet.

So many well-meaning, would-be authors tap-tap-typing their verse into a medium that may not survive the next power outage—much less find a permanent place in the Western Canon.

Tonight all that changes. Just as surely as the words of Travis LaFrance have rescued book publishing from its foppish irrelevance and put the Man back in the Mens Magazines, so now shall I shed my authorial sunlight on this budding literary fruit known as the Blog.

Under usual circumstances I'd be far too burdened with my various book and magazine projects to busy myself with such a second-rate—albeit novel—endeavor. My words are not mere blips on a screen; they reside for eternity in the brick-like books that bend shelves of hard oak. But due to various complications involving contracts and lawsuits (too trivial to recount here), I happened to be free this week, and so when the offer came to report from Boston, I said why not.

I understand the fellows are putting on quite a shindig this week—and I have no doubt that they'll be happy to welcome a tried-and-true fighter for the people such as myself. Hiya John, Hiya John, it's me Travis—didn't we cross paths while windsurfing off of Tahiti a few years back? Why, sure: I'd love to escort your daughter to the Kennedy soiree this evening. Send a bottle of something sparkly up to my suite.

Anyway, I'm getting a late start, seeing as it's already Sunday night and I'm still in New York. But that's all right—they can start the preliminaries without me, and then when I get off the train I'll give the go ahead, and the party starts. See you then.