Barack Obama part 2

This is the second article in a four-part series about Barack Obama's recent visit to Eugene.

After four hours spent waiting in line, my carcass finally passed through the entrance to McArthur Court. Security was what you'd call tight, but it seemed to me that, if there was any serious threat of attack, these town hall meetings would be very dangerous for candidates. I'm sure that the Secret Service got the schematic of Mac Court beforehand and that they were reasonably familiar with it, but anyone who attends Oregon Ducks Basketball games would probably be even more so and perfectly capable of using that knowledge to his advantage, were he interested in sneaking in a gun and shooting Barack Obama.

As it is, though, the Secret Service on the ground seems unaware of this. At one point, my friend Lars took out his camera and photographed the assembled ambulances and fire engines and one Secret Service member in a white shirt and a black bulletproof vest trudged up to him and said, non-negotiably "You're not allowed to take pictures of any of us." Lars, ever non-confrontational, did not ask "why?" but I would have liked to how a photograph of this particular guard, with his long, difficult Polish last name beginning with "T" would jeopardize either Obama or him.

We were then ushered through the airport-esque metal detectors. They differed from the airport inasmuch as they were not accompanied by X-ray machines and administered at a furious pace. Again, an impressive brouhaha, but anyone with sense and timing could have snuck a gun or grenade in amidst the confusion--in a hidden pocket in a backpack, for instance. Lars was detained as they confiscated his laser pointer, though.

I think the purpose of big-time-Charlies at the gate, impressive checkpoint apparati, symbolic confiscations and the like is to reassure people that the candidate is well-protected. And some of the people in there probably cared quite a bit.

As Lars' laser pointer was being confiscated, we lost him in the crowd and the rest of us made our way up to our seats. Oregon is said to have one of the most intimidating atmospheres in college sports and, in this case, I think a great deal has to do with the intimacy and personality of eighty-year-old Mac Court. Of course, like any venue of that age, it is unsafe. One misplaced cigarette would probably kill thousands. But it is also an affecting throwback, especially in the cheap seats, a hundred feet above the creaky maple floor.

I feel compelled to disclose something that probably colored my entire perception of this event from this point forward: I was sitting in maybe the worst seat in the house. I was parallel with the stage that Obama was supposed to be standing on and there was a guy in front of me blocking my view. If I got out of my seat and leaned as far forward as I could, then I could see him. The people to my right and left at least had a better angle on him. I was in the back row. My seat was also uncomfortable. I took to admiring the inside of the arena and the size of the crowd.

The opening speakers were forgettable and patronizing, except for former Gen. Tony McPeak. The two local Obama organizers spoke to us like schoolchildren, as did US Rep. Earl Blumenauer. Gen. McPeak at least gave us some convincing reasons to vote for Obama--he's intelligent, steady, and has integrity. But, overall, none of these people deserved remarking upon.

The crowd was far more interesting. Handicapped spectators sat directly behind the stage in the closest seats. The three tiers were occupied by people like me who had waited in line. I had no idea how the people in the mass of students standing on the floor had gotten those positions, but, looking over the edge of a man-made cliff at the stage with my acrophobia, I envied them. As you do, I spend a good deal of time identifying people I knew among them: Michaela Cordova, Huy Nguyen, Cims Gillespie: that means you.

As Obama's 9p.m. speech grew nearer, volunteers began to hand out signs. In the tier behind where the Senator would station his head, manufactured "Change" signs in red and blue were handed out to his right, and "homemade" ones made of marker and construction paper to his left. The audience directly behind him received one "Change" sign each. A man with cerebral palsy repeatedly asked for one of these as a souvenir and the volunteer distributing them repeatedly denied him before muscling her way past him and out of the arena holding the leftovers, presumably to use when the campaign rolled into Medford the next day. God knows she probably couldn't spare even one.

I began to wish I had signed up to volunteer, more out of the suspicion that it would look good on my resume and impress people than out of any kind of political conviction. Also, I would have gotten a free shirt.

Through the speakers pumped the kind of banal pop music puree you would, I guess, expect from a political rally: country, pop-alternative, "Celebrate" and other disco and funk hits, oldies, a bit of hip-hop, Natasha Bedingfield. Some of the more enthusiastic atendees on the floor and in the lower tiers began to dance to them. The subwoofers, even a hundred feet below, sent an apocalyptic rumbling through the upper tiers, which I guess was the bassline to Earth, Wind & Fire's "Shining Star."