Press Credentials.

Denver, CO.

My attempts at getting press credentials at the Saturday night Media party had been futile. I couldn't even get in and was repeatedly reminded by fresh-faced college interns with annoying bright eyes that the deadline for application had, in fact, been February 1st, 2008.

I was temping in a Hartford Insurance company office then. I had given up on politics in particular and writing in general. How could I have known that fate would thrust me back onto the campaign trail?

So, I reveiwed my options and was delighted to see the name of Morty Kastelbaum on the Fox News team covering the Obama-Fest. Morty and I had been friends since college, although we had barely spoken in a decade. Morty, it appeared, occupied a tony position at FOX News and, I assumed, could easily provide me with the necessary credentials. We met for a brunch at Denver's Lola restaurant where I was able to secure us a table on the patio overlooking the majestic Mile High City skyline. We drank Bloody Maria's and reminisced about a girl in college of the same name who we had both had the pleasure of delighting in. It was my one tangible experience with a shiksa. Many laughs were had about our days editing the Collegiate Mendele Review and our nights directing avant garde adaptations of the works of Bellow and Sholem Aleichem. Brunch was a festive Mexican delight of Lola Huevos and El Admiral (both of using the out of town out of kashrut rules to justify our pork gilded meals). We were in full merriment when I tactfully requested that he slip me an extra press pass. He had always been a more conservative type, the kind who used college as a sort of petri dish of human experiment in order to justify the remainder of his life following a strict routine, so, it was with little surprise, that I noticed his drunken hue drain to a sober white as he quickly remembered who he worked for.

'Bill,' he said chewing on his third order of chorizo, 'you know there is no way I can get you in with FOX.' He believed that simple statement would be enough to quiet me.

'But, Morty, remember Hunter S. Thompson marching onto the campaign floor with the Nixon Youth in 1972! Stranger things have happened, my friend! And it's me! All I need is a good view of the proceedings and I'll have enough material to write for weeks.'

'Bill, it's impossible. And don't think I know you'll be wanting the same treatment next week in Minneapolis.'

He had me there.

'Nah, Morty, I've got something lined up with the Weekly Standard there already. No problems on the Republican front.' Morty was chewing more aggresively now and signaling our waitress for the check.

'Listen, Bill, I really should get to work. I can't believe I had so much to drink! Good to see you, though, old pal, and maybe we can do the same in Minneapolis. Huh? Anyway, I got this one and I gotta go.' And with that he threw cash on the table, much more than brunch required, and quickly left the restaurant.

Dejected, I wandered out into the oppressive midday Denver heat, sweat quickly soaking through my black coat and hat. My peyot had lost their bounce. Having little to do and even less hope of finding the necessary credentials, I spent the afternoon loafing in and out of local bars, chatting with the people of Denver about Obama and McCain and the state of our great country. I was, unfortunately, far too drunk to remember anything said and too dejected to take notes. After six hours of steady drinking I stumbled into the Sheraton Denver Tech Center, the hotel housing the Illinois Democratic Delegation. In the bar, much to my surprise, I saw a familiar face, head down on the bar, snoring.

It was Paul Krugman of The New York Times. Fortune had smiled upon me! There, hanging off the back of his chair, was his press pass. With little thought, I walked over to the bar, patted him aggressively on the back, yelled a declarative and familiar 'Hey Paul!' and slipped the pass off his chair and into my pocket. Krugman didn't budge.

I was home free.