Day 7: The 100 Club Dinner
Manchester, NH -
Let me set the scene. We are in a arena. On the floor of the arena there is a raised stage, podium, and teleprompters. Surrounding this is 100-plus round tables. Waiters and Waitresses dressed in black pants and white dress shirts are frantically serving what looks to be filet mignon and shrimp cocktail to the guests. Entire bottles of wine are open and flowing at the tables. Men in Brioni suits and women in Chanel mingle with elected officials and members of the media pundit class. This dinner is their reward. These men and women are the high-dollar donors of the Democratic Party in New Hampshire.
I am, as you can probably guess, not among them. I am in the cheap seats: the bleachers. I join the rows and rows of people here to support the campaign of their choice and to see the candidates speak. We hold up signs and cheer for our candidate, all while getting a first-hand view of the class divisions in our society. We pay five dollars for a bottle of water or popcorn to satiate our appetites that awoke by the scent permeating the arena from below us. I suppose us plebs should be thankful the elite even allowed us into the wine cave this time. Nobody crossed the lines or jumped over the partition that divided us. Everyone remained in their assigned places. This time.
Who were the candidates speaking to? The donors on the floor or the voters? I'll leave that question for you to answer.
Let me set the scene. We are in a arena. On the floor of the arena there is a raised stage, podium, and teleprompters. Surrounding this is 100-plus round tables. Waiters and Waitresses dressed in black pants and white dress shirts are frantically serving what looks to be filet mignon and shrimp cocktail to the guests. Entire bottles of wine are open and flowing at the tables. Men in Brioni suits and women in Chanel mingle with elected officials and members of the media pundit class. This dinner is their reward. These men and women are the high-dollar donors of the Democratic Party in New Hampshire.
I am, as you can probably guess, not among them. I am in the cheap seats: the bleachers. I join the rows and rows of people here to support the campaign of their choice and to see the candidates speak. We hold up signs and cheer for our candidate, all while getting a first-hand view of the class divisions in our society. We pay five dollars for a bottle of water or popcorn to satiate our appetites that awoke by the scent permeating the arena from below us. I suppose us plebs should be thankful the elite even allowed us into the wine cave this time. Nobody crossed the lines or jumped over the partition that divided us. Everyone remained in their assigned places. This time.
Who were the candidates speaking to? The donors on the floor or the voters? I'll leave that question for you to answer.
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