Joke of the week: How many journalists does it take to screw in a light bulb? Answer: One -- plus 14,999 to unscrew it, spin it, toss it around and then insert it over and over again until the filament goes cold.
The task of covering a national convention is anything but a household chore, but one has to wonder whether the industry's top tradespeople have to be on the maintenance crew.
When the big-ticket names haven't been anchoring themselves, they've usually been busy being interviewed by colleagues, working out of tents that are only slightly easier to find than Osama Bin Laden's main lair, arranging interviews with sought-after politicos who aren't on campus, or gossiping with old friends about rumors even the National Enquirer wouldn't print. That doesn't leave much time for actual reporting.
To accurately capture the vibe and impact of the convention would mean spreading your talent across the country or at least across the Twin Cities, where top talent could straddle a bar stool in a Frogtown bar or camp out at the base of the Mall of America's roller coaster, and get unfiltered, unmanipulated feedback.
But the media don't work that way.
All journalists worth their power suits want to be in the main tent at the lip of the action, even if they're gathering the same knowledge they could glean from an afternoon of C-Span.
"I would have walked on glass to be here," said NPR's Michel Martin, who was a hot-ticket guest on the week's talk-show circuit. "We all have to show that we're important enough to be here. Your buddies need to know that you're still a player."
Martin did take a break from her schedule to get outside the perimeter and speak to students at Benilde-St. Margaret's High School in St. Louis Park. It's much harder for the superstars to take that kind of side trip.