The Rubble Of The Iowa Caucuses

I’m certainly not going to tell you I saw it coming, even after spending the morning of the Iowa caucuses literally in a political theater in Des Moines.

But I will tell you this: After talking to my son Jack about his first experience caucusing later that evening at the airport, I had an inkling.

Because whatever means a state decides to use to choose a presidential candidate, there should be one cardinal rule: The voter should get to vote for the candidate of his or her choice.

Or at least the second.

Or third.

Or fourth.

Jack was not so lucky. A rare young person supporting Pete Buttigieg, he was willing, understanding the odd rules of the Iowa caucuses, to become an even rarer young person supporting Joe Biden if, at Jack’s caucus site in Iowa City, Mayor Pete did not garner the 15 percent needed to remain viable.

But Buttigieg wasn’t viable. Neither was Biden. Nor was his third or even his fourth choice.

So he left the caucus as a supporter of his fifth-favorite candidate — or, more aptly put, third-least favorite candidate — Amy Klobuchar.

If that’s how they think this should go, frankly, they deserve the brickbats piling up on them this week.

Once the dust settled, to see how it all went wrong, I read a story in the Washington Post charting the disaster. I lost count at how many different types of things went wrong at every level, not the least of which was the head of the Iowa Democratic Party not even personally testing the reporting app on which the party decided to hang its reputation.

By the time I sat down to write this, there was serious discussion among the pundits as to whether the New Hampshire results would come in before the Iowa results were finalized.

And it almost seems like one prominent politico saw it all coming.

I was enjoying a pleasant early morning on the set of MSNBC’s “Morning Joe” with some new friends, all disturbed enough to join me in line, outdoors, at 3:30 on a frigid Des Moines morning, to get in. (In fact, though I showed up at 3:30 on the nose, as requested, I was dead last in line. These people are nuts.)

The mood was good. The co-hosts were chirpy, their guests fueled by political adrenaline.

And then Chris Matthews walked in.

The “Hardball” host would have none of the feel-good atmosphere, going on air and immediately casting doubt on the prospects of all of the Democratic candidates, none of which he seemed to think could take on Trump.

The room went silent. Matthews finished his stint and walked past our table, looking straight toward the door, scowling. Our table’s resident Bernie Sanders supporter couldn’t resist loudly touting his candidate, who had been cited in particular by Matthews as most likely to drive the Democrats into a ditch.

“Enjoy the next few weeks,” Matthews shot over his shoulder, smirking, prognosticating the length of Sanders’s anticipated moment in the sun.

I can’t say I blame him, as I found myself at the end of the week pretty down on Sanders, too, though not necessarily because of him. One thing you find out pretty quickly in seeing all the candidates up close at small town halls is that they don’t say anything much different from what they say on TV. And so you find yourself judging candidates not so much by what they say as by the company they keep.

And, to say the least, I did not feel at home at the Sanders rally, which felt more like a Phish concert — as opposed to a Buttigieg or Warren rally, which felt more like an educational or cultural event at Rogers Memorial Library.

First, there was the parking: five bucks to get anywhere near the Cedar Rapids arena at which Sanders would supposedly appear later that night, though I gave up on seeing him after about the sixth opening act.

Then the screening. For some reason, Sanders’s crowd warranted a thorough pat-down by event security, though the former vice president’s did not at either of his two events that I attended.

There was an annoying, strident band, and lots of starry-eyed, counterculture bores.

But worst of all were the canvassers. They were positively frightening. Jack had warned me about Sanders canvassers in Iowa City, who came at you till you finally had to tell them to bugger off.

I stood on the floor, a bit back from the stage, watching Michael Moore savage Mike Bloomberg and the crowd erupt in agreement, which somehow escaped media attention, though an attack by a congresswoman on Hillary Clinton that occurred a few minutes later would lead the national news for the next 24 hours.

I had had enough. I turned around to look for an exit.

I hadn’t moved three steps when the canvasser pounced. She was, unlike virtually everyone else at the event, middle-aged. She carried the telltale clipboard and the don’t-take-no-for-an-answer demeanor.

“Have you registered?” she asked accusingly.

At this point, after about six events, to try to make them go away, I had given them every answer to this question other than an honest one. So I tried a new approach.

“No.”

I changed the subject.

“Do you know what time Bernie comes on tonight?”

Her beady eyes just bore holes into me. She said nothing.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME BERNIE COMES ON TONIGHT?” I said louder, thinking maybe she hadn’t heard me over the din.

Her eyes never wavered.

“No,” she finally said, still glaring at me.

I shrunk away, and went off into the cold Iowa night.

I wish I could say I had a lot of good things to say about seeing democracy in action, but even for a political junkie it wasn’t an uplifting experience, outside of spending time with Jack.

Biden was surly, surely knowing what was coming. Pete — what we could see of him; his event was so jammed we couldn’t get into the auditorium — was perfunctory. The others were just, eh. Going through the motions of their very, very busy days.

Except Yang, I will say that. His audience was excited, his staff on the ball. Unlike every other event I went to, there were actually promotional materials by the door, including an “IOWANS FOR YANG” bumper sticker that now adorns the wall of my basement bar. He was funny, on point, likable and — signs and wonders — even started his speech right on time.

And look what it did for him — all of 1 percent.