SAN DIEGO -
Obtaining a 30-minute pass to leave the print-press detention area and circulate on the floor of the 1996 Republican Convention is like being at the world's biggest cocktail party. In other words, nearly useless.
You can't hear or sometimes even see the speakers, except on NFL regulation-size TV monitors. Usually, it takes half of your furlough to get to the person you want to talk to, and half to get back, leaving just enough time for a deep, intellectually probing question such as: ''So, whaddya think?''
And if you are lucky enough to carry on a brief, shouting conversation, complete interviews are conducted without any eye contact, as reporter and source swivel their heads, looking over each other's shoulders, scanning the sluggish throng for Henry Kissinger, Dan Rather, Pat Buchanan or someone really important, like Dana Carvey doing his George Bush impression.
It has all the glitter and cued-up cheers of a game show, ''Name That National Leader.'' The winner gets to compete for the Grand Prize - the U.S. presidency.
Some scenes from San Diego:
During the nomination of Bob Dole, when each state sends someone to brag about flax exports and tourist traps, Ohio Gov. George Voinovich became tongue tied as he explained our state's strength through diversity. Waving his arms over the delegation, he boasted that ''Ohio has the great spectre of race.''
I think he meant the ''great spectrum of race.'' But I can't blame him. If I had to speak on national TV after four days of non-stop convention blather, I probably couldn't say ''Buckeye'' without starting a war between the states.
Republicans had a rally at the old Sante Fe Depot train station on Sunday night, they were nearly out numbered by tobacco protesters dressed in ''Mr. Butts'' drag and Clinton-Gore supporters, who replied to the Republican chants of ''Dole in 96'' with ''Dole is 96.''
The average delegate is not typical. There were plenty of country-club Republicans, dressed like walking McAlpin's ads. But there were also a lot of blue-collar types who were more feed-and-grain than surf-and-turf.
There were Republicans who covered themselves with buttons the way bikers paint every inch of their skin in tattoos, and one guy near our press box who wore a different balloon sculpture on his head every night, the last one resembling something you'd expect to see under a microscope, on those rocks that indicate possible life on Mars.
Across a wide pedestrian walkway, past the loud semi-sized generator trailers, over the railroad tracks, around a block of 12-foot wire fence, then through four more layers of fences, including a cattle-chute to guide visitors like kids at Kings Island - there, inside a cage within a pen was the stage where protests were held.
The signs on the day I went ranged from weird (''Deport Teddy Kennedy'') to witty (''Boot Newt, Dump Dole, Cancel Kemp''). My favorite was the generic protest sign: ''Stop it now!'' - one sign fits all.
At a rally welcoming Bob Dole and Jack Kemp to San Diego, there were so many sports analogies about old Number 15, I half expected convention coverage by ESPN, announcing Frank Gifford as Secretary of Football.
If the Dole-man hopes to close the gender gap, he should try some new metaphors. How about a ''Midnight Madness Sale'' on tax cuts, and a platform that fits ''Like new pantyhose''?
Patronizing? Obscure to men? Maybe that's how some women feel listening to all those worn out locker-room cliches about ''blocking for Bob Dole.''
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor for The Enquirer and one of the Enquirer's team covering the GOP convention.
