A few mischievous souls at the big Comedy Central party on the first night of the convention were walking around with urine-specimen containers labeled: “Reelect Clinton/Gore ’96, Just Say No to White House Drug Abuse.” One reporter made a beeline for a profusely sweaty Roger Clinton, who has not had the best of luck with such tests in the past.
Cooler, or perhaps more sober, heads discouraged the confrontation. “C’mon, this is Roger Clinton we’re talking about,” said another ink-stained wretch enjoying the festivities at Green Dolphin St., a North Side club. “If he can pass a drug test, he’ll probably try to — right here in the dining room.”
The First Brother had already gotten himself into a little trouble. He drove up to Green Dolphin St. in a van and decided to jump out and look in at the talent before committing himself to the event. He left the motor running. When he decided to stay, he came back to the van — and found he had locked his keys inside. Comedy Central personnel called the Chicago police, who arrived with a Slim Jim and saved the First Brother from further despoilment of the atmosphere.
