I‘VE SPENT the last two evenings sitting back in tranquil northwestern Michigan and interrupting two perfect summer nights to painfully dose myself with several hours of the Democratic National Convention beamed directly from the podium in all its unfiltered glory to my drooping eyes via C-SPAN. Both nights, the Democrats struck me as being at their most slippery and disingenuous best, which of course means their most effective. It all reminds me of a state-of-the-art Las Vegas magic show. Middle class tax cuts are called for only to certainly vanish through a hidden trap door once the election is safely over. A muscular military is loudly demanded only to transform in a cloud of pink smoke into a Carteresque policy of quick withdrawal from any war against brutal dictators and terrorist-friendly states that would require any actual shooting and messy warfare. All this spectacular needed was a bored White Tiger popping up through the floorboards and more sequins–although the spacesuit-shiny pantsuit Barbara Boxer wore during the “You Go Girl!” cavalcade of women senators would make Elton John deep purple with jealousy.

Still, I must give credit to an illusion well performed. Two strong high spots stand out so far. First, that everlasting Mandrake Bill Clinton’s crafty masterstroke in posing as a class traitor and bashing Bush tax cuts for himself and all other wealthy entrepreneurs, whether their new riches flow from inventing microchips or speaking for hire to dodgy groups and writing overlong legacy-craving bestsellers. I’m surprised the now millionaire ex-president didn’t brandish his IRS refund check before the mesmerized crowd, quickly fold it with great flourish into a paper airplane and fling it deftly across the podium to the sticky fingers of party bagman Terry McAuliffe as a big finish, but then again he does have all those legal bills to pay.