July 29, 1968
by Amy
Coleman calls it "the freeze." I haven't spoken to my Dad since the column came out. It's been over a week, I think. Maybe it hasn't been that long. I'm not sure.
What I do know is that the artists are a handful. Glasses is still trying to get them to stop smoking weed in the office. They leave a mess everywhere. Ashes, church keys and cans, all kinds of crap. I'm no neatnik and I'm no maid. I hate like hell to clean-up after a bunch of jerks who try to cop feels each time I pass them on my way to the bathroom.
All negotiations with the City are at a standstill. I'm dodging my Father's phone calls. Bea, Lesley and I are too busy to hang out and we've already missed one of our women's meetings. Meanwhile, we're inundated with phone calls about sleeping arrangements, scheduling issues, and speaker requests. As it stands right now, I can't wait until the convention is over.
