Local News

ST. PAUL (AP) ― Message discipline rules inside the Republican convention hall. On the free-speech stage just outside Xcel Energy Center, it's anything but.
  
Unify Ireland. Impeach Bush. Vote for me.
  
The themes echo from a city-sanctioned stage that sits beyond a dual layer of reinforced fencing and faces the arena where delegates are gathered to hear from the GOP's biggest-named speakers during the party's four-day national convention.
  
From the serious to the satirical, the messages are as varied as the messengers.
  
One person promised a "dissertation of dissent." Speakers on both sides of the abortion issue wound up stacked back-to-back. A few fringe political candidates found the open mike too enticing to pass up.
  
Some addressed only a straggler or two; others brought their own audiences.
  
Leslie Davis, the self-styled "Earth Protector," looked out over a mostly empty pen Tuesday afternoon while announcing his latest candidacy for Minnesota governor in 2010 as a Republican. Taking all of his allotted 50 minutes, he wandered through 10 single-spaced pages of prepared remarks, barely pausing to take a breath. He shuffled his papers as he ad-libbed or moved to a new topic, holding up laminated signs to press his point. When he wasn't mocking former Minnesota Gov. Jesse Ventura, for instance, he was ticking off his 12-point rationale for legalizing drug use.
  
"I don't promote drugs," he offered. "I rarely use drugs myself."
  
The thin crowd didn't bother him. Davis filmed his speech to air on his cable-access show.
  
James Donnelly, in town from New Jersey to rail against conservative media outlets, took in some of Davis' speech but shook his head at the whole exercise.
  
"Why do you need a free speech area when you have free speech? He could say this on any corner," Donnelly said. "It makes no sense."
  
On Monday morning, a single spectator watched local activist Steve Winkels tag-team with Gretchen Bales, the Indiana-based leader of Irish American Unity Conference.
  
"We connected with somebody," Winkels said. "It was worth it for one person."
  
Filling 50 whole minutes isn't as easy as it sounds. Winkels turned to song for some, belting out bars from "The Parting Glass," an Irish pub tune. But mostly, they talked about the slow pace of reunification in Ireland and ways American political leaders can apply pressure to speed it up.
  
"When you are passionate about an issue, you don't have any problem. I could talk about it all day," Bales said.
  
The duo was in line for a second shot Tuesday evening. They hoped their message would resonate in a city with deep Irish heritage run by a bagpiping mayor.
  
Four dozen slots were awarded via a lottery held weeks ago, with the stage open from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. each day. Not everyone who has signed up has appeared, and no-shows result in an empty stage. That happened with the 1 p.m. slot Tuesday.
  
"Their statement might be silence," said stage coordinator Matt Reinartz, who usually oversees city youth programs.
  
There are few rules: the clock starts at the top of the hour; no more than three people are allowed on stage at once; and outside sound systems aren't permitted. A countdown clock sits on the podium, with lights to alert speakers when their time is running low. If they finish early -- some have uttered a few words and left -- silence fills the remaining time.
  
But other than that, it's wide open. Even profanity goes.
  
"We don't ask them what they're going to talk about," Reinartz said. "Someone could come up here and whistle `Dixie' if they wanted to for 50 minutes."

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