A guy walks into a caucus (his first)

I know lots of computer geeks, a few comic-book geeks, video-game geeks, hockey geeks, one power-tool geek and way too many music geeks. On Tuesday night, I came face to face with what might well be the worst geeks of them all: political geeks.

Tens of thousands of Minnesotans joined these easily excitable, grandiose gesturing, details-enraptured brand of people for the first time on Tuesday, which -- in case you were living under a rock or watching "American Idol" instead -- was caucus night.

Any other year, turnout on caucus night would run a distant second to the neighborhood bar's fish-fry night throughout Minnesota. But not this year. The scene at most precinct caucuses resembled a women's restroom at a Seal concert, and the attitude wasn't unlike the catchphrase of Seal's wife, Heidi Klum, on "Project Runway": You're either in or you're out.

Oh, I was in, all right. Through bad luck and worse planning, I wound up front and center at my first-ever caucus, seated right by the caucus chair and his band of geeks. I was thus forced to feign interest as the chair -- a guy, not furniture, although you might not have known otherwise -- explained the difference between the credentials committee and the constitution committee (and then tried to recruit volunteers/saps to these committees ... Bueller? Bueller?).

How fitting that the caucus in my south Minneapolis 'hood was held at an elementary school that looked older than John McCain. Much of this caucus business reminded me of grade school, such as when the chair made a call for four "sergeants-at-arms" to help quiet the jam-packed room. I expected the school's crossing guard -- or maybe even a Bobby Brady-like hall monitor -- to come marching in, ready to pounce on blabbers.

At times, the caucus also harked back to a game of Farmer in the Dell, such as when the chair recruited delegates and alternate delegates (and sergeants-at-arms). No kidding, one of these was actually the chair's wife, just like the farmer. And no matter which side of the political fence you were on, there was undoubtedly a cheese standing alone at your caucus (a Ron Paul or Dennis Kucinich supporter).

And then there was the "double-dog dare"-style approach and terminology with each motion, and seconded motion, and "friendly amendments" to those motions. These motions ranged from the ultra-important -- such as whether to propose a resolution to convert to runoff elections statewide -- to the absolutely mundane. In the latter category, some absentee guy named Neil wrote a letter asking to be a delegate (which was forgotten at one point, so it actually had to be voted on twice).

Then came the speeches made on behalf of certain candidates. One guy spoke on behalf of Candidate A, so someone else complained that Candidate B should get exactly the same amount of speech minutes. Eyes rolled as people realized that meant Candidate C-minus was next.

The only real excitement came as the presidential nomination ballots were finally counted up toward the end of the 2 1/2-hour ordeal. To the dismay of many of us novices, these oh-so-important votes were tallied on scribbled slips of paper that looked like Boggle score sheets. Hanging chads, be damned.

One thing was clear by the end of the night: First-timers ruled. There were 643 votes cast for president at my caucus, compared with 215 in 2004. The chair and his posse of geeks looked as though they were going to tear their clothes off in celebration when those numbers were read.

That's one motion that definitely wouldn't have been seconded.