As the Democratic convention continues, our keen eyed observer, a newly naturalized U.S. citizen from the Philippines, finds himself looking for things that may not be there. And in the midst of the hullabaloo he recalls an intimate political experience in his homeland. PNS correspondent Rene Ciria-Cruz is an editor of New California Media (www.NCMonline.com) and an associate editor of the San Francisco-based Filipinas magazine. His e-mail address is reneccruz@pacificnews.org.

They say "don't watch sausages or legislation being made," and the warning has always appealed to me.

Are political conventions more palatable if you're close to the action? As a naturalized U.S. citizen covering his first convention, my conclusion so far is that nowadays people want to go to a political convention because it is there.

My first impression of the Democratic Party convention was of thousands of delegates, politicians, journalists and credentialed hangers-on noisily milling about, looking like they're doing something important.

Thousands more are in this city but will never be able to set foot inside the convention center. They may go to forums and parties, but mostly they just want to be around because they feel it's important to be around.

And it must be important. Some 15,000 journalists are said to be here, three for every one of the 5,000 official delegates present.

Scores of newspapers from all over the nation have brought entire, fully equipped newsrooms. Their reporters cover the tiniest detail -- like how much food caterers charged the home office, or who saw Paula Jones where, and what President Clinton was going to say before he said it.

Television news is not so attentive, although they brought trailer after trailer filled with equipment. Television is expected to take in $600 million for political ads this year, yet the networks average less than a minute of campaign-centered coverage each evening.

But it may be the networks are not entirely to blame. To tell the truth, nothing much was happening before Hillary Clinton's and President Bill's speeches. In the first two hours after the opening gavel, huge crowds were gabbing and sipping drinks off the convention floor while inside speakers orated to a sparse audience. Hardly any delegates were in their seats. Only Tennessee's was full (it's their convention after all).

Inside the nearby, sprawling media center, thousands of reporters quietly struggled for fresh insights. To cheer them up someone sent down celebrity lookalikes. "Jesse Ventura" was a dead-ringer, down to the body. "George W." was less prosperous-looking than the genuine article, though he seemed happy just to get the gig.

Worst of all was "Al Gore" whose really blocky forehead makes him look like Frankenstein's monster. A gaggle of journalists watched Sam Donaldson (looking like Star Trek's Spock) interview Democratic bigwigs in ABC's open studio-booth.

On the convention stage, Governor Gary Locke of Washington was leading a "talk show" with ordinary citizens who "are better off now than eight years ago." I watched for a while because one guest was a compatriot, a Filipino American mom, who testified to the benefits of Clinton's earned income credits. But, alas, the segment was drearier than a late night hair-loss infomercial.

No wonder pundits are nostalgic for the days of smoke-filled backroom deals, when the convention was still a party's decision-making institution.

Democratic conventions, I learned, have changed a lot much since the first one in 1832, which nominated Andrew Jackson and set procedures for national political conventions. As recently as 1972, George McGovern had to fight off 16 rivals -- and had to wait until just before dawn, when hardly anyone was watching TV, to give his speech.

Now there is no suspense here. Give me a process anytime, even back-stabbing.

This convention (and the GOP's last week) are no more than pep rallies. In a way, they're like the "miting de avance" in the Philippines, my country of origin, although conventions start a campaign and the miting is a last hurrah, the final call before election day.

But the Filipino mitings are also extravaganzas, though cheaper than the U.S. productions. Probably the cheapest one ever, took place in the late 1960s in Manila's central plaza. It featured Mr. Pascual Racuyas, a perennial presidential candidate, who wanted to put our tropical country inside an air-conditioned dome so "our people would be more productive."

But Racuyal had to cut his rally short because the nearby shoe store that was donating the electricity had to close for the day. The candidate was left holding a useless extension chord as his audience, all 30 of us, went home disappointed.

Somehow I'll never forget his desperate vision. I'm still hoping to find something truly memorable here, today. By the looks of it, the cost of this convention could cover a small nation's budget deficit. And yet there have been only a few fleeting hours of genuine excitement.