A True Carnival Has Its Sideshows : The scene: Coffee-shop oratory, quarreling conservatives and a bizarre bazaar enliven life beyond the big tent.

They were going to wait two more minutes, but someone reminded them of their principles.

“We’re conservatives,” said Ted Maravelias. “We start promptly.”

And so, in the nearly empty lobby of a Houston hotel, before the party-hardy delegates had roused themselves to fill the tables of the adjoining coffee shop, Maravelias opened the day’s first press conference.

First, he reminded himself why he was here: “On behalf of conservatives for Bush--uh, against Bush,” he said.

There they were, the only conservatives willing to array themselves against their party’s incumbent President on this slumbering Tuesday morning: two barely-voting-age women wearing sun dresses and Pat Buchanan buttons; a man in a red polo shirt; a kid who looked just past puberty in his T-shirt, shorts and oversized, high-topped running shoes; one man with elastic-waistband pants whose shirttail was escaping their grasp because of the gravitational pull of his rotund midsection, and Maravelias, a Massachusetts man in a fresh suit and a flat-top hair cut, looking every bit of his 23 years.

The idea was to persuade fellow delegates that, despite the resounding huzzahs inspired by the party platform and the increasingly conservative face presented by George Bush, the real problem is that the President is just too, well, liberal.

Ted and his friends were a decidedly motley and disorganized crew. To be fair, at least they were there on time, which is more than can be said for many in politics, including the current Democratic nominee, Bill Clinton, who lives in what has become known as “Elvis Time” because it does not conform to any known time zone.

It was just that, in this convention of movers and shakers, high government officials and well-heeled lobbyists, media creatures and celebrity hangers-on, Maravelias and his friends were somewhat inconsequential. Even, it seemed, to their own kind.

Shortly before the press conference began with the Pledge of Allegiance--”to reflect our true conservative nature”--Maravelias asked one of his fellow anti-Bushites if he wanted to hold the American flag.

Nothing doing. The man had an orange juice in his hand, and meant to hang onto it.

Then they got down to business, with Maravelias expounding to the assembled “ladies and gentlemen” in the lobby that they had to persuade Bush to drop out of the presidential race.

“This is nothing personal against him,” Maravelias said, quite seriously. “It’s just that we believe that he is devoid of any conservative principles whatsoever.”

Trouble was, there were no “ladies and gentlemen” listening. There was one lady, and, for a few minutes, one gentleman. Both were reporters.

*

Things went only slightly better at an ill-attended afternoon press conference put on by the Bush-Quayle campaign to persuade anyone who was still uncertain about the President’s conservative credentials that he is plenty right-wing.

To make the case, the organizers rolled out a series of conservative endorsers. Among them were James C. Miller III, director of the Ronald Reagan Administration’s Office of Management and Budget; Martin Anderson, a Reagan adviser, and a host of figures representing conservative causes.

Dressed in Western wear, Holly Coors--yes, of Golden, Colo.--ticked off reasons for supporting Bush in the brisk terminology an adman might use to sell, among other things, her family’s beer.

“One is he’s a fighter pilot, and I like that in a leadership position. Number two, he’s done everything possible to stand up to big, bad communism. And because he’s a winner, we’re winners,” she said. “Third reason is he’s the best for the most.”

*

Selling was the task of the day, and the pitchmen did their duty with gusto. One by one, they bounded on stage to tout the virtues of their client. Stamina, vision, leadership skills, compassion--this guy had it all, the hype-masters declared, occasionally pumping a clenched fist skyward for emphasis.

Their audience needed little convincing: When the merchandise du jour is George Bush, and the consumers are delegates to the Republican National Convention, it’s pretty much a sure sale.

Still, when a President is in peril, he needs all the fervor he can muster. So on Tuesday, a gaggle of Bush Cabinet members hustled about Houston on an old-fashioned spread-the-gospel and fire-up-the-troops tour for their boss. Their first, and most important stop? The California delegation.

Jack Kemp, the President’s housing and urban development secretary, got the early-morning session off to a rollicking start. Beaming and displaying a vigor reminiscent of his days as a pro football quarterback, Kemp marched to the podium to a standing ovation.

“Wasn’t that a great night last night?” Kemp bellowed, as the crowd roared its agreement and waved tiny American flags.

“Weren’t you proud of Ronald Reagan?” he demanded, confident that a louder roar would answer him.

Kemp then told the delegates something they already knew--something that largely explained why he and four of his Bush Administration colleagues were taking pains to renew their acquaintance with the folks from the Golden State.

“There’s no state in the country more important to the Reagan revolution, to what George Bush wants to do, than California,” he said, as applause drowned out his words once again. Kemp didn’t spell it out, but his message was clear: Go home and work feverishly for Bush from now until November.

The President’s other cheerleaders were not so amorously received. The veterans affairs secretary, Edward J. Derwinski, opened his talk with a confession, noting that he “was told to come over here and make a good impression on the California delegation.”

Then, Derwinski promptly insulted the state’s football teams, stimulating a round of grumbling that was not entirely good-natured.

Next up was William K. Reilly, administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency, who proclaimed that Bush had remained true to his 1988 campaign pledge to be the “environmental President.”

As he took the podium, Reilly received polite applause. But the tepid response soured into scattered boos when the EPA chief cited with pride one particular Bush-era accomplishment--a ban on offshore oil drilling along the California coast.

“Some of that EPA stuff,” explained delegate Marcia Gilchrist, “has left a lot to be desired.”

*

Bush spent much of the day at his rented suite in the Houstonian Hotel, emerging once in the morning to attend a karate demonstration at nearby Hamilton Middle School, where he delivered an anti-drug message; at midday for lunch at a barbecue joint called Otto’s, and in the early evening to attend a private reception at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts.

At the karate show, sponsored by actor Chuck Norris and the Kick Drugs Out of America program, Bush told his audience of youngsters and parents: “These times have been a little complicated. But you get here and you feel something happy, you feel something positive.”

“It wasn’t just the political arena yesterday where we got off to a great start, but it’s programs like this,” he said. “It’s grass roots of America determined to make life better for these kids that have me inspired.”

They inspired Norris too.

After helping Bush don a white karate smock, tying a black sash around the President’s waist and declaring Bush an honorary black belt, Norris said: “Now he’s ready to really kick some, throughout the whole country.”

*

When the endless oratory and choreographed rallies on the convention floor become a tad too boring, delegates can check out the action at the nearby Republican bazaar. Known officially as the American Spirit Pavilion, it is a veritable showcase of GOP trickle-down economics, a flea market for the rich and famous.

Located inside the Astroarena, a satellite of the Astrodome, the pavilion houses row after row of vendors who paid $1,500 apiece for the right to peddle their wares to conventioneers.

A sampler: George Bush baseball cards, depicting a youthful President-to-be in his Yale uniform. Canned armadillo road kill--”Sun dried and road tenderized. Not more than 20% hair, gravel and foreign matter.” Tuxedo shirts with Western fringe. A limited edition print of Millie, the First Dog. Chocolate fudge shaped like Texas cow pies. Elephantine jewelry and bejeweled elephants. Official convention seat cushions. Sequined hats, shirts, skirts and sneakers. “Hillarious: The Wacky Wit, Wisdom and Wonderment of Hillary Rodham-Clinton.” And finally, George Bush’s favorite board game, “Road to the White House.”

Sprinkled among the merchandise are booths manned by the Chabad Lubavitchers, a fundamentalist Jewish sect; encyclopedia and cellular telephone salesmen; the Bob Dole prostate cancer testing center (“free digital rectal exams”) and an entrepreneur selling commemorative plaques containing a small piece of the wooden convention platform, which after the gathering will be carved up and sold off in chunks for $150 plus $9.95 shipping and handling.

Times staff writers John M. Broder, William J. Eaton, James Gerstenzang and D’Jamila Salem contributed to this report.