First Things First. . .

And on the first day, they made the Minority Report of the Permanent Committee on Rules and Order of Business a part of the permanent record, and it was good.

Not that anyone took much notice. As at all conventions, the big bang of the first day starts out with the mostly ignored whimpers of housekeeping. Before the evening’s televised speeches, earnest officials orate on the podium--”Doesn’t it feel good to be a Republican!”--as the delegates on the floor schmooze with attending battalions of reporters and pose for snapshots with Sam Donaldson, Steve Forbes, Los Angeles Mayor Richard Riordan and other celebrities wafting through. Every funny hat is a photo op; cameramen jostle each other for the shot of the delegate from Mississippi with the Big Hair of a Dozen Flags, or the lady from Texas wearing rhinestone-studded glasses shaped like the Lone Star State.

Sitting calmly amid the spectacle, Audrey Voigt, a retired teacher from Upland, raved about the food at a Texas-sponsored barbecue by Eddie Deen, W.’s personal grill man.

“They were loading us up with carbs for all the hard work we have to do,” she theorized.

And what hard work is that?

“We’re going to spread the message,” she said.

But what’s the hard work?

Voigt pulled no punches: “You know--we say aye, we jump up and down, we yell and scream a lot. . . .”

As for Protesters, Where’s the Beef?

The amazing thing was they weren’t screaming in 12-part harmony. Delegates have uttered barely a squeak of dissent or dissatisfaction, and even the street protesters have been more laid back than Californians after a good hot soak.

Police on bikes threaded their way through a quiet protest with bemused looks on their faces, as if to say: “So this is what we trained all those months for?”

Maybe it’s tough to get lathered up about the corruption-riddled geopolitics of world trade when it’s so muggy outside.

“What do they have to get upset about?” asked Rosalie Guzofsky, a Philadelphia arts educator who was walking through. “It’s not like it was protesting the bomb or segregation when I was that age. What are they going to shout: ‘Bring back my Napster?’ ”

During Monday’s march, a group of bedraggled young anarchists infiltrated a grocery and demanded--well, truth be told, they politely requested--a hoagie, the traditional Philly sandwich of fatty meats slathered with grease.

No meat, they told the astonished counterman.

What, no meat?

And no cheese! they added. And no mayo! Just lettuce and tomato!

The sandwich maker shook his head: Kids. Go figure.

Controversy Over an Issue to Savor

Every delegate gushes about victory in November but none wants to address a question that grows more urgent with each day: The Cholesterol Gap.

Delegates are ingesting the city’s signature foods--soft pretzels, the hoagie (a mile-long version was constructed around City Hall on Monday), and, of course, the Philly cheese steak--a fat-laden item whose very presence would frighten entire Los Angeles neighborhoods into a dead faint.

Even Philadelphia Mayor John F. Street has come out against the cheese steak--a stance akin to Santa Monica’s mayor gagging on sushi. When Men’s Health magazine declared Philadelphia the fattest U.S. city earlier this year, Street vowed to hire a “fitness czar” and wound up on Oprah Winfrey’s TV show promoting--may his people forgive him--an eggplant cheese steak.

“Ridiculous!” fumed Richard M. Trotter, owner of a company that makes water ice, a sugar-soaked dessert available on your nearest Philly pushcart. “What would most of America rather be doing, eating cheese steaks in Philly like the Republicans or eating seaweed in L.A. like the Democrats? Maybe the mayor should leave the cheese steak alone and take on the meatball-sandwich people. . . .”

For his part, Riordan nominated the enchilada as L.A.’s top nosh, deftly dodging the controversy.

“I’ve never had one,” he said. “Are they good?”

Vote as I Say, Not as I Do

Forget that the big Texas barbecue--400 pounds of brisket, 200 pounds of pork ribs--was held at a wellness center. The delegates are talking health care at the convention but outside the hall--well, let’s just say they aren’t exactly here for their health.

At a posh restaurant near Independence Hall, Rep. David Dreier (R-San Dimas) threw a cigars-and-martinis bash that packed the house. The call of the free martini drew so many Republicans that folks cooled their heels for more than an hour on a line stretching halfway down the block.

With smoking illegal in California bars, delegates from the Golden State were overwhelmed by a stogie haze as thick as the thickest marine layer.

“I had to take a shower to get the smell out of my hair,” Los Altos Hills City Councilwoman Toni Casey said the following day.

The affair was the party in town, if you don’t count the other 999 taking place this week, according to convention organizers.

A Step Up for Wyoming

For sparsely settled, one-area-code Wyoming, it doesn’t get any bigger than this. Ever since homeboy Dick Cheney was anointed running mate, reporters have scrutinized the Cowboy State’s 22 delegates like--as they say in those parts--a cow staring at a new gate.

They have been tailed by camera crews and corralled by interviewers. Their seats were even moved up on the convention floor; by contrast, New Hampshire, which went for John McCain, landed almost in the mezzanine.

On Monday, when the soon-to-be veep nominee swept into the convention hall for the first time, the little delegation was moved up to his special box so he would appear adored on camera. Then some delegates from Tennessee had to be shifted into the Wisconsin seats to fill their space. (OK, so maybe political conventions are about appearances, just a teeny bit.)

Everybody knows practically everybody in Wyoming and some of these delegates used to live around the block from Cheney. A couple of them went to high school with him. They supported him four years ago when he ran oh-so-briefly for president. “This isn’t his first rodeo,” one said.

There are benefits to all this attention. On Monday morning the party’s newest convention darlings got to have steak and eggs with Cheney on an antique railroad car.

But the media questions can be sort of bizarre.

“Where is Wyoming?” one foreign journalist asked. They’ve also heard their home referred to as the Big Sky State--which, of course, is Montana, a small patch of real estate to the north.

But that’s OK. When Peter Jennings strode over to introduce himself, someone burst out:

“There’s Tom Brokaw!”

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BITS AND MORE BITS: At a boat parade along the Delaware, 49 states were represented by decorated vessels on loan from local yachtsmen. New Mexico’s boat was repossessed days earlier, according to a delegate. . . . A Republican water ice vendor at a fireworks show in Camden, N.J., wasn’t keen on his red, white and blue concoction being called “psychedelic.” We prefer “patriotic,” he said. . . . Sen. Arlen Specter (R-Pa.) gently reminded the delegates to pay attention while he spoke on Monday: “I don’t mind being interrupted for applause,” he said, hoping for the best. . . . Gracious formality is alive and well in Philly: Asked by a reporter whether a Hawaiian shirt was appropriate for party wear this week, a local volunteer grimaced. “In Philadelphia,” she responded icily, “we dress.”

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Times staff writers Massie Ritsch, Richard Simon, Dan Morain and Nicholas Riccardi contributed to this report.