Day 4 - Oh, What a Night!

Honestly, I'm not sure what to say. This is why I'm here. That may be the best speech I'll ever hear in my life. Simple, elegant, powerful, masterful. I was tearing up at 3 different times. What a truly amazing experience to be on the floor of the Mile High stadium, listening to Barack Obama in front of me, looking up at 80,000 people.

Day 3 - HRC Supporters

In case you're wondering, they're here. Hillary's campaign has been running its own whip (aka, floor) operation, although what exactly they do is still unclear to me. Like much else with the campaign, it seems like it's all for show. The DNC and Obama's whip operations at least try to work together (most of the time). HRC's folks just seem to get in the way.

To be fair, I understand what it's like to work so hard for a candidate who you passionately want to win, and then watch everything come up short. I lived in the thick of it for 14 months in 2003 - 2004. Still, I find my sympathy muted because of the campaign's overwhelming arrogance and sense of entitlement. The more I see of the campaign and its die-hard followers, the less I like them.

I have two words: you lost. Sorry, if that seems harsh. The demise of many great leaders is that they don't know when to stop. And as great as HRC's speech was on Tues night, the campaign overall has not endeared itself to many of us.

Up until 2 days ago, we still weren't sure if there would be a floor fight. We handed out electronic voting devices on Tues night so that we could gauge the voting temperature. Voting opened Wed early morning so that delegations could begin the process during their morning breaksfast. But HRC didn't officially release her delegates until a meeting at 1 pm yesterday, which annoyed the hell out of those of us working with the voting system because it meant that her delegates would either vote early and potentially change their vote (resulting in double paperwork) or vote late (causing more of a time crunch during the roll call). It was like a last twist of the knife, the final dig behind the scenes to let everyone know that she still held some sort of power. It was childish and petty and frankly, unnecessary.

But at this point, it's done. Hopefully, her and Bill Clinton's speeches did much to pacify their supporters and help the see the bigger picture. Even if they aren't wild about Obama, I see little chance of them truly defecting. As HRC said, "No way, no how, no McCain."

Day 2 (Part 2) - Disjointed Thoughts

My pants are almost falling off. I know it sounds silly and stupid, but these walkie-talkies are about the size, shape and weight of a brick. Add to that my personal blackberry, the work blackberry, and the camera I keep in my pockets, and I'm struggling to keep my pants up. Not to mention that this running around seems to be making my waistline smaller. Now, I don't usually complain about that, but if you see a screen shot of someone flashing the camera, it's not me, I swear. And as a side note, they never tell you how hard it is to go to the bathroom with these things. Yeah, you laugh, but I'd love to see you try to unclip everything and not to drop them in the toilet.

Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, we added 14 fire marshals today. There's one who's very cute. I'll try to focus though...on my job, I mean. And now I see a ring anyway. Too bad. He could have come party with us after work. Oh well. I'll just keep looking around. This is the youngest, most diverse and the most good-looking Convention we've ever had. Plenty of eye candy.

So, I'm standing next to the OH delegation as Kucinich speaks. Not smart. He's so energetic that he's whipping the crowd into a crazed frenzy. I'm getting my freaking eardrums blown out.

And now I'm standing by WI as Gov Doyle speaks. Eesh.

And now by CA as Barbara Boxer speaks. Just my luck. At the rate I'm going, I'll be deaf by midnight.

***********************************************************************
Today was a bit of a clusterf***k. Even with the extra security, we had a slew of real problems interrupted by a bunch of ridiculous ones. Someone in the CA delegation called me over to settle a "dispute" between two grown men that went something like this:

CA delegate # 1: "Can you tell him that he's not allowed to save seats?"
CA delegate # 2: "I have people coming."
CA delegate # 1: "But it's first come, first serve."
CA delegate # 2: "Well, I was here first."

I looked at them like they'd just fallen out of the sky. Really, they called me over for THAT? Because I clearly have nothing better to do. I tried not to show how far my jaw was unhinged, and simply responded with, "I'm sorry, it's not my job to resolve your petty disputes. You'll have to figure this out on your own." I'm sorry, how old are we? Five? I turned around with disbelief written on my forehead and saw one of the security guys standing behind me laughing. I just shook my head. Wow.

A little later, our whole region dissolved into chaos. One right after the other, our group had to move a wheelchair delegate from one delegation to another, saw a fight break out and called an EMT. The walkie-talkies blew up as we rushed to put out all the fires. After that, I went back to the office, took out my earpiece and grabbed a box dinner. I deserved to have an uninterrupted 15 minutes to sit down in peace.

And then it was time to hit the floor again. Warner was about to speak. I don't even remember what happened next, but I know that I missed most of his speech. There was some problem in my delegations that I was trying to sort out, but I've since forgotten what it was. In between Warner's and Hillary's speeches, we were supposed to prepare for tomorrow's official vote. Apparently, CNN was filming crowd / floor shots at that time, because Thompson txt'd me with, "I just saw you on cnn! Black suit? Hair tied back. Chewing gum (or at least it looked like that on tv)." Later, I received a txt from a different friend: "Girlfriend, why were u chewing gum on national tv?" Ok ok, I got it. I'm somewhat flattered that CNN zoomed in on me enough that people could tell what I was doing. At least I wasn't blowing bubbles.

Then came the closing speech. The one we'd all been waiting for. I stood with baited breath to hear what Hillary would have to say. When she took the stage, I saw a flicker of disappointment cross her face, and I instinctively understood it -- she had hoped to be speaking here under a different circumstance. But the look was so fleeting that I almost thought I had imagined it. Within a flash, she was recomposed. Her speech was magnificent. She did exactly what the Party needed her to do. And as excited as I am about Obama, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment that they couldn't both win. I mean, I wouldn't have put them on the same ticket, but HRC is both smart and capable. Part of me wonders when we'll see another serious female contender. Only time will tell. I missed the end of the speech to help a few of my disabled delegates exit the stadium, but I heard it was good.

The rest of the proceedings was uneventful, which was nice considering how the evening had gone. After our nightly debrief, I tried to make plans to find a bar, which I promptly had to cancel. A friend offered me a ticket to a party I had really wanted to get into -- the African American gala. Less than two minutes later, another friend said he could hook us up with one of the most coveted parties this week. My feet felt like they would fall off any second, but I was dying to see the party scene. And I needed a drink. So, we party-hopped. We only stayed at the gala for 20 min, but it was long enough to see Boyz II Men perform. We bounced over to the other party at the Invesco field, which is apparently where the Clintons were. I got there too late to hear both of their mini-speeches, but in time for the top shelf open bar and decadent array of hors d'oerves and desserts. We sat outside in the top of the bleachers to enjoy the view and imagine what Thursday night will look like when Obama speaks there. And to think -- we'll be on the floor because that's where all the delegates will be sitting, and we're supposed to be taking care of all the delegates. I'll be on the middle of the floor of an NFL football field, staring up into the 75,000 spectators in the stands. Just the thought of it makes the adrenaline kick in... which is actually probably why I'm still awake. I'm too excited to sleep. But seeing how it's 4 am and I have to be at work again in less than 6 hours, maybe I should try to get some shut eye...

Words Matter

Turn on CNN...

There's a woman on right now, African American, bawling over HIllary's speech. She's moving an old cynic like me.

Tonight did for Hillary Clinton what she really needed to do not just for Obama or her party but for herself -- create a legacy that her supporters will not forget four or eight years from now.

Campbell Brown, on the CNN panel shot it out clear and straight, "I bet people are wondering why he didn't chooser her as his VP." Did I mention that Bill was tearing the entire speech? Suddenly all those doubts about her not appealing to independents, of dragging down the ticket seemed moot.

It's amazing what a good speech can do. Perhaps Hillary finally got it 18 months later - words really do matter.

Dissidents Row

Denver appears to be an orderly city. There are streetcars and busses that run on time. The police keep the jam-packed roads moving, even if slowly. There are volunteers with big smiles and bright blue t-shirts readily available to give you directions. Chipotle, born in Denver is almost as common as Starbucks in New York. A Patagonia store takes up a whole block downtown. They use recyclable plastic cups made out of corn and in order not to waste fuel, you can rent or borrow bikes, dropping them off and picking them off at various spots across the city. So neat. So clean. To the point that things are nicknamed after rows in the convention center – Radio row; talk show row; etc etc.

Four blocks off the 16th strip drag where a free bus shuttles tourists and locals through the shopping district and past the Pepsi center (where the convention's being held) is a grassy lawn in front of an assemblage of big stone government buildings that the majority of delegates and media to the conventions will not see.

Its afternoon, the sun's hot and the air is filled with the stench of BO. And I don't mean the Dem candidate. What's ahead of me? A gathering of protestors, beating on drums, chanting, "end the war" and sporting dreads in every shape, length and color.

It looks like your classic protest. Old hippies and young anarchists gathered together to bemoan the state of the world until a bunch of marines in tan fatigues burst through the protests, running instep and shouting "ten hut."

The dissidents jump back. The marines run in place and then leap into ninja poses. Huh?

Who's high now? I rub my eyes maybe this is a weird by product of altitude sickness?
But no it looks like a bunch of marines are taking random martial arts poses in the middle of a bunch of stinky commies.

(I'll get to the commie part I promise.) The marines then grab each other, grapple and a female marine gets hoisted overhead and carried off screaming. Four armored cars filled with swat team members, carrying machine guns and wearing protective riot gear drive by.

Where am I? When am I? Have I just been warped back to 1968?

And then this scream cuts through the confusion, "What you're seeing is street theater but these marines served in Iraq and this is what they go through everyday?"

Really? Since when do American marines pull Jackie Chns in the middle of airport road?

Vampy Goth girl, chesty, heavy with knee high black boots that have stumpy heels continues to shout. A cop comes over. She rushes forward to shake his hand.

"Hello authoritarian earthling I appreciate your law abiding presence in keeping the peace," she might as well have said.

The cop looks aghast. As if he’s about to radio: “The Martians have landed.”

And the Martians are communists. It’s a code for being cool.

Guy in Che Guevera t-shirt shouts out, “Communism rocks.”

A perky girl with a yellow wrist band flirts with a guy.

“You’re a communist,” she giggles. “That’s cool. I love communism.”

And as I keep walking, it proliferates. Welcome to Dissidents Row. The orderly and polite people of Denver have relegated the outcasts, and the anarchsits, the communists and the we wear Guevera shirts cause its cool crowd to their own little row on and around the grounds of the state capitol no less.

The irony turns me into a political Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. I’m McCarty one moment, turning up my nose at the guy that selling thet-shirts that caricature Cheney and Bush and Obama too as Mr. Burns like figures. Feeling a self-righteous indignation as irrational as their dissonance. The next minute, I’m the girl with the yellow arm band, giggling and winking at the old commie selling “Make Out Not War” posters.

Make out. Make up. Make do. 21st century politics is about a well choreographed dance, and even the flat footed ballerinas have a role to play, thudding across the stage a momentary distraction from the primas primping behind the curtains.

Day 2 (Part 1) - Blogging by Blackberry

Ok, I learned from my experience yesterday. There's just too much damn stuff going on and too much to write about for me to wait until I get back to my place to start blogging. So, I'm trying a new method. Blogging by blackberry. That way, I'll hopefully be able to capture more of the craziness. Warning: these may get very long.

I got woken up this morning by both blackberries buzzing like crazy. I grabbed my personal one out of habit, and then realized that the work one might be more important. Good thing. They need us to pick our credentials an hour earlier than they had told us. Why couldn't they have emailed us that the night before, so I knew BEFORE I went to bed. Hell. That means I had just over an hour to shower and make the 30 minute walk/shuttle journey. I jump out of my bed; the room spins slightly (that's the altitude talking, really) and my legs cry out in pain. I need to stretch, but there's no time. Walk it off, I told myself. Just hurry up and get there. I pick up my cred's. I have backstage access today, although I'm not sure I'll need it. I ask for the lunch voucher. They're out. Really? Who's poor planning was that? Annoyed, I call Thompson and head to Chipotle. Thompson wants to meet me, but gets stuck with work. I scarf down half a burrito -- enough to kill the slight hangover from the night before -- and load up on caffeine. I keep trying to ask for Coke and they keep giving me Pepsi. I know the stadium has Pepsi's name, but it seems the whole city is owned by them too.

Walking to the Pepsi Center. I take a picture of the guys holding the "Rednecks for Obama" sign. And then see the Trojan people handing out free condoms before you get to the security check. Apparently, everyone's concerned about keeping people safe. =) I try to find out where I can get one of their bright yellow shirts that say "Get It On," but I'm told they're not for sale. Too bad.

Just got onto the Pepsi Center. There's a crowd of media in front of the podium, which means there's someone famous. See the blond bob -- Hillary Clinton, testing out the mics for tonight. Pause, take picture, blog, keep walking towards the office, see a few colleagues who got tapped to be on a screen shot of David Letterman, continue to the office, check in, get my walkie-talkie, hang out. We have to be here before the doors open, but we have another 2 hrs before the Convention starts for the day. I've got my feet up. Literally. After being on my feet for 12+ hrs yesterday, my feet and knee are killing me. I should pop some Advil... Hopefully, I'll remember before I start running around again.

It's relatively quiet in here right now - we're just watching the stage run-through. It's our temporary respite before the delegates show up and the madness ensues. The Rocky Mount Children's Choir is singing a beautiful rendition of the national anthem. I have goosebumps. Someone walks up to say we have a meeting...

Meeting's done. We were just briefed / trained on the new mobile tracking devices to help the delegations track and tally their votes tomorrow. We're going to have to train our state chairs to use the devices, and I'm already skeptical. I wonder if it's more hassle than it's worth, but hey, the mobile devices are fun to play with.

Convention has technically started today. I should go out to the floor and start making friends with the security guards and fire marshals. They're good people to know. They stay calm when everyone else goes crazy. And they're great backup when people much bigger and pushier than myself start being belligerent. They're adding another 14 fire marshals to the floor tonight to help with crowd control. I'm civil and polite to everyone, but if you're not where you're supposed to be, I'm going to have to move you. Yesterday, I had a classic case. As I was clearing the stairwell, I asked people to keep moving -- order from the fire marshal. One young woman jumps up with a shocked expression and says to me, "Do you know who that is?? She's a Member of Congress!" I smiled and nodded. "Yes, I know, but she's still not allowed to stand here." The man next to her jumped up and said, "She can have my seat." "Whatever you want to do is fine," I replied, "but we can't have anyone in the aisles." I think they were shocked at how little effect the name game has here. If you have Secret Service or your own security detail, you're ok. Otherwise, you better have the right credentials.

Umm, ok, I just heard that Mitt Romney is here. Uhh, what? I'm off to investigate...

I'll be back again when I get a chance. Who knows when that will be. I have no ideas if / what parties I'll hit tonight. The next two nights will surely be long, and I need to pace myself. And you never know when credentials will show up or disappear. I've told some of my friends before -- I never believe anything in politics will actually happen until it actually happens. I've seen too many last millisecond changes. So much of this is luck and happenstance.

Scenes from Denver

I’m takng shelter in Starbucks. There are 15,000 journalists covering the conventions. 15,000 people trying to tell an audience of a few million that everything is stage managed, choreographed, there is no news but we’ll try our best to make some up as we go along.
To encourage competition and fractious infighting, the credentials committee at the DNC has come up with a byzantine system to manage the media horde. There are four levels of credentials – for the perimeter (i.e. you go through an hour of security checks to stand outside the pepsi center while the rest of your comrades in arms head inside.) The “arena” simply that. You get to stand by the concession stands where tabls are crammed with radio production units, claimin to broadcast from the convention center the heart of the action. Sorry buddies, the creds don’t get ou that far. Next levels: “hall” and “floor” these actually get you inside where people are speaking. Back in the day this was coveted, back when there were floor fights, and delegate counting and where a politically mad milieu let loose with abandon. Now you get to walk around and talk to the delegates, who are all on message.
I’m already over the Democratic love fest. Anyone who can squeal with delight over cheesiest ending to an “I want to prove to you how much I love America speech” doesn’t deserve my time or subpar interviewing skills.
But don’t worry. Journalists are great at masturbating. Instead of taking the temperature of the street we take the temperature of each other. Forget the cable news pontificators, and turn to the voice of the people. The bloggers, the netroots, who are assembled in a massive tent “Big tent” on Wynkoop street between 14th and 15th in the heart of downtown Denver. This is the first year that bloggers have been treated with RESPECT. They have credentials and a place to gather, where they work, and google, and interview each other on what it means to be a blogger. In the space of 15 minutes at the “Big Tent” where the bloggers and online journalists are gathered, I have seen six interviews of bloggers and assorted journalists asking each other what it’s like to cover the convention.
To make the exercise in narcissim legitimate though, Katie Couric walks in with a big mike and a ten man entourage to ask the very same question.
Yes, conventions are the voice of the (Democratic) people. And with 15,000 journalists at hand to bring you their stories, the level of navel gazing is at an all time high. But maybe I'm just bitter. I got turned down by the CBS guy, who's a blogger for the website blogging about the bloggers. An affiliation with a real news agency doesn't make me quite legit.
More later… I see a camera crew and a helmut headed reporter. Maybe I'll get my close-up after all :p

Day 1 - Convention Begins

Note: I started this last night, but didn't get to finish. I have an excuse. Really. Just read ahead. You'll see.

Yawn. Stretch. Comfy bed. I slowly start to wake up... I feel so relaxed... which means: OH SHIT, I'M LATE! I frantically grab my watch and realize that I overslept. Only by 30 minutes, but why the hell didn't my alarm go off? Oh. I set it for pm instead of am. Not a great start to the first real day. I fly around the room and out the door. I make it in time to pick up my daily credentials. Thompson happens to be in the area and comes with me as I attempt to pick up my box lunch... except that the lunch trucks aren't there. They're still stuck in traffic somewhere, like every other person in Denver. I don't have time for this. Between nursing a bruised knee (I apparently banged it on something yesterday) and needing to hem my suit pants that are too long to be worn with my Pumas, I'm already crunched for time. I get ready and fly out the door again. Off to the Pepsi Center to start work for the day...


Security is taking longer than expected, but at least they have more metal detectors today. As I reach our back room operations, my colleague barely looks up and says, "Grab a walkie-talkie -- I need you on the floor." We divide the entire floor and arena into sections and clarify the reporting order. Everyone heads to his/her station. The beginning of Convention is quiet, as the delegates trickle in. People don't really show up until the evening prime-time speakers. The next six hours are a blur. Initially, we're introducing ourselves to our delegations. I'm assigned to a state in which I worked in 2004, so I actually recognize some of the people. We work with the delegations to enter their attendance votes into their kiosks. I walk onto the floor. Someone taps me on the arm and says, "HEY! I know you! I recognize the hair!" I have to laugh. It's a former co-worker. Everyone's excited. One of the delegates sums it up, "I just wanted to be here and be part of history. This is incredible."

Around 5:30 pm, I get hungry. I've been walking back and forth to the office to find out something or other, and run into one of the other guys. We're trying to figure out what to do about food. We're supposed to get dinner or something, but no one knows exactly how, so we agree to txt each other if/when we hear something. A little later, I see his txt to come meet him because he's found a solution. I leave my post temporarily and go to meet him. He grins and hands me a ticket to the big, fancy room upstairs. I don't even bother to ask how he got it. Doesn't matter. He rocks. I run up and enjoy the decadent meal for a whopping 15 minutes. It was the first time I had sat down in almost 8 hours.

Returning to my "station," I watch as the crowd slowly but surely fills up. The aisles start getting jammed with hoards of people. Time to switch into crowd control mode. "Keep moving, folks! No standing here please. Keep moving! Thank you!" turns into my standard spiel. We radio back and forth to help clear jams and troubleshoot. Someone passed out, call the EMT. The disabled folks need help getting to their seats -- where do we take them? The campaign can't get signs out to the delegates fast enough, help out. There's a jam in front of the California delegation; I head to the floor there. "Ok, folks, keep moving please." "But look!" I get in response. I peer ahead to see what's causing the holdup. Susan Sarrandon and Matthew McConaughey. "Yes, I understand, but we need to keep the aisles clear!" I respond. I walk up to escort the celebs into the stairwell, so we clear the aisle. Just doing my job. And then, of course, I ask for a picture. Susan stopped, Matthew ran up the stairs (maybe to get away from all the star-struck crowds fawning over them).



Back to my station. The fire marshall is closing the floor. Too many people - no one's allowed down the stairs. We work with the security guards to usher as many people off the floor as possible, but of course, no one wants to leave. It's like herding cats. Another jam at the top of the stairs by the Georgia delegation. Now what? I run up to find out. President Carter is coming down, Secret Service is blocking off the top of the stairwell. I run farther up to tell the volunteers to close the entrance. I radio back down to the rest of my team. Divert the traffic, President Carter is up here. I watch from a 3-foot distance, amused, as people try to get close to Pres. Carter and nearly get taken out by Secret Service.


The rest of the night goes the same way. Michelle Obama finally take the stage to thunderous applause. The energy was electrifying. She was electrifying. What a great speech! As soon as it's over, my blackberry starts blowing up with txt's from a ton of friends. I'd love to respond, but now everyone's trying to get out. One of my disabled delegates is trying to get up the stairs, so I run down to help her out. "We really need to get more help for these guys," I think to myself, "but there's nothing I can do about that right now." I get her to to the top, and find a wheelchair for her to sit down. She has congestive heart failure, she tells me, but she had to come. I don't know where the Guest Mobility Service person is, so I wheel her out myself, using my "outside voice," to clear the path in front of me. I get her down to the front and hear through my walkie-talkie that we're recongregating on the floor. As soon as I get her into more capable hands, I run back to the floor. 9:10 pm. Time to debrief. Today was a good test run. We discuss the problem spots of the day and how we can improve going forward. Someone looks at my shoes. "Pumas. Smart. I'm wearing sneakers tomorrow."



Tired and weary, but happy with the day, we all head out. So, where's the party? One of my colleagues and I walk out together in search of a party. We head to one but the lines are literally down the street and around the corner. Apparently, 2000 people rsvp'd for 450 spots. We weren't getting in and we really, really just wanted to sit down. We decide to avoid the crowds and find Rock Bottom Brewery. I called one of my friends to see what she was doing. One of her friends decided not to go to their party, she tells me, so she has two extra credentials. Do I want them, she asks? Umm, YEAH. But we need to go quickly, because her friend is about to fall asleep. We chug the beers, run to get the cred's and meet my friend at the party. Open bar, great desserts, and the Goo Goo Dolls. Love it!

The event closes and I head home for the night... see the person I'm staying with and stay up until 4 am talking about politics, college and god knows what else. I walk into my room and turn on my computer. Time to blog. I write the first paragraph and shake my head. I can't. That last rum & diet coke did me in. And it's 4 am. I should stretch my legs, but I don't have the energy. I have to close my eyes.

So that's why I'm posting this today...

Welcome to Denver

I'm here. After pulling a near all-nighter (yes, my own fault since I was out with friends) and getting a ride to the airport before the crack of dawn, I sleepily stumbled onto my flight, passed out when I sat down and woke up after hitting the asphalt in the Mile High City.

As I manuevered my way to McDonald's for breakfast, I overhead someone saying, "I hear it's a pain to get taxis in this city." Great. The last thing I wanted to do was wait, but there didn't appear to be another feasible option. I scarfed down enough grease to kill my hangover and made my way to the line. At some point, the line stopped moving, and in my sleep-deprived state, it took me a few minutes to figure out why. I looked around and realized that there were no cabs. Not one. I would've thought that the city would be better prepared, but maybe they missed the memo that they're hosting a Convention here... Eventually, the taxis start showing up again, and I hopped into one with a talkative Ethiopian driver who told me that I'm beautiful, that he really hopes Obama will win and that I'm welcome to stay at his place if my accomodations fall through. I couldn't help but be amused. I did, however, get his card so he can take me back to the airport on Friday. Judging from the difficulty in getting a taxi in this city, it might not be a bad idea...

Unfortunately for my taxi driver, my accomodations are awesome. I'm staying with a friends' friend about 0.5 miles from downtown and couldn't have asked for anything better. A former hotel concierge, my gracious host had maps already printed out and labeled for me complete with walking routes and shuttle stops. Even the bed was turned down. I gratefully sank into the sheets and snoozed for four hours before finally reporting for work.

I went to pick up my credentials for the day and immediately realized this was a more efficient process than in 2004. Gone were the pagers and walkie-talkies of yesteryear. Here were the blackberries for each of us. My joy at the newfound efficiency wore off rather quickly though when I reached the Pepsi Center and realized there was only one entrance and about 3 mags (aka, metal detectors), which pales in sad comparison to the multiple entrances and slew of mags we had had in 2004 at the then-called Fleet Center in Boston. All I can say is that I hope they hurry up and get a few more mags by tomorrow or else we're going to have a hoard of angry, impatient delegates banging at the door.

But even with the potential annoyance, I can't contain my excitement to be here. The streets are buzzing with vibrant chatter about the delegates, the candidates and speculation about election strategies. Stepping onto Convention floor, I felt a wave of nostalgia wash over me. I paused for a moment and recreated the memories from the Fleet Center -- running the floor, squeezing through crowds, stopping for Secret Service and ducking past the press. I know fewer people here now, but I reconnected with some familiar faces and others recognized me or my name. It's a world I thought I'd left behind. But now that I'm here, it seems like I never left.

I spent the next two hours running up and down the stadium steps laying out items for the delegates while making friends with the security guards, who are as excited as everyone else to be here. I laughed as I saw a few of them run on stage and ask someone to take their picture. Everyone seems to be in a pretty good mood. Those who have been here for the last few weeks are clearly exhausted, but are finding the last bit of energy to see the fruits of their labor.

When I left the Pepsi Center, I thought I would call it an early night tonight. But then I went to a restaurant to see another friend I hadn't seen in years. As I left, my feet finally decided they had had enough abuse for one day. I looked for the shuttle bus, but it was nowhere in sight. And finding a taxi was once again proving to be a joke. So, instead, I took my first ride in one of Denver's "petty cabs." It's basically a guy on a bike with a two-person wide bench on the back (kind of like rikshaws in some Asian countries). My driver (biker?) is apparently a graphic designer by day, and a petty cab driver at night. But this week, he's just a petty cab driver. I guess the money's pretty good with an extra 10,000 people in town. He gave me his card and said to call if I need a lift again. Given the severe lack of taxis around here, I'm sure I will.

Veep! Veep!

It’s 10 pm. Do you know who your vice presidential nominee is?

It started with a phone call at 7 p.m. (give or take half an hour.)

Friend who worked for important Democratic operatives, some of whom might once have been president: “Drudge is saying its Bayh. There’s a factory making Bayh Obama bumper stickers.”

Me (after having absorbed weeks of spin by pundits who know nothing but like to make up something): It’s not Biden???

Friend: Why would it be Biden? I told you – Bayh.

Why Bayh and not Biden? Why not Kaine? Oh wait, CW says only one person from a state can speak at the conventions and that went to Warner. Huh? Who made up that rule? Why not Sebelius? She’s boring as hell, but gosh she’s popular with those Republicans! And all those 90 year old grannies who told Hillary they could remember when they couldn’t vote can now vote for a woman. But oh wait, CW also says that feminists only want a woman who’s initials are HRC.

(CW stands for Conventional Wisdom. It’s a favorite shorthand by some of DC’s most eminent pundits. It’s also been upended, uprooted, and beaten over the head in this election cycle but no worries it’s still given its due homage in the morning notes and talk show roundps so we here – mere chroniclers of the decadent and depraved elite of DC will refer to it with equal reverence. It’s also taken a hold of the wait for the vice presidential nominee like a starving dog to a bone of meat, ripping every little morsel of information and chewing it as if it’s a last meal. What’s been left is this: grown ups, in suits, who appear on TV, and who have important jobs with important titles, clinging to theories about bumper stickers and writing about kids selling lemonade at a dollar a cup to the television crews staking out the houses of the possible contenders.)

Same friend an hour later: “AP’s reporting the factory’s making bumper stickers with four different names on them.”

The CW says after all that having a catchy last name combo is as key to a successful presidential team as let’s say foreign policy experience or the ability to win a state. To stress to you how critical proper schwag really is – John Kerry had two teams ready to go to paint his campaign plane until just hours before he decided to announce his Veep. But that also just showed John Kerry being John Kerry, afterall once he picked a name he couldn’t flip to the another one. (Oh but didn’t you read that profile where he crucified Edwards post-election and said he wished he’d gone with Gephardt?) Once a wishy-washy pol, always a wishy-washy pol.

But I’m a sucker like the rest of them. We talk on the phone as I Google frantically online. Ben Smith reporting that Bayh-Obama website does exist. But there’s a catch, someone bought it in 2005. Now that’s foresight. Or maybe not?

Back to convo. Friend in know tells me that those in the know in the know say that two of the names (she names two names but I can’t because she won’t talk to me again and I’m relying on her for tix to Kanye at the convention) have been told that they aren’t getting it.

“How do you know?” I ask. She names names but neither one of us is quite sure that those names she’s named would know the people who are really naming names.

“How close are you keeping your bberry near you tonight?” I ask.

“Under my pillow,” friend replies.

So let’s rephrase the question. “It’s near bedtime. Where will you keep your blackberry tonight?”

Cupped in your palms, waiting for that soft beep beep beep to alert you of a 3 a.m text message announcing the Democratic vice presidential nominee?

CW says little about irony. But this may be the best red phone moment of this election.

UPDATE: So the text message came at 11:05, and I raced to my phone. But it was from M. Hunter, telling me that CNN by process of elimination had concluded that Joe Biden would be the veep pick. And here I was all ready for that pre-dawn pick me up. On a humorous note, CNN is calling Biden the blue collar senator because he rides Amtrak to work everyday. Amtrak = blue collar? Obviously, not everyone has Joe Biden's or John King's tavel budget.

Convention Countdown

Friday night. Less than 48 hours until I touch down in Denver, and I'm already feeling the excitement, the nervous energy, the eager anticipation. I've done this before. Only this time, I know what to expect. Sort of. Suits and sneakers are ready to go. I'm bracing myself for the sleepless nights, immeasurable cups of caffeine and copious amounts of alcohol; preparing for the intense, non-stop action, the constant sprints between backstage and the floor, and most of all, the unparalleled excitement. It's hard to describe the raucus roar caused by thousands of people in one place, hoping, praying and genuinely believing that they're looking at the next President of the United States. It is, after all, why I'm going. I want to see it for myself. I want to be part of history as it unfolds in front of my eyes.

In 2004, I was part of the staff. This time, I'm on my own dime. My involvement happened almost by chance. A Facebook note, an offhand comment, an unexpected email and a golden opportunity. I don't come anywhere close to falling within McCain's version of "rich," but I couldn't pass this up.

So, we'll see where my shoes take me. If my past is any indication of the future, it won't be anywhere you expect.