A week before all the action starts, the office is overwhelmed with interns. They’re playing catch in all the open spaces, wandering aimlessly through the hallways, Web surfing in every cubicle.

-Where the hell did all these interns come from?

-I don’t know. They’re everywhere.

-What are they supposed to be doing?

-No one has figured that out yet. We’re calling them the cicadas.

I returned home for Heather and Derek’s (very touching) wedding, and Bryan and I learned that the Armstrongs were in town for the festivities. Though we’d never met them, we called often enough to guarantee that they would either meet us for breakfast or issue a restraining order. Jon, Heather, and lovely little Leta arrived at the Pork Store that morning, where Jon asked about my new line of work.

How do you like working at the convention?

It’s really fun and interesting, but the pace is terrifying.

Really?

Yeah, I’m used to being a freelancer, you know? I get up at ten, have a cup of tea, write a little, go to lunch with a girlfriend, write a little more. Boston is a different world.

How so?

Well, compared to my old life, it’s like stepping out of a warm bath and being thrown into a vat of ferrets.

Then I ate the baby’s hands. Armstrongs, I am sorry about your handless baby.

In the press area, each seat has a deco-looking desk lamp that lights with a touch of your fingers. When the hall is empty, you can run back and forth along a row of seats with your arm outstretched, lighting all the lamps and then turning them off again. That is, you can do this until one of the hall workers gives you a stern look. Then you might want to head down to the CNN set and conduct mock interviews instead.

In Boston, Jessica and Melanie invited me to drinks at Delux. I’d never met or corresponded with either of them, but I was a little lonely in a new city, and I needed a drink. We had my first conversation in weeks that didn’t touch on the VP nominee, CNN, or swing states. Mostly we talked about books and boys and how the two had crossed our paths at various points.

For me, meeting writers has sometimes been a let down. They often seem less witty, less kind, or more neurotic than I imagined. This may be why I’ve never offered to meet readers when I’m traveling, I’m afraid of seeing the disappointment in their dear reader faces. It’s quite possible, after all, that one of them could turn to me and say, “You’re kind of boring, and much less attractive than I expected.”

Neither Melanie nor Jessica said that, which was really rather sweet of them, and made me much more open to meeting readers who don’t seem to be knife-wielding sorts. Thanks for the drink, ladies.

For years, I’ve yearned to be a go-go dancer. I thought it would be like stepping into a ’60s musical: mod mini-dress, tall white boots, an arsenal of kittenish glances. I imagined Ann-Margaret and Elvis palpitating in the foreground, me and five other girls rocking the bars of our cages in the back. We would shake it, pause for the briefest dramatic moment, and then shake it once more.

MTV squelched that dream.

The Rock the Vote party was empty at the street-level door, so we headed up a narrow flight of stairs, following the sound of a live band. Behind the band was a large sign with hot pink and orange lettering that read, “FRICKIN’ A!” In front of the band? Real, live go-go dancers.

My eyes opened wide, my eyebrows drew together. Where were the boots? Where was the fringe and the big hair? Why were they licking their lips like that?

The dancers were grinding in hot-pink bras and panties. They weren’t particularly good dancers, just… explicit. Forget the kittenish glances friends, these faces said much more than “come hither.” The crowd was slack-jawed, utterly still, and entirely male. They weren’t watching the band.

It was then I realized what go-go dancers have become: strippers who don’t take their clothes off. And that, my friends, makes for some lame-ass strippers.