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.

The convention broke me. It cracked me open and spilled me all over the Fleet Center floor. Interestingly enough, I seem to be filled with confetti and small enamel commemorative pins.

Anyway, now that I’m back in San Francisco and have slept for three days straight, I’m no longer stupid with exhaustion. I’ll be posting some convention stuff over the next few days. Thanks for your patience while I was away.

In the office, we have a whiteboard. The whiteboard has little squares, and the squares represent the volunteers we need. Each day we check off about 25 of the squares, but it’s a painful and arduous process, one that involves about fifteen phone calls for every one person who meets a specific set of criteria. Today we checked our email account for fresh volunteers. Our staff tends to talk aloud as they read these messages. A few days ago, I realized that one of my interns needs some time off:

“Hey, this guy used an exclamation point. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. He is ready to roll.”