I return a rental car about a mile from the Fleet Center, and a bomb-sniffing dog searches my car. As I walk over to the convention space, I’m struck by how many men in dark suits seem to have descended in the last twelve hours. On every street, there are packs of men having a Reservior Dogs moments.

I pass through the barbwire-encased free-speech zone on my way in. It’s the size of a football field, and it’s utterly empty except for four or five people listening to a man with an unusually loud megaphone. He screams, “THIS IS WHAT IT’S LIKE TO LIVE IN A POLICE STATE, PEOPLE!” I can hear him in my teeth.

As I wait to get in, a small group of protesters marches past. They are shirtless, even the women, and are wearing hoods over their heads to mimic the plight of the prisoners at Abu Ghraib. A boy in the front has a whistle that he blows at regular intervals to match their footfalls.

I go through the metal detector, give up my umbrella and my bottled water, and show my credentials to the woman at the door, and then the guy at the escalator, and then the guy at the next door. Near to the boiler room I stop to watch a class of grade-schoolers pass. The union workers offer high fives, and the kids jump to reach their hands. A volunteer pushes past with a huge taiko drum. He thumps it with his thumbs and sings, “I bang my drum for you, a rum-pum-pum-pum!” Larry King is behind him.

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.

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.”