When I step into the elevator, it’s empty. The air inside smells exactly like my first boyfriend.

When the sidewalk guitar busker gets a sound system, your neighborhood no longer qualifies as gritty.

There is a bongo player on the sidewalk, and a woman has stopped to dance. She has only one leg.

She raises her arms above her head, hitting the air with each beat, bending at the knee and bumping her rear to the music. She’s an excellent dancer.

All of us crane our necks to watch. The two young men next to me let out low whistles. “Damn,” one of them says. “She got it.”

The bathrooms have little “security seal” stickers all over everything. I think they’re supposed to indicate that no one has placed a bomb in the paper-towel rack. By day three, all of the seals are broken. While the absence of security seals wouldn’t concern me, for some reason, the broken security seals are making me think twice about using the soap.

I’ve always known that I tear up when I hear large groups of people singing patriotic songs. So it was no surprise when I had to bust out my hanky for the “Star Spangled Banner.” “This Land is My Land”? Check. “America the Beautiful”? Check. And then “Johnny Be Good” came on.

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.

The other day I heard something on CNN that made my jaw tighten. The reporter was commenting on what viewers can expect to see at the convention. She said something like, “In an attempt to emphasize Kerry’s military service, the Democrats will be parading out the gunboat crew with whom Kerry served.”

Parading? Someone missed her high-school journalism class on diction and bias.

I know journalists have reason to be jaded when it comes to political conventions, but around here, we have a great deal of respect for that gunboat crew. I cringe to think of any one of them them hearing a reporter refer to the crew as though they were prancing show poodles. As though grown men lack the ability to decide where they want to be, whom they want to support.

These are the men who watched as their best friends were killed, the men who left their families because their country said it was a good idea, and then returned home to realize that their country had turned its back. And we don’t “parade” them around. We honor them.

Say, are you familiar with the Boston area? Are you over 21? Do you have a valid driver’s license? Are you sane? If so, fantastic. I need you — and your friends who are like you. I’m looking for volunteers to help the Kerry-Edwards campaign during the convention. It’s a big time commitment, but a cool opportunity. Email workforkerry@yahoo.com. Leave us your phone number, and we’ll give you a call.

In the Trident Bookstore on Newberry Street, someone has placed Maxim and Bust side by side. In another corner, there is a sign above a single small shelf. It reads:

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