Liveblogging From the Democratic National Convention

Late Update: Thanks to those of you who checked in during our first experiment with liveblogging, fleeting as it was. Something tells me we won’t be doing this for the RNC, but we gave it a shot. Cheers.

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9:23 p.m.: Checking online for a plane ticket home. Not sure we’re cut out for this form of journalism. Plus I got wing sauce all over the company laptop. Anyway, Pelosi is talking now or banging a gavel or something. Or maybe that’s Levin. I could take a closer look but that would involve getting off this stool. Like it matters. Either way the subtext is You think we can’t possibly lose this year but you just wait and see, little darlings. I asked a staffer to go check out who’s speaking and scribble some text from the closed captioning, but he’s chatting up some lady at the bar and forgetting to get me another Stella. At least hailing a cab to the airport won’t be as much trouble.

8:10 p.m.: Oh my god these wings are making me cry. I’m fired up!

8:02 p.m.: I’m still really liking the new Gnarls Barkley.

7:45 p.m.: Sorry. We ordered another couple rounds. Watching C-SPAN at the bar. And the Mets game. And ordering more wings. From here the convention looks like an inexplicably elaborate award ceremony for second-tier actors. But it’s hard to see from this angle, thanks to what I think is a bra hanging from the ceiling that’s partially blocking our view of that particular television. Also, Stella is pretty good beer. What time does Clinton go on? Was that last night?

6:01 p.m.: We’re at a bar across the street. Will get back to blogging in a bit.

4:45 p.m.: We were just told that someone was pulling our legs. Apparently beer vendors do NOT come up and down the aisles during the speeches in the evenings. This is the single most horrific inconvenience ever thrust upon a convention crowd. How the hell is anyone supposed to sit through this without the chance to get completely wiped? These are the Democrats for Christ’s sake. I can’t do this dry for a whole week. You’ve got to be out of your mind. We’re bringing a cooler tomorrow and that’s final.

3:54 p.m.: If you hurl a superball from the top of the hall it will bounce to the stage with ease. I just won 5 bucks.

3:10 p.m.: Some people from Florida and Michigan are wandering around with a grudge, as expected. One group is on some kind of walking circuit while holding signs with slogans like “Count the Votes!” and “Democracy is for all 50 states!” We are going to try to infiltrate their ranks and report back to you, but I’m not confident it will work out. I just think we’ll have a difficult time blending in: They appear disheveled, bitter, and a bit stoned, whereas we appear super cool, happy as cat shit, and put together (as always).

2:45 p.m.: We’re discovering that conventions are plenty boring during the day. Just a ton of blabbering, exclusive meetings, and special receptions for this or that. More forced smiles than you’ve seen in your whole life. There’s also a ton of power-touching going on. Everywhere you look someone is rubbing the next guy’s shoulders or patting someone’s back or shaking hands or goosing a super delegate or sliding a hand up a skirt in front of everyone. Bunch of sluts, really.

1:17 p.m.: Bill Clinton is said to be in a meeting room right now pounding his fists on the walls. We can’t confirm this, but there’s a rumor security has been called to the scene. One of our staffers overheard an aide saying the former President was heard screaming, “No! No! No! No! No! Not Fair! My convention!”

12:45 p.m.: Somewhere James Carville just woke up.

12:10 p.m.: The lunch hall opened up a few minutes ago and was immediately mobbed. It seems today’s hot menu item is chicken strips, so about 5,000 salivating Dems just bowled over everyone in their path to vie for the first batch out of the ovens. At least four trampled older adults have been taken to the hospital. I wandered in after the initial rush to watch two low-level staffers from the Wisconsin and Illinois delegations punch it out by the BBQ sauce bar. The cheesehead didn’t stand a chance, but I kept yelling, “Get him, Favre!”

11:15 a.m.: Lindsey Graham is here and for whatever stupid reason he just pulled the fire alarm. Everyone has to get out now. Be back in a bit.

10:55 a.m.: Starting the day off right, members of a motley group of Hillary Clinton dead-enders were arrested outside of the main convention hall and charged with petty childishness. Apparently they tried to start an anti-Obama chant as the police closed in, but the effort failed as they forgot to take the pacifiers out of their mouths.

10:45 a.m.: Al Franken just walked by. We asked whether his presence was necessary since Comedy Central is here in force, but he advised us to “piss off.” Then we told him O’Reilly is outside making fun of him and he took off at a dead sprint. He smells a little bit like oyster crackers. We don’t know why.

10:24 a.m.: The person running the jumbo screens behind the stage is a bit of a prankster. They’re booting up the system for the day and I just saw the words “Paging Mr. Edwards, Paging Mr. Edwards” scroll by in the trademark Obama font. Then that famous picture of a young George W. Bush flipping off the camera appeared briefly on every screen in the house. I need to buy this guy a beer. Is it too early to drink? Nevermind.

9:30 a.m.: Democrats sure are a smiley bunch at this hour. It’s nothing but joy and excitement so far. Hasn’t anyone told these people that they belong to the losing party?

9:10 a.m.: Liveblogging! We liveblog! We blog in real, actual time!