“The convention people are getting me down,” the waitress said to the bartender. “They’re in such a mood.” I was seated at the bar having supper, and, keen on soaking up Local Attitudes, said that I was a convention person and was not in any mood other than a good one. What was the problem?
“Oh . . .” she frowned, and said “I’m not saying it has anything to do with their politics –“

“There are jerks on all side,” I said, helpfully. “What’s their problem? They want extra mayo?”

She gave me an odd look. “No, they want more towels.”

For a moment I wondered what was going on in the back room, but then I saw the waitress’s uniform: she’d come from the hotel across the street to pick up an order.  I had met an unhappy delegate the day before; her luggage had fallen off the cart just as the elevator arrived, and she uttered a heartfelt curse, but she was smiling by the time the elevator reached her floor. (Third.) I had met one in the morning, when the Denver Visitor’s Assistance Bureau assured him, and me, that no shuttle buses were coming to take us downtown, but we could take a city bus if we wanted to walk half a mile. “Is this not an official DNC hotel?” he asked with the cool, civil disdain of a Prussian diplomat.

>“We’re just volunteers,” the lady said, explaining nothing. I noted that I’d been given three different answers on the quarrelsome Shuttle Situation, and ended up taking a cab every time. I was not pleased, but unhappy? This is simply too much fun.

Of course, the more holy access juice you have, the more fun it is. There are varying levels of access. General Citizen Access: forget it. Wire fences stretch around the Pepsi center, and the Secret Service lets in only those who have the proper badges. Minimum access is a Perimeter Pass, which is grey. A Hall pass lets you into Pepsi Proper, and I learned on Monday that some in the Guild of the Hall are quite protective of their turf. I wanted to get up to Blogger’s Row – which is not as exciting as it sounds – and when a nerdy fellow asked the nice information lady the same question, I asked him if I could follow along, since I didn’t catch the elaborate details. He looked at my pass, said I shouldn’t be in the hall, walked over to a security guard, and pointed my way. Of course I did have a Hall Pass; it was on the other side of my credentials. Upon seeing this, Mr. Stick Up His Blog declined to press the issue.

It’s airtight and solid and there are no appeals, and occasionally it’s just ridiculous. A security guard forbade a member of Team Strib from entering from the left side of the press area; the right side, fine, go on in. I observed a famous national talk show host attempting to enter the press area inside the arena; the guards waved him off. (Literally: there were five guards, and four were hearing-impaired, and communicated the harsh truths with definitive gestures.)

He was sent off to an Access Upgrade point, but no one was optimistic about the matter.

So it’s all an onion, peeled – the city beyond, reveling in the reveling, the groundling media permitted to roam the plaza outside the event, the select & elect who can penetrate the hall and behold the mysteries of the interior, and the odd combination of ultra-important media types and ordinary folk who inhabit the floor. Beyond that, there’s stage access.

Don’t even think about it. I asked. Can I take a shot to show the view Mr. Obama will have? Said the Secret Service lady, with her eyes: no.

I could have been carrying an apple, you know.

Who cares if you can’t get down on the floor? The merriment is outside. Not the news; there’s a scant amount of that. Everyone’s outside or hanging around the concourse, and seven-eighths of all people in the concourse are busy taking pictures of something. You cannot help but spoil someone’s shot just by walking to the bathroom. Everyone is so saturated with the moment that it’s hard not to have fun - as we will see in an upcoming video, it’s difficult to resist an event when a giant Captain Morgan starts wading through a staid crowd of delegates, commanding them to follow him to the Playboy mansion.

Doesn’t mean everyone’s ecstatic, of course. When I told the waitress some people might be churlish because they were Hillary supporters who still felt miffed by the way the primaries turned out, she gave me a look I’ve seen a few times in my life:

She had no idea what I was talking about.�

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