The Foothills Democratic Club has begun their speeches to the empty parking lot. You are too exhausted to even listen. So what you gonna do?
Bob Tech still sits beside you. You ask him.
"Shit, man, you gotta go get some food!"
Yes, I love that man - so practical!
Tell the sarge you're leaving, walk up Fourth Avenue past all the morning walkers wearing their Oh-MY-God-The-GOP's-In-Town faces walking their dogs... don't they go to work? Why should they? Are you? No. Spending fifteen hours a day being Mister Volunteer and hoping that you can write a journal to end all journals, but knowing in your mind, in your heart, as you sit a minute in the minipark outside the Wm.Heath Davis house (a salt box shipped around Cape Horn 130 years ago from New England and ) and and and you write and you know you are just another scribbler. Once in a while a good word, inbetween all the bad, overdone, overblown runons and cutoffs....
But hey, you're here, writing. That's what you want. And you are playing a teensy role in the (da da da dum!)... ahem, Convention. That's what you wanted. So put the damn notebook away and go eat breakfast.
Twenty minutes later in the Sun Cafe. Finished your eggs and bacon. Scribbling with greasy fingers. By the way, if any of yous others you out there come to Diego some day soon, this place is a really good deal for breakfast. South side of Market Street between 4th and 5th Avenues. You tell ‘em all. Cheap breakfast. You eat it all. Damn but you were hungry.
Or go browse the "Table" of Contents.