A few rocky moments aside, St. Paul wins by a mile

So: How did we do? We did well. Here's a rundown of the differences between the DNC and the RNC.

Police: In Denver, the streets were constantly patrolled by special black vans with cops in riot gear riding on the running boards, while ninjas dangled overhead from ropes attached to helicopters; occasionally a tree would burst into fire as they calibrated the orbital laser platforms. The general impression was that you could be converted from dense animate meat to bloody gutter-bound Cream of Wheat in seconds. It was effective, but not so friendly. In St. Paul, the presence was lighter, and more diversely attired -- next to the fellow encased in enough Kevlar to make Iron Man look like a nudist draped in one-ply paper, you'd find Bob from Parking Enforcement in Anoka. They were nicer, too. Sample conversation in St. Paul:

"Good evening, Officer."

"Have a nice day."

In Denver:

"Good evening, Officer."

"Microwave pain-guns have fixed on your position, citizen."

In any case, the concentrated space of Rice Park gave the event a much more intimate feel. And by "intimate" I mean there was a 76 percent chance of unwanted frottage with a fluffy, oversized PETA pig.

Celebrities: In Denver, I came across a crowd of hundreds who'd gathered to observe Anne Hathaway's back, clearly and shamelessly visible at a restaurant. There were multiple sightings of Ben Affleck, Minister for Smirking Without Portfolio, and various other photogenic luminaries. There were fewer Stars in St. Paul. True illustrative story: On Tuesday, walking through the throngs in the Xcel, I pointed at random and said "It's Jon Voight!" only to discover that I was actually pointing at Jon Voight.

Logistics: In Denver, the area that was verboten was clearly marked; a broad street ran between the civilian territory and the part of town reserved for the Inner Circle. In St. Paul, this was impossible, thanks to the inebriates who drew up the streets on the back of a crumpled up grocery bag, so the security barriers -- all of which were made of sustainable post-consumer iron, by the way -- traced a crazy path around town, like divided Berlin, whose boundaries depended on where the advancing Soviet Army passed out. We walked 37 blocks to get across the street, ended in a dead end littered with exhausted delegates, several of whom pressed in our hands messages written in mascara and moistened cigar ash for relatives back home. I admit to reading one; it said "All hope abandoned. Supplies exhausted. People here very friendly. Love to all."

We eventually backtracked, found our way across Kellogg Boulevard -- only to learn that this particular cattle-chute was devoted to the Science Museum. Passing ourselves off as scientists and citing pi to several digits did not impress the guard, and inquiries as to whether he would gas us if we climbed the fence were met with vague shrugs, so we tried another route. Eventually we made our way to the CNN Grill, where we had the pleasure of not being seated, ever, but we are on the list for 2012, and they will call our name.

They gave us one of those things that buzzes and lights up, so we're free to shop for the next four years.