Nice to see Esse Quam after a couple months, and Patrick after nearly two years.

We experienced queues tonight like we never did in Boston four years ago. I felt like I was at CMJ again, waiting in long lines to claim to be on the guest list for an event of unknown quality.

We failed in getting into the GQ party, which although it wasn't a salute to Gavin Newsom this time, seemed like fun.

Planned Parenthood, our welcome in Boston, was not so fruitful this time around. Esse Quam conned a media ticket to their party at the Samba Room and managed five helpings before the bar ceased to be free. But Patrick and I drew first blood at the Nevada and Iowa delegations' party at the Marriott. I snapped up some hors d'oeuvres, and the concierge set us up with a free round at the Rock Bottom brewery across the street.

We resolved to head home as Esse Quam left the Samba Room, but it wasn't to be. We wandered up to some gated party with a band that may not have even been convention-related. Esse Quam was really silly by this point, and he wisely attempted entry by racing in past a bouncer, who shoved him out and scolded him: "I cannot have that."

Plan B was climbing the wrought iron fence, but he couldn't get over it. Eventually we got in through the front door. Once inside, after much debate over whether Patrick and I would bail him out lest he attempt a skinny dip in the fountain, Esse Quam and I enjoyed a game of "Robin, you point at a person, and then I'll talk to them."

Somehow, things got weird on the way out and we came close to a fight with some Denver residents. Their party was two dark-dressed guys who were eager to throw punches, a conciliatory blonde who tried to keep her pals at bay, and a green-sundressed, homophobic girl, who became the second woman who has spit on me.

Everyone's home safely and had a good time. Tomorrow looks great.