Maureen and I ate Eggs Florentine in her suite this morning. Her interest in me is waning. Measurably waning. Three times during breakfast she counseled me on the proper way to hold a fork. Apparently, in her words, I ate like an urchin from 'Oliver Twist' and, while we went at it like rabid teenagers the night before, she could not shake the image of me, banging my fork on the table and screaming for more. Well, we may have nothing to say to each other now, but, there is something about not one energizing Clinton speech, but two and on back to back nights that really gets the political junkies' libido ramped up. Perhaps, tonight's tumescent swell of populist bliss at Invesco will extend our little tete a tete another week or two and I can meet some people of interest at the Times and obtain new assignments. I have been texting Kastelbaum like a fiend, trying to procure advice on how to keep standing with a woman of Maureen's stature. The only response from him has been a question: 'Do you remember the last time you were with a shiksa?" And indeed I do. Maria, oy! But that is a story for another time.
I am sitting in the hotel's designated blogging area. There are no additional seats. It's worse than LaGuardia. Krugman eyes me suspiciously every few minutes from across the room. I suspect he is catching on. I must make this last through Minnesota. Can you imagine if I, Wild Bill, were actually witness to history as opposed to continually making it up?
The bus is leaving soon. There will be question and answer sessions all day and then the One will make his speech. May it stir the imaginations of millions and the loins of one!
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