Oh Dear Whomever.
It's 1 AM nearly, and I'm still up, barely. Got three hours of sleep last night, after picking up Stacy McCain at DIA at Oh Dark Thirty. Then it was wall-to-wall schmoozing, talking, typing, shooting, snarking... oh, just everything. It's a convention. The only thing our intrepid crew didn't do was drugs and women who were not our wives.
It's been that kind of day. I drank more coffee than my thyroid medication allows, and stole more puffs off of cigarettes and cigars than my bride allows. But it's been nonstop action for 36 hours now, including about six miles in my favorite loafers and two new blisters on my favorite feet.
This is what conventions are like, kids. They're a lot of work and a lot of fun and the adrenaline keeps you going and I'm so glad they only happen every four years. Except that there's still three more days to go. And then there's that other convention next week in Minneapolis.
I won't have time to blog much here at VodkaPundit, so keep checking for my stuff at PajamasMedia.com all week long.
And could someone, somewhere please loan me a nap?