VEGAS: SLOW MORNING EDITION. The kids are filing out of the auditorium now, and I just asked some lady how Nancy Pelosi's speech went. "Excellent," she said. "She's always candid." Always candid! Like she was proud that she'd seen Nancy Pelosi a bunch of times, like Nancy Pelosi was Iggy or something.

I must level with you folks: When my girlfriend texted me early this morning (obviously timing her message so it would waken me just as my hangover had reached its peak of ripeness), there momentarily rose to the bubbling surface of the cauldron of my skull the shadow of a thought that, as long as I was conscious, I should wash up, go see Nancy Pelosi, and report back to you. I am, after all, your eyes and ears at this convention; if it weren't for me, all you would know of this thing would be MSM lies, or actual coverage, which is even less fun.

But you know what? No one's paying me to do this, and seeing Nancy Pelosi is low on my list of earthly delights. When I'm on my deathbed, a few years from now, I'm not going to lament missing Nancy Pelosi. Missing Motorhead, or the Second Coming of Christ -- those I would regret, those would be worth getting up early for. But not this.

I haven't even been going to the panels. I mean, I poke my head in now and again, but usually it takes only about three buzzwords to fry my synapses sufficiently that further attendance is useless, and some of these guys have managed it in a single sentence. (I do expect to see Elizabeth Warren in a few minutes, though. I have to ask her if she got the flowers.)

So instead of seeing Nancy Pelosi, I slept another hour, then breakfasted at my leisure on Mountain Dew, a tuna sandwich, and Advil. Outstanding decision! I feel almost mammalian now. I don't even mind missing the the video poker version of Obama, which I assume they added to spice up the program.