You get tagged in photos on Facebook and, in half of them, you look drunk (but weren't) and had your mouth open.
The Democrats with Disabilities Caucus was upstairs.
Boyd Ritchie's hair was so snowy white you know he had to have used some of that rinse old ladies use.
You sweated through your two best suits/dresses.
Some Republican morons were told to move a pickup truck parked at an event for press attention and the funniest thing about that is it was the most attention they got.
Faux coyote meat was served in a mobile home that was later given to charity.
Two political operatives who worked for Farouk Shami had to help some poor lady pick up her weight in coroplast Bill White signs off the ground after she dropped them and they went everywhere.
There were vegetarian sandwiches in the pressroom.
The TDP media advisory on convention parties included almost as many parties as caucuses.
The concession stands at the convention center ran out of everything except blue Gatorade and Frito pie, and you paid $9 for said combo and had immediate regrets.
Everywhere you turned, there was red-business-suited Molly Beth Malcolm (I swear to god, the only place I didn't run into her was in the bathroom, and I checked under the stall doors to make sure all 6' 5" of her wasn't hiding in there to tell me about how Bill White helped pay for conventions when he was party chair, or how you get a two-fer with Boyd and Betty Richie).
Police had to escort some nutjob from the Credentials Committee who was trying to unseat the entire Brazoria County delegation because they didn't pass some resolution he wanted -- and he calls YOU a tool of the party establishment.
Two prostitutes walked into the blogger's caucus and it was totally no big deal.
People laughed about Dick Cheney's heart attack openly and without reservation.
Your bags and purses were searched -- not to make sure you didn't have weapons, but to make sure you didn't bring in a cup of coffee or bottle of water you didn't pay $7 for at a concession stand.
You have that awkward moment where you have to ask one of the Castro brothers: "now which one are you?" (Note: San Antonio mayor Julian is to be on Stephen Colbert's Report tonight --
scroll halfway down. Or maybe it was
last night.)
A candidate for justice of the peace from Coryelle County (or some damned place) goes up to everyone in a suit, hands them homemade, hand-lettered campaign literature and asks for a check.
Susan Criss tells you to stand still, snaps your photo unexpectedly, and posts it on Facebook.
The escalator briefly breaks down, someone asks you why, and you tell them it was the scooter someone tried to ride up it, and a crowd of people instantly believes you, and wants to make sure everyone is okay and someone says the legislature should mandate warning signs to prevent that before you have time to say you were joking.
David Van Os was running for something or nominating someone else to run for something, and no one involved in that equation is successful.
There were so many iPhones in one area it ground Corpus Christi's 3G network to a halt so badly you could not email the person standing next to you.
You walk up to a group of people having a conversation and within a minute realize it is two legislators and two transgendered individuals talking about the intricacies of gender reassignment surgery and how it plays into the voter ID debate -- and then stick around because it is one of the better public policy discussions you've heard all day -- and everyone laughs like hell when one of the non-legislators talks about asking John Carona if he wants to debate which bathroom the individual should use.
You walk into a bathroom, someone you don't know recognizes you, and before you have a chance to pee, they want you to blog about something, and you have no recognition of who they are except that you saw them at the previous two conventions.
As someone who is not Carl Whitmarsh walks by, people whisper and ask, "so is THAT Carl Whitmarsh?"
You finally meet Carl Whitmarsh, and mention it to someone in passing and everyone grows more interested than if you were talking about the latest Hollywood scandal -- and you are asked to describe Carl Whitmarsh down to hair color and what he is wearing because no one around you has met him before.
You witness someone who clearly has no business being at a TDP convention ask Leticia Van De Putte where the bathrooms are without realizing who she is. You consider calling security.
You hear Leticia Van De Putte introduce herself on nine separate and distinct occasions as the highest ranking Democrat in Texas.
There are people in your delegation who chastise you for leaving the floor because there might be important things to vote on coming up. Which may have been proper in the days before text messaging.
3 people running for Temporary Secretary of an unnamed ethnic issue caucus all talk about publishing a newsletter to keep members better informed, and a point of order is raised to ask the president to explain to the hapless candidates exactly what a temporary secretary is.
A CHI was raffled off at the meeting of the only caucus to have endorsed Farouk Shami.
Someone in your SD caucus runs for the Rules Committee on a platform of "I think it is important to follow the rules." And when he loses 138 to 15, everyone feels so bad for him he is named Alternate to the Rules Committee in case the winner doesn't show up.
By the time the last of the statewide candidates speak, there is barely a quorum left to conduct business.
There is a choir of LaRouchites annoying everyone, and the LaRouchites get more mainstream media coverage than most candidates.
A candidate tells the Stonewall Democrats about an organization naming her an "Honorary Lesbian," and she gets massive applause, although you strongly suspect some people in the caucus want this proof in writing
just to make sure.
The most repeated comment is, "thank god there isn't as much confusion as there was in 2008," in nearly every caucus.
Someone refers to the LaKesha Rogers "booth" as the Starship Kesha and you laugh so hard you almost piss yourself.
You start wondering if the LaRouchites really are different from a doomsday cult.
One lone old guy is protesting killing babies outside the convention center, and you really have to resist the urge to go out and try to convert him just for fun.
You get buttons with sayings like, "Do I Look Like An Illegal," and "I like pro-choice girls" on them -- for FREE.
Someone mentions Fred Head's bus and you start feeling nauseated, but you aren't sure if it is the bus, the booze, or the $9 Frito pie that is making you sick.
You are at a bar and someone looks at your Obama shirt, uses the N-word, and you realize there is the real potential that person might not actually leave the bar alive whereas, at home, if you wore an Obama shirt into a bar YOU might be the one who doesn't come out alive.
