Right now, everyone is hard at work dissecting the various successes and failures of the DNC. They're talking about the dearth of cabs, the profusion of really ugly T-shirts for sale, and who ate what and where and when.
Me? I got just one question: Where were the whores?
Before the DNC hit town, I was hearing reports of up to 40,000 hookers being choppered in to service the needs of lonely pols far from home. There were church groups on hand to try and save the prostitutes, cops ready to roust the prostitutes, an entire machinery of commerce, aid and law enforcement all built up around this magical notion of a decent-sized army of working girls descending on Denver and hurling themselves, crotch-first, at any ambulatory male they could find.
I saw precisely one. Through all the parties, all the events, walking (and driving) the streets from fairly early until very, very late, there was just one: a young woman with teased hair and high, red wedge shoes, a very mini miniskirt and a red, white and blue halter top stumbling out of the back of one of those white convention SUVs, hastily shoveling one boob back into her shirt and immediately hailing a cab on the corner.