My notes are scrambled, taken sideways and with a balky pen on a Starbucks receipt I was keeping for the 2 p.m. cut rate iced frappuccino.

I should have been better prepared, I know, but this came as a surprise to me, and it still is that there is anything at the Democratic National Convention to protest, other than silly hats and balloons.

A guiding rule of any undertaking should be this: where there are balloons, nothing can be taken seriously.

(It might be remembered at the last DNC in Boston, balloons got caught in the rafters as if they were rejecting John Kerry, a signal of things to come. And poor Jimmy Carter, already President, couldn’t get his balloons to even pair up. He lost to Ronald Reagan. My one rule of thumb at conventions is, watch the balloons.)

But more on the balloons anon.

So, there I was in downtown Denver, on not the usual vacant Sunday, trying to wiggle my way to work. One policeman shouted down an almost empty street to another cop, “No more traffic on Colfax!”

Well, now, we certainly all wish for that, but this order was to make way for the most bedraggled looking bunch of souls this side of a sleepwalkers reunion.

This, I thought, deserves a note or two. One protestors’ sign asked, “Who would Jesus bomb?” If he expects to find the answer at the DNC, I could warn him that easier questions than that go unanswered.

There were objections to racism and war, and I think I can safely say that the Democrats are against each. Equal pay for equal work. No dispute there either.

Someone was shouting into a loudspeaker, “Revolution is what we need.” And here I would guess the Democrats might cage their support by offering change.

Still, what it seemed most to be about was a denunciation of Bush, Cheney and the rest, none of whom are in Denver. And it is very likely the Democrats will go along with that, too.

It is very hard to stir up confrontation when the people you are protesting are on your side. Now, it they really wanted an issue, they should have thought about balloons.

That was my sole mission in attending the opening of the DNC, to find an answer to the balloon question. I had heard that there would be no balloons because this is supposed to be the greenest convention ever and outdoor balloons would somehow harm the environment.

(I might suggest that the 25 or 30 buses lined up by the Convention Center turn their motors off, not to sound like an eco-nag, or a Republican.)

But, back to the balloons. My inquiries to assorted press liaisons at the Pepsi Center were passed up the chain of command. I left the building not knowing balloons or no balloons.

And by the way, getting into Stalag Wazee is not an easy thing to do. But basically you’ll know you are on the right track after you pass the condom booth and the fence with the dead roses in it.

It is also as difficult to get out of the place as getting into it, and I know my way around. In trying to exit I found myself in journalistic hell, or what is known as the blogger’s lounge.

I can report that bloggers seem as human as you or I, but I would not feed one.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The balloons.

I have seen balloons often used in celebration at Bronco games and they do waft up towards heaven, which would seem to fit in the general worship of Barak Obama. The Broncos don’t worry. The balloons become Nebraska’s problem.

Whether Barak Obama will have balloons or not on his big night is still, ahem, up in the air. He will be at Invesco Field, maybe a little small for a self-identified “citizen of the world,” but the largest we have.

My balloon question finally got a response by phone as I was once again wriggling my way through the city’s heart. I was told to call a phone number with area code 202, Washington, D.C.

No answer, but I was impressed that my inquiry was being considered in our nation’s capitol, or at least on a cell phone registered there.

Finally, I reached a helpful soul who would give me an answer but only on “deep background”. Really. Not for attribution. So, I can not say balloons or no balloons. But I know which it is.

All I can say is this. Nebraska has nothing to worry about.

Welcome to a fixed fight. Political conventions are wrestling without the steroids, though a couple of the delegates from New Jersey look suspicious.

Excuse the sports references, even as the process of choosing the next president of the United States invariably slops over into my world.

Politics could not survive without the sports cliché, most conspicuously the two words that sent us off to our most recent war. Slam dunk.

The Democrats are rounding third and heading home; it’s the two minute drill, the shot clock is running down; he shoots, he scores. We get none of that. We get the postgame interview where Barack Obama shouts, “I’m going to Disney World,” or to the White House, lately filled with cartoon characters.

What went on between Obama and Hillary Clinton was a horse race, with calls at every post, front runner, neck and neck, faded in the stretch. This is not that race.

This is the winner’s circle where the horse gets a wreath of roses and a hard biscuit.

Here Obama gets the free world and a used airplane. That is, provided he can keep from fumbling, or losing the puck, or being called out on strikes, or missing the putt. He has, oh, two or three dozen match points and 30 years on the other guy.

This is history we are constantly reminded, not to drag up a Jackie Robinson reference, even if it does fit.

It is appropriate that this all takes place in the sports arena where the resident NBA team is mostly show, all flash and little finish. The finale will wrap up in a football stadium with the Obamans waving huge No. 1 foam fingers and the Clinton camp asking for instant replay.

Obama is the quarterback, the starting pitcher, the point guard, the anchor leg on the relay. Joe Biden to Obama, would be Pippen to Jordan, Drysdale to Koufax, Rice to Montana. Hillary will show up to accept her silver medal.

The party platform would be the game plan, used until it no longer works, in which case, say, a promise of a national health service becomes whatever the HMO can get away with.

To give it a sports number, this is DNC XLV, the 45^th since 1832 when Democrats gathered in Baltimore to choose a playmate for President Andrew Jackson, the historically harmless Martin Van Buren.

For our part, we gave the world William Jennings Bryan, the only other chance we had, a gift so unappreciated that we weren’t given another turn at bat for 100 years.

It is our second convention and the coincidence that the last time the Democrats gathered here the Chicago Cubs won the World Series must not be lost like a sock in the bed clothes.

Omens are to Cubs fans as pillow chocolates are to dieters, always tempting and never enough.

Proud posters greet arrivals at DIA, rendering our virtues for inspection, though there is no explanation for the large blue horse with the fierce red eyes rearing at the approach to the terminal.

This has nothing to do with our most prized civic entity, the Broncos, but is our version of the Eiffel Tower, hated by everyone now but one day to be beloved. It is leftover from a traveling carnival and is no more an indication of our cultural sophistication than our local oysters, which you really must try.

We have swept up and dusted the shelves; we’ve put out the good china but are watching the silverware. We have concocted special holding pens for unruly guests, made of only the finest chain link, our version of the naughty child’s time out.

Clearly we want the Democrats to like us, even if we have not often liked the Democrats. Only once in the last 10 presidential elections has Colorado voted for a Democrat. This state is as red as a blush, except for Boulder, which, as we all know, belongs in California. Twice this very newspaper endorsed George W. Bush. Fool me once…

But we will do what we can, give the Democrats a place to hold the pep rally after the game is already over, maybe even cheer a bit ourselves.

This is easily the biggest thing to happen here since John Tesh played Red Rocks. Not as big as the day Ernest Byner fumbled or the night Matt Holliday slid face first across home plate. Let’s not get carried away here.