My Tuesday adventures began with my shoulder and Mike Huckabee’s shoulder touching — though he didn’t seem to notice.

It ended in front of Babani’s Kurdish Restaurant with a column of riot police who, after firing multiple exploding tear gas canisters a half hour earlier, said “thank you” and “we really appreciate it” in their final effort to disperse the remnants of a particularly dynamic march.

A tour through the multi-level media center at the Xcel was like walking into your television set. Look to your left — it’s Mike Huckabee (”make room, let the governor through!”). Look to your right and it’s former UN ambassador John Bolton (and John Bolton’s mustache) gearing up for an interview at the Fox News radio booth — which, by the way, is set up facing the Air America booth. I never once saw them look up at one another across the 15-foot walkway.

Inside the convention hall, with its enormous LCD screen projecting an also-enormous flag flapping in the digital wind, I stumble upon Xcel security staff in the midst of a briefing.

A man stands before them and speaks clear and loud:

“Remember, Elevator Four is for V.I.P. only. And everybody did a great job with credentials last night — we’re just gonna step it up today. The red credentials are the delegates — matches the carpet!”

Below members of the Veterans of Foreign Wars rehearse their appearance in the evening’s proceedings. Triumphant music is playing.

“Forward!” says one man. “March!” The men begin to march away from their positions in front of the podium.

“Hang on!” yells a man wearing large headphones with a microphone attached. He nudges them back into position. “Let me mark some spots,” he says, laying small strips of green tape at their feet.

A man runs a dust broom across the gloss-black stage and a woman stands at the podium to test the microphone and prompter. She’s reading from the main prompter, the one every speaker uses. It’s huge. She stumbles twice, smiles, and walks away. “Please welcome jazz musish … jazz musiksh …”

I’m sitting in an aisle just behind a special seating area covered in blue velour. Two Secret Service agents walk past. One stops and touches the fabric.

AGENT ONE: Pretty blue velour…

AGENT TWO: Huh?

AGENT ONE: Pretty blue velour…

AGENT TWO: (ignoring Agent One and speaking into his communication device) Sandy? Nick and I are heading out. Where are you?

In the hallway just outside the convention space, a television news anchor records her evening news teaser. The camera rolls and she walks slowly towards it, speaking intensely.

“It’s a good thing the Republican base is pro-life, because Sarah Palin’s 17-year-old daughter is pregnant” — pregnant pause –”and she’s keeping her baby.”

The woman records the tease three times.

On the television screens scattered throughout the hallway, a C-Span interview with Ron Paul is playing. A man calls in: “My son is a Ron Paul fanatic — to the exclusion of girls and everything.” Paul chuckles.

On the delegate floor, as jazz musician Al Williams and his band rehearses (it is the smoothest of jazz), a woman shouts into her phone: “Can you hear the entertainment?! We’re on the convention floor!” She’s standing right next to the assigned seats for the Minnesota delegation:

Suddenly my phone lights up with a text message. The first in a burst of Twitter messages about protests and police movements outside.

I’m standing just behind Wolf Blitzer, who surfs the Internet from his broadcast seat. His teleprompter is paused and ready for his next live shot: “With the race in a dead heat, our latest CNN poll…”

The first text message goes like this: “40-60 riot cops reported at 7th and Sibley.”

I tell myself I’m going to stay at the convention.

A man next to me is carrying a spiral-bound notebook with an image of an old newspaper headline on it: “Goldwater wins first ballot!”

A tan hulk of a television news reporter talks into a camera about Sarah Palin: “Virtually everybody says ‘I love her’ — I cannot find a delegate who is not saying, ‘Brilliant pick.’ They love her and they can’t wait to hear from her.”

Another text message, from a concert on the Capitol lawn: “Riot cops at Ripple Effect have rubber bullets, gas canisters, and concussion grenades ready.”

Miss Alaska — not Sarah Palin but the Miss Alaska — poses for a picture in front of the stage. It’s still hours before anybody will take the podium.

A cameraman runs up to a colleague: “I just got Giuliani!”

Another text message about “blocks and blocks of riot cops” and I decide to leave the Xcel. Blitzer’s got it covered, I tell myself.

I walk outside and search for whatever gate will spit me out of the security zone the closest to the State Capitol.

All photos by Jeff Severns Guntzel. Contact him at jsguntzel at gmail dot com.