Washington ? The notion that Sen. John F. Kerry might refuse to accept the Democratic presidential nomination at his own convention in July — the better to spend his huge treasury before federal spending caps go into effect — has the air of being too cute by half. But in reality it is only half smart enough.

If the Massachusetts Democrat wanted to make a daring move that would leave its mark on American politics, he would take the next half-step. He’d cancel the Democratic National Convention altogether.

He won’t do it, of course. It’s being held in Boston, where the roots of his political power are planted, and too many of his friends are going to make too much money out of the four-day event that will be the biggest bore since the Big Dig, Boston’s multibillion-dollar project to put many of its major thoroughfares underground. It’s also four days of free television exposure, though it’s not readily apparent why anyone would watch except to see the massive traffic disruptions that are in store.

Political conventions, peculiarly American contributions to Western civilization, are great fun; I’ve been to 11 of them, and suffice it to say that I’ve never lost a pound (or got a full night’s sleep) at one of these extravaganzas. The liquor flows and so does the bull. There’s a lot of meeting-and-greeting, but I’m stretching to remember one actual meeting at which anything of value has occurred, except maybe the time I heard Gov. Bob Kerrey of Nebraska actually talk about the budget deficit at a boozy session conducted by The Wall Street Journal at 2 in the morning in a San Francisco restaurant 20 years ago. I don’t remember a word he said.

These events are great spectacles — I’m especially partial to the balloon drop — but in truth they are vestiges of a long-ago era; their purpose, and many of their cultural attributes, date to the days of Jacksonian democracy. The last time a presidential nomination was actually decided at a political convention was more than a half-century ago. The last time a vice-presidential nomination was contested was in 1956, and the balloting that time is remembered chiefly because the big winner wasn’t the guy who won (Sen. Estes Kefauver of Tennessee, winning fame as little more than the answer to a trivia question) but the guy who lost (Sen. John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts, who was spared running on a losing ticket and thus was positioned for the main chance in 1960).

In the past half-century there have been thousands of horrible speeches (consensus choice for the worst: Gov. Bill Clinton’s interminable stemwinder at Michael Dukakis’ convention in Atlanta in 1988, which won applause only for the phrase “In conclusion …”) and only four great ones: John Kennedy’s remarks setting out the New Frontier in Los Angeles in 1960; Barry Goldwater’s defense-of-liberty speech in San Francisco in 1964; Edward M. Kennedy’s dream-will-never-die speech in New York in 1980; and Mario Cuomo’s city-on-a-hill speech in San Francisco 1984. The last two, which transfixed hushed audiences, weren’t even delivered by the nominees.

Mostly the conventions have given the home team no end of trouble, like when the Mississippi Democratic delegation was challenged in 1964, or when civil war nearly broke out in the streets in Chicago in 1968, or when Walter F. Mondale pledged to raise taxes in 1984, or when George H. W. Bush promised not to (“Read my lips”) in 1988. Twice the nominee of his party was, embarrassingly, overshadowed by a Kennedy who wasn’t the nominee (Bobby, who stole Lyndon Johnson’s show in 1964, and Teddy, who stole Jimmy Carter’s in 1980). Then there was the time, in Houston in 1992, when Patrick J. Buchanan opened a culture war within his own party. No surprise that the big losers of the culture war that year were the Republicans themselves.

The Democrats need a political convention this year as much as a fish needs a bicycle. They have known since the end of January the identity of their nominee. They have known since last year that their destiny will be determined less by what they do than by what George W. Bush does, and that the president’s destiny, in turn, isn’t remotely in his own hands but in the hands of tiny squads of zealots and out-of-control prison guards in Iraq, bond traders in New York and, perhaps, terrorists in caves somewhere along the Afghan-Pakistani border.

They know, moreover, how they are going to run their campaign — by suggesting the president is out of touch and out of his depth. The usual rationale for a convention (getting the troops united) isn’t necessary this year; the Democrats are so united they look like Republicans. Kerry could pick a running mate who opposes gay rights and abortion (and you can throw affirmative action and the prerogatives of the teachers’ union in for good measure) and still not risk the defection of anyone besides possibly Rep. Maxine Waters, D-Pyongyang.

Conventions in the modern age have only one purpose. It’s an important one, and it’s well to recognize it: They are reunions of the political class, nothing more, nothing less. Nothing illegitimate about that. But nothing particularly significant about it, either. Try as you might — put a gun to your head — and you won’t be able to recall what happened at the American Medical Assn. convention four years ago.

Or, for that matter, the meeting of the American Society of Newspaper Editors. Indeed, I defy you to recall a thing that happened at the Republican National Convention four years ago. I was there and I can’t.

And I was perfectly sober the whole time.

So in the reforming spirit of the age, let me make a modest proposal: Let’s use this unusual moment — when Sen. Kerry is bending the convention to his own ends — to put the political convention out of its misery. It died years ago and now it needs — it deserves — a proper burial.

David Shribman is a columnist for Universal Press Syndicate.