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As President Obama made his way out through the rope-line, shaking hands, and giving autographs to the adoring throngs, a dozen union members headed towards the bathroom. Wearing bold, matching yellow t-shirts they fanned out among the urinals to decompress.

"It's hard standing on concrete," said one.

"Best workout I got all day," bellowed another.

And so concluded Wednesday's convention center rally, with a bit of a shrug—an unfortunate reminder lightning can't be bottled.

But, to invoke a phrase the President has been using with near abandon lately, "make no mistake," the rally, designed as a push for John Kitzhaber's gubernatorial campaign, was boisterous, and of far greater fury than any coupling of Oregonian politicians could muster on their own. In the shadow of Obama's past Portland visits, however, not to mention the soaring, kumbaya cum-shot rhetoric surrounding the 2008 campaign, Wednesday's visit left a bit of a hole.

After the propulsive togetherness of Obama's early 2008 Memorial Coliseum rally, or the sheer spectacle of goodwill en masse at Waterfront Park, crowds were tangibly lifted—floating, even. At neither of those events would I have ever imagined hearing someone likening it to a workout—especially not a group of organized union members.

Of course, a certain level of let-down is to be expected. As Obama himself recently noted in the New York Times Magazine, referring to Mario Cuomo's maxim, "you campaign in poetry and govern in prose." It's come to the point where Obama is now being confronted by his own soaring speeches from the campaign trail. But there were significant tonal differences Wednesday—gone is the state senator of 2004, busting onto the scene, decrying the labels of Red and Blue to envision One America.

Wednesday Obama veered into straight partisan divide. A particular allusion—that Republicans drove the car into the ditch—sounded almost like traditional, southern-politickin' county fair gristle, classic and clichéd to the point of parody.

Contrary to a younger Obama's hope, we are not one nation, and that gap is wider now than it has been in some time (a dived somewhat ironically ushered by one of the few who could've bridged it). I covered the now-president's nomination at the Democratic National Convention, and the protesters on Wednesday, per capita, were more forceful in shouts, numbers and message than they were in Denver. (For an aside on the protesters and the fundamental disagreement, see the appendix.)

Few protesters, and no one on stage inside the convention center, mentioned the war in Afghanistan by name or even alluded to it. Iraq was touched on briefly, but only as a success in 100,000 troops heading home. As the discrepancy dribbled out, a disaffected attendee muttered to his pal, "yeah, except what about Afghanistan?"

There were other odd moments, which caused members of the hyper-liberal crowd to shudder. The pledge of allegiance was met by a smirking, "uh oh," by a mother, whose knowing glance was reciprocated by a stranger at her side. Soon after, Pink Martini vocalist China Forbes sung the national anthem. She was joined, two-thirds through, by a significant crowd in a somewhat disjointed ploy to deflect runs on patriotism. It felt like a creepy church hymn.

As the designated Man of the Hour, Kitzhaber received loads of praise. A grown man teared up during his sappy campaign video introduction. But for all the hype, Kitzhaber's speech flew by unmemorably like a laundry list of traditional Democratic buzz words. That the Big Gun must be called in to help a beloved ex-governor topple a bumbling ex-basketball player in a coastal state speaks to the Democrats' lack of inspiration and footing.

Bus Project founder and now State Representative Jefferson Smith opened the show with flair. Smith was strong, almost preaching from the start. And, as is often said, Smith pushed a bit, almost Clinton-like in his desire for adoration and applause.

In fairness, the crowd was indeed thirsting for something big and tangible to bring back the spiraling joy and dedication of '08. There were numerous chants of "yes we can!" But unlike the last cycle, coupled with the new responsibility of majority governing alongside a since-tempered president, the usual shit just doesn't kick things into as high a gear as it used to—which, in part, explains the shift towards a more traditional tone. It's what they find most politically tenable.

After all, Obama is The Man. The Democrats were handed a large mandate yet squandered bits of goodwill, shaving off promises or expectations in almost every arena from health care to gay rights to the wars, climate legislation, and beyond.

Call it what you like, compromise, pragmatism or poor strategy, but decline from over-saturation and high expectations is no surprise. What is, however, is the devolution of certain core, previously stated, non-partisan principals like the refusal to use fear as a motivator, as the rally's many speakers, including the president, did Wednesday. Remember "Hope?" The crowd Wednesday was starved for it. What they got instead was divide: Vote for the Republicans and you can't send your kids to college; Vote for Republicans and you won't get health care; Vote for Republicans and jobs will go to China. Vote for Republicans and your dreams will die.

Obama's chief criticism, one he accepts, and the one I most fervently embrace, is that he failed to explain to the public well-enough his intentions—again, the notion that one campaigns in poetry and governs in prose.

I guess I fail to see why poetry can't be brought to both.

As a man seeing Obama for the first time told me afterward, somewhat dejectedly, "It's politics, man. It's just fucking politics."

It wasn't always. Or at least it didn't seem to be.

APPENDIX: Meet The Tea-Party

I dove into a crowd of them, asking what the "Read the Bill" sign meant. Quickly I was surrounded by angry mouths, and it would've been on all sides were it not for Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. at my back. It was a protest of the health care bill, they explained, and are you ready to fucking shout about it?

I went along, arguing back for maybe 15 or 20 minutes.

"Do you have health care?" I asked the man with the sign. He did.

Another said he didn't, but opposed the bill on ideological grounds that he should be forced to buy anything—auto insurance was enough.

"It will cost me $1,000 per month," the insurance-less man argued. He looked young and healthy, in his late-30s. But when pressed to explain how much he made annually to result in such a grossly high payment the man repeatedly refused to answer.

All kinds of wild numbers began to fly: amnesty of illegal immigrants would cost $3 trillion, to close the gap in Medicare would require a 96% payroll tax, and that failing to buy mandated insurance would get the offender thrown in a "thieves prison."

While debating, a zealot from the side kept butting in, shouting paranoid slogans into an otherwise semi-rational debate. "They're selling sickness!" he cried.

I kept on the others and we reached the crux of the argument. "I think some things, like health care and food are worth paying for," I said. They didn't disagree outright, but had trouble providing alternative systems or reforms, aside from a tax cut for doctors providing Medicaid and Medicare.

But by the end of it, we were shaking hands, almost civil in our disagreement. They actually thanked me for sticking around. It was a far cry from most interactions between protesters and the attending faithful, who simply shouted slogans and belittlement at each other from across the street.

At the end, one of the older men handed me his business card. "Help Stop Illegal Immigration," it read in bold letters. On the reverse side, in the same bold type it said: "Create Jobs / Deport Illegals / Save Our Schools / Deport Illegals."

"If you want to talk, let me know," said the man. "It's what I do full time."

"So you're retired?" I asked.

"Yeah," the man said.