Written by Raines Guinn

I wasn’t drawn to satisfy my curiosity with the Democratic National Convention with the same predatory instincts that veteran lobbyists eyeball freshmen congressmen/women but when the circus comes to you own backyard, it’s time to buy a ticket. With nothing better to do (my laundry was caught up) I braved a little traffic and parked near my favorite bar. Along the way, I noticed more police and security personnel than paparazzi, few angry mobs or vociferous victims, and more onlookers than protesters. Frankly, I was disappointed that the movement to recreate ’68 had fizzled with the flair of wet fireworks.

So I walked in search of signs of DNC energy and enthusiasm. And make no mistake…I am blessed with a natural GPS system that can find good whiskey and old hippies in a dense London fog. It didn’t take long before I stepped into a familiar hangout that had undergone the expected evolution from decent watering hole to political temple. After I took a seat a between a Michelle Obama look-alike “Don’t you think I could pass as her cousin?” and two mature females from New York “You cowboys don’t have a decent slice of pizza in this puddle-jump.” Beau Biden appeared on the big screen. I didn’t know who he was until an effervescent and effeminate metro-sexual bubbled over with giddiness and professed “I just love him…all of the Bidens are sooooo hot.” Now aware of the protocol, junior Biden to introduce senior Biden, I expected a hush as each syllable was absorbed into hero-worshiping hearts. But then a rude cacophony began…”Can I get another glass of wine before the turn of the century?” and “Do you have WiFi? I need to check Myspace…”and “Where can I recharge my Blackberry?” As little Biden smiled at the crowd, the crowd near me ignored him. Adorned in Obama hats, buttons, and shirts with more Kennedyesque profiles than a Chappaquiddick documentary they chose to complain about each other, empty wine glasses, and the inconvenience of dead cell phones. While I wasn’t stunned (there is nothing as predictable as people engrossed in entitlement) I was disappointed. I expected maniacal cheers, abrupt explosions of hate for Republicans, demands for the type of change found at the end of a noose…but the mood could have been present in any Starbucks. Reserved rather than raucous, tepid rather than turbulent, shallow rather than substantive. It felt wrong.

When Obama thrilled the crowd with a well-orchestrated surprise visit, isolated pockets of applause picked up the pulse of the evening. I felt certain that things would change and any minute the crowd would begin a chant for change that would reverberate from the Pepsi Center to Washington D.C. with each decibel laying waste to the antiquated Republican values of personal freedom, economic growth, and unlimited opportunity.

But no.

They just stopped clapping and returned to their distractions.

The shame of it all.

So I left and as I waited for a street light to change, a large man, who looked like he could have been Obama’s bodyguard, stood next to me. He was casually dressed in a shirt that could have served as a tent and sported the image of his preferred candidate. It was not a particularly hot night but he drank deeply from a bottle of water. The bottle had a unique label that included a full-length view of the Democratic Presidential candidate and I couldn’t help but ask. Pointing to his drink, I wondered “Does it have a special flavor?”

He smiled and passed the cool bottle over his brow. “Nah,” he chuckled, “tastes just like tap water.”

Go Figure.

Raines Guinn lives in Westminster, CO, works in Education, and plays golf in frustration. A fiscal conservative, Raines is a 2008 graduate of the Leadership Program of the Rockies, admires the legacy of Ronald Reagan, and predicted the Sarah Palin selection in May of 2008.  He also predicted the Colorado Rockies would defeat the Boston Red Sox for the 2007 World Series title.  He is the author of The Grandmothers Club (available at Amazon.com) and is currently working on his second novel.