Just two hours after the president's bus dieseled out of Lebanon, the streets were back to Mayberry normal. Only a row of blue Porta-Johns stood at attention, ready to salute.

You'd never know 2,500 people had cheered on Broadway, packed as tight as Pringles in a can, politely defending each square inch of VIP blacktop from incursions by LIPs (Less Important People) on the sidewalks.

In the press pen, we had folding chairs, sandwiches, Cokes, even a camera platform to let us look down on everyone else. It made me feel VVIP. Something about being close to the president makes everything feel extremely important. But nobody feels more important than the national press corps.

They tumbled off their media bus and filled the press pen like a cicada swarm of flying elbows, cigarette butts and sharp-edged camera parts. I think you could dump them in an empty Wal-Mart parking lot (not a bad idea) and they would still shove and push for "position." The bias brigade's idea of "national perspective'' is a balanced blend of New York rude and California conceit.

From what I heard, they are unanimously disliked.

I got a glimpse by being one of the "local press'' guys invited to ride the bus with President Bush from Lebanon to Blue Ash on the way to Cincinnati.

We mainly waited and took orders from young campaign staffers. If they said, "Take your shoes off and walk across those boards with rusty nails, then wait over there on the broken glass,'' the only question would have been: "Can I use my cell phone?''

While we waited for the president, Ohio reporters who covered John Kerry's recent visit swapped horror stories. No bathroom breaks. Surly handlers. No phone jacks for laptops. The candidate of the people sounded like the boss of a Mississippi chain gang. Compared to that, the Bush buscapade was a Disney cruise.

Then we were cattle-prodded to the front of the bus to meet President Bush.

As I squeezed past him into the last remaining chair, the moving bus lurched and I had a brief alarming vision of falling on the president, then being thrown out onto the highway by the Secret Service. "Suspected terrorist posed as columnist,'' headlines would yell.

Didn't happen. I fell into a plush leather armchair instead and immediately got the first question, which I stammered and ummed and you-knowed half to death.

Bush handled it gracefully. He went out of his way to make us feel at ease. To answer our redundant questions, he used up a voice worn thin by three speeches, with another still to come. And as I listened, I thought of another question:

How can anyone dislike this man? He's decent, kind, smart, courageous, honest and as genuine as a leather boot.

When I asked him about captured Pfc. Matt Maupin of Clermont County, he became visibly emotional. He almost choked up as he talked about praying for the soldier and his family.

Later, I figured out one reason why some people actually hate this president. I think it's because, unlike previous presidents and Kerry, he does what he says he will do. He promised to cut taxes, and he did. He promised to win the war in Afghanistan ("another Vietnam") and he did. He promised to defeat Iraq ("another Vietnam'') and he did. He promised to win the war on terrorism ("another Vietnam") and he's doing that.

In Lebanon, he promised to win re-election. I think he'll do that, too.

E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com or call 768-8301.