Just a few hours into Barack Obama's presidency, he already failed to achieve one of the 38,943 miracles expected of him: He couldn't get Twin Citians to go out and party on a Tuesday night in January.

A surprising cross-section of local bars and clubs treated Tuesday's presidential inauguration like a Big Night Out on par with New Year's Eve. It seemed like a desperate ploy by bar owners still trying to charge $8 per well drink in this economy. But hey, two days earlier, Obama did spur Garth Brooks into pretending he was a black soul singer at the Lincoln Memorial. That's one near-miracle accomplished.

Another marvel that gave hope for Tuesday night: At the Parkway Theater in south Minneapolis, the neighborhood movie house's proud Mexican-American owners opened up early to show the inauguration live, and they had an overflow crowd. Almost like a movie premiere. The place erupted in applause at Bill Clinton's entrance, like he was Obi-Wan Kenobi returning at the end of "Star Wars." ("Use the Force, Barack. ... ")

By that evening, though, the Force had seemingly gone out around town.

A dance party sponsored by radio station B-96 at Visage nightclub in downtown Minneapolis was so empty, I thought Franken's and Coleman's lawyers had gone in and somehow mucked up the presidential returns, too. At nearby Lee's Liquor Lounge, where another inaugural bash was advertised, the bar's Elvis statues showed more life than the party.

I had high hopes that an all-ages rock show at Eclipse Records in St. Paul would bring out droves of teenagers saluting their new president. Apparently, even Barack the Charismatic is no match for an X-Box.

Finally, I came across something resembling an actual party in downtown Minneapolis at the grandiosely named Epic Events Center (I say it's still just a nightclub), where a couple hundred people were dancing and drinking in Obama's honor. One of the sponsors, Ciroc vodka, even concocted a Ciroc Obama cocktail, which led partygoers Listina McCoy and Lucy Lamp of Minneapolis to joke about everyone being "drunk on Obama" (a quip I knew our conservative readers would love, all 11 of them).

"Minnesotans have a real reason to be proud," said Epic's headline performer, '80s R&B singer Alexander O'Neal, the Prince/Time cohort who watched his home state go Obama's way Nov. 4 from his new place in London.

The modest turnout did not bother O'Neal, nor did it dampen the glowing mood of Shaneca Mosby, 32, who trekked in from Inver Grove Heights.

"It's nice there was something for those of us who wanted to go out and celebrate," said Mosby, who laughingly pointed out, "I don't remember there being any kind of party in Minneapolis for other presidential inaugurations."

I rummaged through Star Tribune archives seeking evidence of local parties for other recent inaugurations. Here's all I could come up with:

• For the first President Bush, the big bash was at Chaska's Peaceful Pastures Senior Living Center, where inflatable Ronald Reagan dolls were passed around for waltzing partners.

• For Bill Clinton's first term, several strip clubs in Minneapolis celebrated having one of their own in the White House. By Clinton's second term, the economy was doing so well most Minnesotans were vacationing in Florida on Jan. 20.

• When Bush II got in the first time, most Minnesotans wanted nothing to do with Florida, and anyway they were too afraid to go out because of all the gay illegal immigrants flooding the country to get married and take away our guns. For Bush's second time around, there was [sorry, this information has been locked up under the Patriot Act].

Sort of like trash-talking the guy who didn't get invited to the party, Bush-bashing was part of the fun at Tuesday's events. Minneapolis rapper Muja Messiah, who also performed at Epic, debuted a new song with the refrain, "I survived the Bush era!" And heck if it wasn't more of a party track than a political song.

Not every musician Tuesday night was thrilled about the changing of the guard, though. The indie-rock band Greyskies, performing at Eclipse Records, offered up its song "Easy Spill" for perhaps the last time.

"It's our only political song," groaned frontman Bryan Knisley, "and now it's not relevant anymore. The guy's gone."

Geez, talk about party-pooping an already crappy party.

chrisr@startribune.com • 612-673-4658