It's not easy being a Democrat in these Trumpian times, as each day brings fresh tales of conquest and pillage.

Still, despite all that, 4,000 stiff-upper-lipped partisans showed up in Anaheim, California, over the weekend, seeking solace, inspiration and a winning way forward.

As mouse-eared pilgrims plied the sidewalks outside, the party faithful — meeting several long blocks from Disneyland — engaged in their own bit of escapism and magical thinking.

"Joy is an act of resistance," state party Chairman Rusty Hicks gamely suggested at a beer-and-wine reception, which opened the party's annual three-day convention with as much conviviality as the downtrodden could muster.

That's certainly one way to cope.

But the weekend gathering wasn't all hand-wringing and liquid refreshment.

There were workshops on top of workshops, caucus meetings on top of caucus meetings, and speaker after speaker, wielding various iterations of the words "fight" and "resist" and dropping enough f-bombs to blow decorum and restraint clear to kingdom come.

President Trump — the devil himself, to those roiling inside the hall — was derided as a "punk," "the orange oligarch," a small-fisted bully, the "thing that sits in the White House" and assorted unprintable epithets.

"My fellow Golden State Democrats, we are the party of FDR and JFK, of Pat Brown and the incomparable Nancy Pelosi," said a not-so-mild-mannered Sen. Adam Schiff. "We do not capitulate. We do not concede. California does not cower. Not now, not ever. We say to bullies, you can go f— yourself."

The road from political exile, many Democrats seemed to feel, is richly paved with four-letter words.

Two of the party's 2028 presidential prospects were on hand. (Another of those — Gov. Gavin Newsom — has fallen out of favor with many of his fellow California Democrats and found it best to stay away.)

A highly caffeinated New Jersey Sen. Cory Booker, of 25-hour filibuster fame, summoned past glories and urged Democrats to find their way back to the party's grounding principles, then fight from there.

"We are here because of people who stood up when they were told to sit down. We're here because of people who spoke up when they were told to be silent. We're here because of people who marched in front of fire hoses and dogs," Booker hollered in his best preacherly cadence. "We are here because of people who faced outrageous obstacles and still banded together and said we shall overcome."

Tim Walz, the party's 2024 vice presidential nominee and the weekend's keynote speaker, was on hand after jetting from a morning appearance in South Carolina. He delivered the most thorough and substantive remarks.

He began with a brief acknowledgment and thanks to his 2024 running mate, Kamala Harris. (She, too, stayed away from the convention while pondering her political future. The former vice president's sole presence was a three-minute video most noteworthy for its drab production and Harris' passion-free delivery.)

By contrast, Walz gleefully tore into Trump, saying his only animating impulses were corruption and greed. He noted the callous hard-heartedness the president and his allies displayed during California's horrific January firestorm.

"They played a game, a blame game, and they put out misinformation about an incredibly tragic situation," Minnesota's governor said. "They didn't have the backs of the firefighters. They didn't hustle to get you the help you needed. They hung you out to dry."

Keeping with the weekend's expletive-laden spirit, Walz blasted Trump's "Big Beautiful Bull—" legislation and mocked congressional Republicans as the "merry band of dips—" who lend him their undying support.

But much of his 30-minute speech was devoted to flaying his own party — "like a deer … in goddamned headlights" — saying Democrats can blame only themselves for being so feckless and off-putting they made the odious Trump seem preferable by comparison.

"There is an appetite out there across this country to govern with courage and competency, to call crap where it is, to not be afraid, to make a mistake about things, but to show people who you truly are and that they don't have to wonder who the Democratic Party is," Walz said to a roaring ovation.

"Are you going to go to a cocktail party with somebody who's super rich and then pass a law that benefits them?" he demanded. "[Or] are you going to work your ass off and make sure our kids get a good education?"

And yet for all the cursing and swagger and bluster, there was an unmistakable air of anxiety pervading the glassy convention center. This is a party in need of repair and many, from the convention floor to the hospitality suites, acknowledged as much.

Alex Dersh, a 27-year-old first-time delegate from San Jose, said his young peers — "shocked by Trump's election" — were especially eager for change. They just can't agree, he said, on what that should be.

Indeed, there were seemingly as many prescriptions on offer in Anaheim as there were delegates. (More than 3,500 by official count.)

Anita Scuri, 75, a retired Sacramento attorney attending her third or fourth convention, suggested the party needs to get back to basics by speaking plainly — she said nothing about profanity — and focusing on people's pocketbooks.

"It's the economy, stupid," she said, recycling the message of Bill Clinton's winning 1992 campaign. "It's focusing on the lives people are living."

Gary Borsos said Democrats need to stop dumbing-down their message and also quit harping on the president.

"There's a lot of 'Trump is bad,' " said the 74-year-old retired software engineer, who rode eight hours by train from Arroyo Grande to attend his first convention.

"What we're doing is coming up with a lot of Band-Aid solutions to problems of the day," Borsos said. "We're not thinking long-term enough."

Neither, however, expressed great confidence in their party going forward.

"I'm hopeful," Scuri said. "Not optimistic."

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