Jack Roberts groused in front of the fruit platter at his
party at the Shiloh Inn on Saturday night. "Dorchester used
to be fun," said the state labor commissioner.
I looked around. He was right--this wasn't much fun.
State Sen. Marilyn Shannon, State Rep. Jeff Krupf and
anti-tax crusader Bill Sizemore were huddled in a back
corner. Lars Larson was blustering while his poor wife,
Tina, seemed dead on her feet. There was some slurred
speech, some boisterous laughter, but all in all the crowd
of 35 or so lacked spark.
Nothing like the old days.
Any longtime Republican will lament that today's Dorchester
Conference is a pallid, soulless, thin soup of an affair
compared to the whiskey- and testosterone-fueled galas
of yesteryear. The genus of the convention--which isn't
an official Republican Party event--is the stuff of Oregon
legend. As Dorchester board member Jerry Keene joked,
a young Republican buck named Bob Packwood started the
conference in 1965 to advance careers, discuss the issues
and chase women. Not anymore.
"We're taking ourselves way too seriously these days,"
Roberts grumbled.
Blame the Christians. The Christian right, that is. Since
Mabon's grass-roots takeover in the late 1980s, the Republican
Party hasn't been such a party. His thin-lipped moralists
were good at precinct politics but not much fun to hang
out with.
These days Mabon is the butt of jokes, but his legacy
lives on.
As Max Williams well knows.
Intelligent and savvy, the state representative from
Tigard is a blast from the past for Hatfield-style Republicans,
more interested in getting things done than clinging to
ideology. He's funny, too.
Friday night, however, Williams was apprehensive. He'd
been picked to give the first annual Founders Speech on
Saturday night, a new feature of the conference that Dorchester
organizers initiated to remind Republicans that it was
the moderate and liberal wing of the party that started
this Seaside party, and that's the spirit they
want to continue to guide it. Now Williams wondered how
the speech would be perceived by the rank and file in
the audience. It was about poverty, he confessed, not
something that Republicans were known for talking much
about.
Williams' speech was still a day away, however. Friday
night was dedicated to lawmaker back-patting, Metro Councilor
Jon Kvistad's official announcement that he's running
for state treasurer, and a debate between 1st Congressional
District opponents Charles Starr and Alice Schlenker.
Although Kvistad demonstrated impressive comedic timing,
his snipes at Gov. John Kitzhaber were tiring. The governor
couldn't have timed his dam-breaching speech any better.
It provided an endless cheap-shot reservoir for the Dorchester
gang.
After the speechifying Friday night, it was party time.
In our packets there were invitations from Kvistad, Starr,
Schlenker and the Oregon Republican Women to join them
in their hospitality suites.
I headed to Kvistad's soiree. Standing outside was Jon
Hellen, lobbyist for Oregon Gun Owners. Like all political
gatherings, lobbyists circle this one like day traders
around an Internet startup. Later I spied John DiLorenzo,
who is not so much a lobbyist as a primal force; Paulette
Pyle, who represents the pesticide industry; and ex-lawmaker
Paul Phillips of PacWest Communications, who represents
whoever will pay him.
Kvistad's bash was too crowded, so I headed to the Sand
and Sea for the Alice Schlenker party. There I saw what
Roberts was talking about. This was, or should have been,
a prime stop for socially progressive Republicans like
Schlenker. A few from the Hatfield crowd were mingling--Lake
Oswego Republican House candidates Marilyn Shultz and
Lee Coleman, head of the gay-activist Log Cabin Republicans,
which hopes to push social issues off the GOP platform.
But the Coors beer tasted bland and the conversations
were blander.
I gave up and went back to the Shiloh to read a complimentary
copy of Tales of Faith by Robert J. Pamplin Jr.
Saturday is the main event--the highlight for hundreds
of delegates who, for the most part, don't play politics
except this one weekend a year. On Saturday they gather
'round tables to debate the important issues of the day,
then vote on their positions. The votes are not binding
on the party, but they do take the temperature of the
elephants.
On the agenda this Saturday was a resolution on whether
the Dorchester should endorse Sizemore's federal tax deduction
initiative, whether the lottery commission should ban
video poker, whether there should be a statewide school
board and whether relations with Cuba should be reopened.
Sizemore has replaced Mabon as the uninvited party renegade
who sets the agenda. Sitting at the Oregon Taxpayers United
booth in the exhibit hall, he had a steady stream of visitors.
The campaign manager from Lynn Lundquist's campaign stopped
by to tell him how much she admires him; the fish-clubbing
fanatics wanted him to come watch their video.
In spite of Sizemore's pull, the Dorchester delegates
narrowly voted not to endorse his latest tax-cut proposal.
At my table the vote was 6-2 in favor of the measure.
Sylvia Gates spoke out against it, calling the measure's
retroactivity Draco-nian. Gates, an elegant, compact woman
with classic cheekbones and casual gray hair, is a lifelong
Republican. She attended the very first Dorchester with
her now-deceased husband, Stewart, and describes herself
as a liberal Republican. The shove to the far right came
about, she says, because no one was as willing to get
involved as Mabon activists were. "It was a case of what
happens when good men do nothing," Stewart says.
Other than Gates, however, no one at the table was concerned
that the measure is mostly a tax cut for the wealthy.
The trickle-down myth is still powerful in the Republican
psyche. Francis Fredrickson was all for it. Dressed in
a patriotically colored sweater, the affluent landowner
with property in Oregon and Montana was quick with boot-strap
platitudes. On education: "It would be nice if our kids
would learn something for a change." On poverty: "People
have to take responsibility for themselves."
For the record: Dorchester Republi-cans are really, really
nice. There was a warmth there, kind of like a family
reunion, and the big tent show Saturday night was hilarious
in parts, mainly because it was a format for the Republicans
to make fun of themselves, sometimes viciously. (In a
Star Trek parody staged at the show, for example,
state Sen. Kevin Mannix was described as the only planet
that revolves around itself.)
Ultimately, however, I didn't find the heart of the Republican
Party at Dorchester. Maybe what they say is true--maybe
it's a big tent with room for all stripes. Still, the
moderates have hard going ahead of them if they want to
wrest back control of the party.
Case in point: Max Williams' Saturday night speech. In
it, he called for a 50 percent reduction in poverty and
a 10 percent increase in state park land. He received
a standing ovation at the end, and the moderate wing was
flush with pride when he finished. But for many of the
rank and file, his words seemed out of place.
Margaret Abbot, a self-proclaimed religious righter,
didn't like it. "It sounded like a liberal Republican,"
she says. "I don't think that's where the party is going."
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Willamette Week | originally
published March 8,
2000
