Last
Week's Real Winners and Losers
Q&A
with Loren Parks: The conservatives' sugar-daddy breaks
his silence.
For progressive electoral junkies, the Benson Hotel was
turned into a political crack house on
election night. From the gay-rights activists in the basement
to the governor's penthouse suite 15 floors above, the
place was swarming with left-wingers. Animal-rights activists,
hemp heads, 
Teamsters
and assorted green-leaning Democrats crammed the elevators,
ballrooms and lobbies searching for their next fix from
the omnipresent TV screens and had more than their share
of highs and lows.
6:43 pm Fresh-faced youths stand outside the Benson with
Gore-Lieberman placards, getting thumbs-up and honks from
passing motorists who'd heard of reports of Al Gore's
early victories in Pennsylvania, Michigan and Florida.
7:07 The cheers of CNN watchers turn to a massive groan.
"What happened?" a bleary-eyed reveler asks. "They just
took Florida away from us," comes the reply. A woman looks
at her spilled martini glass. "This isn't good," she says.
7:23 Downstairs at the No on 9 suite, the mood is still
upbeat. Campaign coordinator Kathleen Sullivan hugs a
volunteer. While some gay-rights activists are worried,
conventional wisdom is that Lon Mabon's measure will be
crushed by the No on 9 forces, who vastly outspent him
and had the endorsement of nearly every newspaper and
prominent Republican in the state.
9:10 Election results are trickling in, and the first
casualty is the effort to repeal Measure 11. In the Measure
94 suite, with her hopes going down in flames, Patty McLaughlin,
whose son is serving a five-year prison sentence, watches
TV while slouched in a chair at the back of the room,
stunned that voters have reaffirmed the state's mandatory-minimum-sentencing
law. "They don't know until their families have been there,"
she says.
9:15 The early euphoria in the No on 9 camp has shifted
to concern. The numbers don't look good. Mabon is on the
radio explaining how he would monitor a ban on school
promotion of homosexuality. No on 9 organizers suddenly
announce that the party is for staffers and volunteers
only. The group that has spent the past several months
blasting Mabon for trying to exclude them from the schools
turns away many of its own supporters.
9:50 Moderate excitement surges through the main room.
David Wu is about to give his acceptance speech. As the
congressman recites the by-now-familiar litany of promises
to work for better public education, access to health
care and a patients' bill of rights, a helium balloon
emblazoned "GORE 2000" slowly sinks to the floor.
10:45 A tropical depression spills into the Benson from
the Typhoon! Restaurant across the street, where the No
on 7 campaign watched the attack on land-use laws pass
easily. "It's an unthinkable result," says Randy Tucker
of 1000 Friends of Oregon. "And yet now we've got to think
about it."
10:48 A rumor rips through the first floor of the Benson.
"Gore got Florida!" a red-faced man breathlessly announces.
His source? "Someone said so in the next room."
10:55 Looking like a stranger in a strange land, GOP
treasurer candidate Jon Kvistad strolls into the second-floor
ballroom. Kvistad, an early loser, wanted to congratulate
the victor. "Where's Randall?" he asks a reporter. "I
tried calling but couldn't get an answer." Randall Edwards,
however, is nowhere to be seen, the one Democrat not angling
for a TV camera.
11:10 Kvistad's interview with a radio reporter is cut
short when the floor erupts in cheers as Gov. John Kitzhaber
struts in. The former ER physician has dressed up for
the occasion, sporting his Dr. Seuss tie. Sensing the
depression over M7 and the uncertainty about Gore, he
launches into a pep talk. Sizemore's tax measures have
gone down in flames, as has the attack on gay rights.
"Regardless of what happens the rest of this evening,"
he says, "Oregon will be a better state tomorrow than
it is today." Then, quick as the Cat in the Hat, he disappears.
11:20 Suddenly, it's over. CNN is calling Florida, and
the election, for Bush. The energy level in the Benson
lobby drops like a stone. People stand around the TV,
arms crossed, staring. Nancy Dorr is in major denial.
"Change the channel!" she screams from her perch on the
floor. "Somebody change the channel!" A man takes pity
and adjusts the dial. Fox TV, however, is also is declaring
that there will be another Bush planted in the White House.
Dorr won't give up. "Find ABC," she pleads, now on her
feet, hoping that Peter Jennings will save her. But the
news is the same everywhere. "Son of a bitch," she says,
melting back into the carpet. Dorr explains that until
three weeks ago, she was backing Nader. "Then I realized
what it would mean if Bush were elected." She canvassed
her neighborhood for Gore, working until 7:15 that night.
Glancing at the screen one last time, she saw a triumphant
president-elect Bush and her thoughts turned to Nader
supporters. "I hope they're happy," she says.
11:23 The silence is broken by the sound of someone tapping
a bar glass. A man stands up on his chair and proposes
a toast. "All right," he shouts. "We lost. But all that
means is that we have to fight everything that Bush does."
It is Chuck Currie, Portland's leading advocate for the
down-and-out, talking about the duty to fight homelessness,
poverty and inequality. It's stirring stuff. "This is
not the end of the battle," he concludes, to a smattering
of applause. "It is the beginning of the battle."
12:15 am People stream out of the Benson, some with tears
in their eyes, others with faces drawn tight. A tall blond
woman screams to the heavens, "It's not fair!" Steve Novick,
an attorney for the unions, huddles with other lefty activists.
Novick helped beat back all of Sizemore's tax measures,
but he's so depressed by Bush's victory that he's unable
to celebrate. Caroline Fitchett of the No on 7 campaign
is crying with frustration. Political activist Len Norwitz,
who worked on the losing campaign-finance measure, gives
her an empathetic hug and walks away into the early morning
drizzle.
12:30 In suite No. 1 of the penthouse, the governor's
chief of staff, Bill Wyatt, Kitzhaber spokesman Bob Applegate,
campaign worker Richard Lloyd-Jones and Metro Councilor
David Bragdon glumly watch the returns, focusing on the
few remaining state and local races that are undecided.
There is nothing to eat in the room but picked-over mini-bagels
and lox, nothing to drink but warm beer. An empty bottle
of Wild Turkey taunts.
12:40 Wyatt's cell phone rings. His 17-year-old son says
voter.com is reporting that Florida might not be Bush's.
No one really listens. His phone rings a second time.
It's fellow aide Steve Marks reporting the same. Burned
once already on the Florida vote, the men are cautious.
Then, on the television, Dan Rather goes white and starts
sputtering. It's true. Wyatt flips through the channels
to verify the news, and one last time whoops of excitement
ring through the old hotel.
--Chris Lydgate, Nick Budnick, Patty Wentz, Philip
Dawdy,
John Schrag
