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The last time I supported a presidential candidate was 1984. Our nation had spent the previous four years in a trance, following that Pied Piper Ronald Reagan. I did not know if it was possible to return from as far astray as he had led us, but if I was going to trust anyone, it would be Walter Mondale.
I liked Mondale for too many reasons to count, but chief among them were three. One, his aquiline nose reminded me of the soaring ospreys that are native to our region. Two, he was a progressive who trusted science. Third, his appropriation of the Wendy's ad slogan "Where's the beef?" resonated with me at a time when I was eating a lot of hamburgers.
I had an "Elect Mondale '84" visor. For a few months, I wore it pretty much every time I went out, hoping to elicit a derisive comment so I could try rationalizing with the heckler. Fellow Oregonian, let's punt that slicked-up Californian! Let's put a halt to his dream of systematic nationwide gentrification!
I waited all summer for the Mondale campaign to announce a rally in Portland. Then one day late in September, I opened the calendar section and scanned it as usual. In the corner was a small notice: "Mondale/Ferraro LIVE at the Oregon Theater."
I put down the newspaper and dialed the number for Mondale campaign headquarters. A soft-voiced staffer answered. I explained: "I suspect that whoever booked the venue did a minimum of research. The name 'Oregon Theater' conjures a certain image. Maybe you're picturing a small opera house or a neighborhood playhouse. It is not. Actually, it is primarily, well, a pornography theater. I just thought you should be aware of that if you weren't already. And also, they don't have much in the way of seating. They have a few comfortable couches, but you have to get there really early if you want one."
"Can you hold on a moment?" the staffer said. The concern in her voice was noticeable. The line went quiet. Ten minutes later, a different person came on the line and thanked me for the tip. They asked for my phone number, but I don't think anyone ever called me back.
As the days before the election dwindled, it became clear that Reagan would not only win, he would do so in landslide fashion. Even so, I was looking forward to the rally. I had no illusions about an impassioned speech that would change the complexion of the race, but I thought we had a shot at turning Oregon blue. I also figured it would be a good place to meet like-minded women.
On the day of the rally, I arrived at the Oregon Theater and handed my ticket to the usher. "Where's the beef?" I chided playfully. I was early enough to claim one of the large, comfortable couches. Some others showed up, but not many. Then, an hour before the rally was supposed to start, the theater manager informed us that the Mondale camp had canceled and was not rescheduling. The Oregon Theater did, however, honor our tickets. It was a huge disappointment to all of us who came.
Willamette Week