By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
Election-night galas. The glamour, the excitement, the catered dinners provided for non-print journalists. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, the free-flowing booze that dulls both sensations.
The Republican, Democratic-Farmer-Labor, Independence, and Green parties have all arranged official election-night shindigs, open to the public but heavily populated with campaign aides, PR flacks, and volunteers. Still, the only thing that betrays the Green Party gathering at Open Book as anything other than a friendly get-together is the presence of two cameramen from local TV stations. It's as if I've stumbled upon a south Minneapolis house party: Small cliques have formed around the room, with conversation centered on careers, family, the weather. A string ensemble provides ambient background music while grassroots-organizer types wearing nametags nosh on homemade bars. TV sets flash the latest electoral college maps, but hardly anyone's watching. Garnering far more attention is Minnesota Greens founding member Cam Gordon, who invites everyone to think of a good deed done during the campaign and to publicly thank the responsible party.
By contrast, the mood at DFL bash central--a.k.a. the Radisson on Minnesota Street in downtown St. Paul--is neither relaxed nor upbeat. Despite Mark Dayton's already certain defeat of Republican incumbent Rod Grams, most of the would-be revelers have their eyes on the big prize. And as a Gore-Lieberman victory becomes increasingly unlikely on this night, the proceedings approach the social equivalent of Seconal.
Even the most proactive of the DFLers, decorated from head to toe in Minge and McCollum buttons, plop down near a TV monitor, shoulders slumped, teeth clenched. The only swingin' Democrats in sight are four labor-union guys, evidently stoked on more than election-night excitement, who're putting the moves on a trio of campaign volunteer coeds. "What dorm you live in?" the boldest of the middle-aged union men inquires. "Territorial," the threesome chirps in unison. "Oh, yeah, Territorial, that's a great dorm," one of the union worker's cohorts pipes up before draining a Miller Lite in one swig.
Blocks away, at the other downtown St. Paul Radisson, Minnesota's Republicans are making some noise. As 10:30 approaches, what began as an intimate, decorous rally has reached beer-bust proportions. Frat boys clad in power suits pour plastic cups full of Mondavi chardonnay down the throats of party girls in prom dresses. Primal shrieks shake the hotel ballroom as state-by-state reports of Bush-Cheney triumphs filter in courtesy of Peter Jennings and Co. Arrayed across the back of the room, the press contingent diligently captures it all, the floor around them an ankle-deep mire of electrical cords and fast-food wrappers.
True to their family-values platform, the Republicans have made this event an all-ages affair. Children scamper through the lobby, dodging empty bottles and cigar butts as they scan the carpet for stray campaign stickers. Even Little Miss Eden Prairie, stunning in her tiny tiara and sash (autographed by Governor Ventura), puts in an appearance, waving and smiling as she and her mom weave through the crowd.
While not as crowded, the Independence Party fete at Gabe's by the Park matches the Republicans for kegger ambiance. As Channel 9's Chelsea Irving grooms herself beneath the portable klieg lights for a quick interview with Senate candidate James Gibson, ponytailed barmaids push through the crowd with platters of burgers and overflowing bus tubs. Two young boys race around the room clutching sheets of notebook paper in their sweaty fists. "Are you a reporter?" the elder demands of yours truly. "Can we have your autograph?"
"My kids, you know, they're in college, so they had to vote for Nader," a bearded gentleman complains to a buddy.
"I voted for Nader," the friend replies indignantly.
"So Gore took Pennsylvania--do you think it's all over?" says the bearded man as he turns to a monitor, foot in mouth.
There's a buzz circulating that the governor may drop in tonight. A campaign volunteer shouts above the racket that Gibson is currently running third, showing seven percent in the exit polls, eliciting a lukewarm response, which suggests that Gibson rates third place here too, just behind beer and Ventura.
Free food and cash bars are not enough to drag your average Minnesotan out on a snowy Tuesday, but while they ain't no Paul Magers, the candidates rate celebrity status in Twin Cities terms. Republican Congressman Jim Ramstad, the popular Third District incumbent, delivers his polite but heartfelt acceptance speech early in the evening. Not all of Ramstad's peers are quite so tasteful. Second District challenger Mark Kennedy, locked in a dead heat with Democratic incumbent David Minge, has surrounded himself with a chanting, poster-waving entourage--presumably in case some citizens still don't recognize his goofus visage from his ubiquitous smear ads. Defeated candidates Rod Grams and Linda Runbeck make reluctant concession speeches to the still-adoring crowd, then vanish before reporters are able to interrogate them.
Meanwhile, at the other Radisson, a hurried shuffling of those wearing earpieces tells us somebody might finally bring some much-needed action to the DFL's so-called celebration. Bright lights and pushy newscaster elbows flank still-Congressman (by a whisker) Bill Luther and his wife, newly re-elected Minnesota Rep. Darlene Luther, along with their son Alex, as the trio is ushered past the riffraff to the podium. Golf-course applause and quiet chants greet the victorious Luther as he announces rival John Kline's concession in the most expensive Congressional race in state history: "We stopped them from buying a Congressional seat, lock, stock, and barrel! We won this for the good people of Minnesota, let's remember that!" But on a night like this, such an interlude is anticlimactic, and in the Luther family's wake, everyone adjourns for another round before plopping back down on the floor in front of the TVs.