By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
By Jesse Marx
There were so many poignant and stirring episodes in the Democrats' election-night bacchanal at the St. Paul Radisson that one would be hard pressed to name a single highlight. For some it was surely the moment when a fiery Buck Humphrey took the stage and ignited the crowd with a torrent of oratory culminating in this exhortation from Mario Savio: "There comes a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart that you cannot take part; you cannot even passively take part, and you've got to put your bodies upon the gears, and upon the wheels, upon the levers, all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop!"
For others it was Roger Moe's elegant concession speech in the wee hours, in which the elder statesman concluded with this heart-stomper from Robert Browning: "I give the fight up; let there be an end,/a privacy, an obscure nook for me,/I want to be forgotten even by God." When he finished there was not a dry eye in the room.
Okay, so I made all that up. The truth was more pedestrian, the atmosphere more melancholic and undignified. Which isn't to say there weren't memorable moments. There was, for instance, the pathetic and feeble roar that went up at 1:30 a.m. when the big screen TV trumpeted the victory of Democrat Dave Freudenthal in the Wyoming governor's race. Or the desperate cheer that erupted when the televisions showed Missouri's Jean Carnahan stepping to the podium, cheers that quickly dissipated when it became apparent that the widowed senator was not, in fact, claiming victory but conceding defeat.
For most of the night people sat around staring at muted television screens and watching the gloomy truth unfold. What made the scene doubly odd was the fact that the TV stations they watched were very often reporting from the same room the viewers were standing in--yet practically all of them kept on staring at television instead, apparently preferring to hold this particular reality at as far a remove as possible.
Even drunk the Democrats didn't really have it in them to be interesting or eccentric. For the most part it was clear they weren't in the mood to answer questions, let alone ask them. Folks weren't being tight-lipped, exactly; they were just struck dumb. On election night the Democratic Party--in characteristic ass-backward fashion--wound up holding its wake for Paul Wellstone a week after the funeral.
The evening made for grim spectacle almost from the beginning. By 9:30 there was a palpable sense of dread in the room, accompanied by a pervasive reek from what I hoped was neglected cheese trays. A huge ensemble of reporters from electronic media huddled on raised platforms that ringed the room; from this vantage point they spent most of their time sitting with backs turned to Minnesota's beleaguered Democrats, who for their part were staring with rapt horror at television monitors. The print folk hunched over their laptops, surrounded by empty Red Bull cans and bowls of pretzel fragments. Party honchos convened in private rooms or clustered in the hallways talking in hushed tones. At one point a frazzled woman dragged a gaggle of children through the crowd and barked into her headset, "I've got the Mondale kids. Can someone tell me what I'm supposed to do with them?"
Ken Bradley, a DFL organizer and environmental activist, was standing outside the ballroom at 10:15, already engaged in two-fisted drinking. Bradley said he had just talked with former Minneapolis City Council member Jim Niland, who had expressed optimism about some of the numbers that were rolling in: Moe might just squeak by, he said, and Mondale's chances looked good.
Back inside, Sweet Potato Project, an "improvisational ambient" band described on its website as "a consistent favorite with club owners, who may as well send security home due to fans' laid-back vibe," played on a small stage and was mostly ignored. Lead singer Aaron Gorton allowed that the gig, which was booked by local promoter Sue McLean, paid "pretty well." All the same, DFL pooh-bahs may as well have sent the band home.
There was also a twisted nostalgia in the air, as scores of Democrats sported Mondale/Ferraro or Carter/Mondale buttons like so many ratty old concert T-shirts brought out of mothballs for a Rolling Stones concert. But by 11:40, when Mondale and his family took the stage accompanied by the usual diversity mob--union members, children, assorted minorities, and a sampling of the more handsome of the party's volunteers--any whiff of nostalgic triumphalism was long gone. There was near-universal agreement in the room that Eleanor Mondale still looked just fine. Meantime candidate Fritz pledged a long night ahead, which turned out to be the one promise Democrats had no trouble keeping.
By midnight all the valiantly repressed desperation was breaking out in pockets of operatic despair and bursts of inebriated irrationality. On the sidewalk outside the Radisson a woman was screaming into her cell phone, "I heard Saxby Chambliss made his acceptance speech in front of a Confederate flag! I hope somebody throws shit at Saxby Chambliss! I hope somebody anally gang rapes Saxby Chambliss!" A short time later a group of twentysomething males, clutching beer bottles, congregated out front smoking. They exchanged high fives and bellowed to no one in particular, "We're gonna win this shit!"