Gibbons, Porter, Ensign, Beers (both), Jackson, Wiese, Tarkanian, Myers: Their banners, alongside those of just about every Republican candidate who campaigned in Southern Nevada this year, hung from the walls and rafters. College interns who spent their summer laying out the groundwork for their respective candidates floated about—networking, showcasing their new suits and dresses purchased strictly for parties like this, practicing the political craft of forged smiles and hearty goodbyes. Party chairman John Hambrick was on the mic, encouraging the 8 o'clock crowd to celebrate as if it were the weekend.
He also encouraged them to enjoy the food, which from my apolitical perspective was the best part of the night. The tavern's owner, Chet Pressler, a former software designer who in 1998 defected from California's Silicon Valley because he could no longer tolerate the Democratic climate, set up a buffet in the bar's family room, complete with baked beans, coleslaw, shredded pork and chicken and fluffy buns in which to pack it all in, and so many other backyard delicacies that the most conservative of the bunch that night repented out loud with every belch.
Otherwise, the party was a real bore. Martinis sat abandoned, half-sipped, throughout the bar, music without power chords hovered overhead, upright women with short hair and impenetrable makeup walked about, their small talk so subtle that something as uneventful as a popped balloon sent goose-pimples up their arms, and men sat around circular tables discussing political issues in the same way my grandmother and her friends used to talk about soap operas. And if it weren't for the satanic drinks concocted by that sorceress behind the bar—Lisa—I don't know how I would've ever endured the tedium.
By 8:30 the tavern was near capacity. Folks watched the primaries play out on the bar's 100-inch TV, as Internet updates were fed to the high-definition screen up front from a laptop stationed in the back.
By 9 none of the races was conclusive, save those that were mismatches from the start. By 9:15 the scene had not altered. Not even a bit.
Looking at it from as many angles as possible, the event in my eyes continued into the night as a real drag, and I couldn't even find remedy in the supernatural cleavage of former porn queen Mimi Miyagi, a Republican gubernatorial candidate who ran under the her real name, Melody Damayo, and who twice this summer held fund-raising parties at the same tavern in scant attire that drew more attention to her body than her political stance. On Tuesday night she, like all the other women at Barbeque Masters, wore modest business attire, and if she had on something more consistent with her character underneath I never had the good fortune of finding out.
By 9:30 the results of the 71 races statewide began to manifest. As the computer technician scrolled through the results, magnified on the big screen, and it became clear that Gibbons would win, then that Krolicki would win, then that less-hyped candidates like Elizabeth Halverson would win, and then, in the tightest race of them all, for the seat in the Second Congressional District, that Dean Heller would win, there was the occasional "Yes!"—but no one went wild for his or her candidate. I expected more from the Republicans.
Also disappointed by the event, Ed Gobel, director of Lowdens Veteran Center and Museum and former Republican candidate for the Nevada State Assembly, says:
"We haven't had any real memorable parties since the early '90s, when the GOP really used to be kickin'. Since then they've gotten worse each time. I guess the Democrats now have the reputation of throwing great parties."
And so, just after 9:30, I took off, drove east on Sahara, hooked a right on Maryland Parkway and came to Democrat Myrna Williams' headquarters on Flamingo Road. When I walked in it appeared as if there was an astronomical party set to blast off any minute. There was cake, there were balloons; chips and salsa, and there was a dense and diverse crowd of people just waiting to let loose. And for good reason: The race for Clark County Commission District E, close and combative, had evoked great stress, above all for Williams, who had been the subject of a pestilential flyer spread throughout the district days before which claimed—without truth—that Williams had been investigated by the FBI during the infamous G-Sting scandal. The only problem was that by 9:45 Williams had found herself in an irrecoverable hole, down more than 1,000 votes to her key challenger, Chris Giunchigliani, and in a matter of minutes she would have no choice but to resign to defeat, ending the party before it ever in reality began. The room turned funereal. The cake was only a quarter eaten. Many of the folks faithful to her campaign began to file out in procession, an elegiac look upon their faces. The air became acidic with rancor while Williams began to talk about Giunchigliani and her Machiavellian politics, and about the prospects of suing her for slander and, potentially, libel.
She told me that more than anything she felt bad for the 100 individuals who were out earlier in the day knocking on doors, encouraging the people of District E to get out and vote for Williams, the woman who had served their community for the past dozen years. And for the people who did go out and vote for her, because they believed in her cause. And for the indeterminable number of constituents who swayed their votes in the 11th hour on account of the false flyer that she said crossed the line of ethical campaigning.
"How can I not feel for them?" she asked. Then she recovered her cool, and told me the only thing for her to do now—at 10:30 on Tuesday night—was to get to bed, because tomorrow was another day packed with zoning and education meetings, and other public matters that have kept her busy since she delved into Nevada politics in 1984.
"You know, in the end it's just politics," she says. "There's more to life."