Free Eggrolls for Democracy!

Then again, someone who's been a local punchline for nearly 30 years—irking gaming regulators, financing dirty campaigns, dreaming up a Titanic-themed casino, making and losing tens of millions of dollars—someone who's told the Review-Journal he's running because "it seems like a fun job," well, someone like that isn't going to care about such symbolism. The Stardust will be dynamited next year to make way for Boyd Gaming's $4 billion Echelon Place. Unless all the other candidates drop out—the Henderson developer (Bob Unger), the state treasurer (Brian Krolicki), the former state director of tourism and economic development (Robert Goodman), the ethically challenged former city councilwoman (Janet Moncrief) and the businesswoman (Barbara Lee Woollen)—Stupak's campaign might be on its last legs, assuming it ever had any first legs.

I'm thinking about all this as I approach the Avalon ballroom. Outside, a female member of Team Stupak is pressuring people to fill out raffle forms, jumping in the way of some who don't. "Sir," she says, chasing down a white-haired man in a yellow blazer festooned with World War II medals, "you didn't fill out a form. Please come back."

Those who slip past her make a beeline for a table stacked with postcards, playing cards and key chains from Vegas World, the 102-room hotel Stupak opened in 1979. Since there's no one-item-each-per-guest sign, one lady stuffs key chains into her purse, sparking a key chain free-for-all. "They might be collectors' items someday," she says.

At a table in the ballroom, two ladies corral anyone who tries to walk off with complimentary copies of Stupak's book. Since there's isn't a you-can't-take-the-book-until-Stupak-autographs-it sign, nearly everyone picks one up—only to get reprimanded. "Please return the book," a guardian shouts at an Asian gentlemen with limited English proficiency. "Sir," she insists, "Mr. Stupak is going to sign them after the event." Book thief's still walking. The lady in the jeans nabs him. "Sir, you can't have the book now." He's confused. "Sir, please give us the book, now! You can have it after Mr. Stupak signs it after this is over." He doesn't care about Stupak's signature; he wants the book. The ladies are uncompromising. They win. He returns the book—and leaves.

The crowd numbers 350 or 400, most eligible for AARP. Graying is the hairstyle of choice among men, with balding a close second. Many of the women look like retired lounge singers: big hair, caked-on makeup, sequined dresses that hug every unshapely curve.

There is a band, but most of the attention is on the food. Stupak didn't skimp: chicken, pasta, roast beef, fruit, champagne—about as good as a free dinner gets. Between bites of his eggroll, a New Jersey man admits knowing little about the man who paid for the spread. "I came because I got the invitation in the mail, and it said free food."

Most of the folks I talk to know the bare minimum about Stupak. He built the Stratosphere and won a $1 million Super Bowl bet in 1989. But did they know he collected nearly 33 percent of the vote in one mayor's race and financed campaigns for his son and daughter? Were they aware of his one-time relationship with Moncrief, the controversial former city councilwoman and now his opponent in this race?

No.

What about his campaign platforms?

No.

A man in a fisherman's hat and Hawaiian shirt says Stupak frequently played cards at Binion's Horseshoe. "I dealt to him a lot. My friend used to serve him three meals a day at Vegas World."

Is he voting for Stupak?

"Why not?"

An hour into the affair, bug-eyed comedian Marty Allen takes the stage. He's smaller and weirder-looking in person—bulgier eyes, wilder hair—it looks like it's running from his scalp. Here are the best of his jokes: Mayor Oscar Goodman got my traffic ticket reduced to manslaughter. A lady had a T-shirt on with the word "Guess"; I said, "Implants?" UPS merged with Federal Express to form Fed Up. Someone told President Bush about the bird flu scare, and now he wants to bomb the Canary Islands.

Stupak doesn't laugh once. As Karon Kate Blackwell sings a set that includes "Johnny B. Goode," "Proud Mary" and an Irving Berlin song few people know, I walk over and introduce myself to Stupak. He doesn't acknowledge me. I try again and again. Does he hear me? Is he ignoring me? I touch his elbow to get his attention.

My dumb ass.

He glares, drags on his cigarette and heads to the bar. I press my luck and follow, determined to ask my questions—Why are you running? How are you gonna win? Do Northern Nevada folks even know you? Just as I'm about to pounce, he takes a cell phone call. It gives me time to study his features. It's what you'd expect of someone who broke nearly every bone in his face in a motorcycle accident: waxen, bony, vacuum-sealed to preserve its freshness.

He's off his cell, but it's time for him to speak. On stage, Stupak proves inept at singing and even worse at stumping, butchering the notes he's written and talking about taxes and Republicans ("Ronald Reagan was the last good one"), instead of bona fide ways to diversify Nevada's economy and increase tourism—the meat of the lieutenant governor's job. Not that he doesn't have a plan for that; he does. He will use his showbiz contacts. "I've been in lots of movies, and know everyone in Hollywood." Despite Stupak's promotional video, which touts him as the most successful and well-known casino mogul in Vegas history— although it doesn't quote Steve Wynn or Kirk Kerkorian to that effect—and the abundant Stupak memorabilia, not everyone gets the message.

Stepping outside to speak on her cell phone, one woman tells the caller that she's "here at the Stardust for the Bob Stupark event." Close enough for the voting booth, I suppose.