The Virus

FEAR AND LOATHING HOPE AND CHANGE IN PORTLAND
Notes from Portland Mercury’s 2008 Election Night Hoopla at the Doug Fir
Illustration by Official Virus Contributer spacegirlsam

This is the kind of Good Craziness I like to see. Hundreds of people packed into a hipster bar to back their boy. Shit, I just called Obama ‘boy’ — was that racist? Fuck it, this is too important to worry about semantics. These people are either the Future of America, or else they are The Doomed. We’ll find out which as the night wears on.

Wore my Thompson costume again tonight. It was necessary — Dr. Thompson couldn’t be here himself, and this election needed him. There’s a whole section of people on the smoking patio who’ve recognized me. This is absolutely the right crowd for this. A fellow Mad Journalisto talks to me about his time in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina: “I’m in the ninth ward,” he tells me, “chasing a dog with a leg in its mouth, and we’re all going to die.” He also tells me about the time he passed out in Toledo, and woke up a week later in Chicago. (This is, you understand, the necessary and proper way to experience Ohio.) Fine, upstanding, young American. This is who this election is for. They need this to happen.

This entire party is In The Tank For Obama. McCain takes Mississippi; “Worst! State! Ever!” says the crowd. The Doug Fir is so packed that they won’t even let me downstairs — the dance floor is at capacity. This is huge.

8pm Pacific time, CNN calls the race for Obama. The screams of joy are almost tangible, and I have to swim my way through the sound waves to get to the television. This is what these half-crazy, half-mad wanderers have worked so hard for. They put aside their hedonistic ways and actually put some effort into something, and it’s all paid off huge. Let’s hope they’re not too disappointed four years from now. But tonight, ‘four years from now’ is the furthest thing from their minds. It’s amazing that they’ve made it this far, and they’re all going to drink it in. Hell, I myself may be guilty of provoking some of their madness by leading chants of “Yes We Did!” They needed this. Barack Obama has won the election, and now it’s all over but the dancing.

It’s 8:30 now, and John McCain has just delivered his concession speech. So, as Duke would say, what’s the score here? What’s next? The election may be over, but the party’s just getting started. I’m sticking this out ’til the end. It’s a rush of decadence and depravity now, and it’s a thing of beauty. I’m lighting cigarettes over the fire pit on the smokers’ patio. “It’s fine,” a young man assures the crowd, all of whom are concerned for my beautiful face, “It’s a very Thompson thing to do.” “So what IS your name?” asks a tall bob-haired brunette. “I’ve just been calling you ‘Fear and Loathing in Portland’ all night.” These are truly My People, and this is My City.

I just walked in on Raunchy Lesbian Bathroom Sex, and Journey is playing from downstairs. Don’t Stop Believing, Portland. Things have cleared out just a bit, so I make my way downstairs. People jump and scream to “Where the Streets Have No Name,” their fists in the air. Nothing can bring them down tonight. Repeating beats and thumping bass rule this crowd now. Their man has won. I said it was all over but the dancing, and they are dancing in Portland tonight. Balloons are popping, people are jumping — it’s a good time to be alive.

Shit! I’m ambushed by a wild-haired maniac from the bar. “Brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand,” he shouts, his eyes full of madness and his veins full of something illicit. “John Kennedy, one of my favorite men, but JFK came from privilege, but Barack came from the dirt and from his heart! Obama blends Lincoln and Kennedy and surpasses them both! John McCain…” He trails off as another clot of vein-candy hits his brain. Who is this savage bastard? What does he want with me? Any lesser journalist would be getting The Fear right about now, but I am sturdy and stalwart and full of free beer. I try to back up, but I’m up against a pillar, and the savage is closing the distance. His eyes are wide and his breath smells of patchouli — good god, that’s it! This cannibalistic animal must have eaten one of Portland’s roving hippies! It all makes sense now! “John McCain” he starts again, finding his words, “is gonna survive 120 years in the senate. That’s his place. But Obama is a leader like the world has never seen! He’s more than a transitional figure, he may be the most important leader the world has ever seen!” I’m seriously tempted to kick the bastard and run, but fortunately for me, a blonde girl in a scarf walked by us, and the savage latched on and started spitting his madness to her instead. I feel bad for the girl, but better her than me. I just hope she wasn’t eaten.

To be safe, I run my skinny ass upstairs to the room with the biggest television. It’s a much more relaxed atmosphere — lounging, passive sorts soaking up the processed information gruel from Wolf Blitzer. “Hey, are you purposely dressed like Hunter S. Thompson?” It’s a girl, early 20s, who looks oddly familiar. I tell her that, yes, that’s exactly my purpose. She introduces herself as Becca, and says that she’d seen me somewhere online, and recognized the costume. We talk about the madness of the night, and about writing, and about Writing — she’s a journalist, too — and then we run into her friend, no joke, Don Johnson. He is clearly a good and civil man. He bought me a beer. “There’s an unexpectedly high concentration of non-hipsters at the Doug Fir tonight,” Becca tells me in between sips of horrible, cheap beer. I am, of course, drinking the same. We take our horrible, cheap beer, and make our way back downstairs. On the way, we pass a TV, where Senator McCain has already been reduced to doing commercials for urinary incontinence medication. But it’s when we make it downstairs that something truly amazing takes place. More amazing than America electing a comparatively liberal, Black president. More amazing than America starting to lose the fear of its government.

Yes, dear readers, something amazing is happening: your faithful reporter is dancing of his own volition and free will. It’s so amazing that I have to step back again and write it down. And I’m by no means alone. There are two girls in front of me doing the Sprinkler — regarded by experts as the Whitest Dance Ever. And there’s a Caterpillar forming, weaving its way around the dance floor. “Come dance, Hunter!” shouts one lump of the Caterpillar, waving a horrible, cheap beer in my direction. That’s my cue.

The projected TV over the stage counts Obama’s electoral votes at ONE VOTE away from 350. The caption under the pundits calls it “Obama’s Big Win.” I’m making a note here: HUGE SUCCESS. This really is a massive victory, and fortunately, it couldn’t have gone any other way. America needs this right now. And Fake God Bless America.

Since I hit the dance floor, several crowd weirdos have recognized me. A bearded college boy tells me that it was Hunter Thompson’s writing that convinced him to go to school to begin with. An amazingly cute girl gave me a surprise hug for the costume. She even stayed and danced with me for a while. I picked the right place to be tonight. I guess I picked the right person to be, too. I’ve spent the entire night JUST SLIGHTLY out of my head. I understand, now, the appeal of writing like this.

As the night closes in around me, though, I find myself alone. Even among the calls of “Hey, Hunter!”, I am friendless. My people aren’t mine at all — they’re the Good Doctor’s, and they’re a fair-weather sort, so I end the night writing alone at a table on the patio, sucking down one last cigarette. Perhaps someday, things will come together here on the wrong side of this New Country.

But I’m not really counting on it.

I have a bus to catch. Good night, city.