Both Rob Holland and Max Vekich are holed up in opposite towers of the Westin Hotel tonight. Rob on the north side and Max on the south side. Rob is the front-runner in his race: charming, young, gay, black, and the outright winner in his primary. The food: Ivar's clam chowder and some kind of wrap thingy in a chafing dish. The booze: wine, beer, a little whiskey. The crowd: Spare and confident.

"It's my job to worry," says Rob's campaign manager Michael Martin. "But yes—I'm feeling pretty good tonight. We've been outspent three to one [by their opponent, David Doud, who is a robot-eyed toolbox], but we're feeling pretty good."

They won the primary by over 70,000 votes and their opponent is, well, a robot-eyed toolbox. So they have reason to feel good about the world.

Over in the south tower, things are different. The food is more spare (chips only) but even though Max has had a much dicier campaign than Rob, the room is packed. "Misery loves company," one white-haired woman in a silk Chinese vest jokes to her friend. Max (balding, ruddy, sparse white beard) greets me at the door. We ask how he's doing.

"Better than a greasy, half-empty tub of Crisco!" he says. (SECB originally endorsed his opponent, David Albro, but switched our endorsement midstream of a tub of shortening.) The Crisco joke is following SECB throughout the room: meeting the campaign manager ("you like our Crisco ad?"), getting a drink ("our drink special, just for you, is a half-glass of Crisco"). They hate that Crisco joke.

We ask Vekich whether the port job should be elected. Should it be appointed?

"We have enough cronyism at the Port without appointing the position," he says.

But can voters realistically be expected to digest port-race data along with mayor's race and city council and count executive and everything else?

"Well they should step up, shouldn't they?" he says. "And I have faith that they will."

The room is getting even fuller, even busier.

A guy just walked in who looks like he's from central casting: Tall, thin but broad-shouldered, wispy white hair, wraparound shades, a big and knobby cane, and a long grey wool trench coat. He doesn't talk to anybody. He just strides into the room authoritatively and plants himself in front of the television. He looks like a divine emissary. For which side, I can't tell.