PART THREE.
Not the question I expected.
“I missed that one, Senator.” I said. All thought was whisked away by Lieberman’s absurd question. I sat dumbfounded. Perhaps, this was a Beltway ploy I had yet to experience. A riddle? An enigma? A riddle wrapped inside an enigma? A brief mental image of Joe Pesci sporting a bleached muskrat hide on his head and ranting to Kevin Costner nearly caused me to vomit. I steadied myself and met Lieberman’s gaze. It was evident that his question struck him as not the least bit bizarre.
“Hadassah and I saw the film in a theatre in Washington. Behind Enemy Lines is based on the book Return with Honor by Captain Scott O’Grady. Owen Wilson plays Lt. Chris Burnett who is a fictitious Navy navigator shot down in Bosnia. Wilson is pursued by the Serbian Army. Gene Hackman, who I admire very much, plays Leslie McMahon Reigart. Admiral Leslie McMahon Reigart. At one point Hackman tells Wilson, ‘You don’t know the FIRST thing about serving your country!’ That line really stuck with me, Bill, because I never served in our country’s great military. And I used to regret that, I truly did. And the fact is I never truly considered the depths of my regret until I was watching Behind Enemy Lines. Yes, that fact had been pointed out to me at almost every step of my career in politics, but for some reason, sitting in that dark theatre in Washington D.C. watching Owen Wilson, a man I can relate to, dodging hails of bullets, evading sniper fire, and outwitting evildoers I felt that I had truly let something pass me by in life. So, I started cheering. Cheering and whooping and pumping my fist in the air every time Wilson survived yet another impossible to survive scenario. Several people in the theatre looked back at me, but I did not care. I could have had them deported if I wanted to anyway. I screamed ‘Yeah!’ and ‘All Right!’ and for the first time in my life I felt a sense of gestalt. A wholeness and unity of being unlike one I had ever experienced before.”
Lieberman adjusted his arms moving them from the desk in front of him to the chair’s armrests. He leaned back on his elbows. His entire body tensed. He continued: “You see, Bill, in that moment of gestalt I became Owen Wilson. I experienced the strange sensation of leaving my own body, floating across the other seats in the theatre and merging, becoming one, with the actor on the screen. For the last hour of the film, I was experiencing the reality of combat, the power of service. The man cheering in the audience was me too. I was both in the film and watching my participation in it. And the experience changed me because I truly understand now what it means to serve one’s country. Can you say that, Bill?”
And then he did something truly strange. He stood up from behind his desk and removed his suit jacket. Do whatever you want to Lieberman, but please, for the love of God, keep your shirt on! Oy, oh, no, please don’t roll up the shirt sleeves! Iraq, that’s it, send me back to Iraq! I’ll fight! I’ll look for land mines! Just keep your clothes on Lieberman!
Monday, April 28, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
It's the Economy, Jew Boy!
PART TWO.
Senator Joseph Lieberman (R/D, Conn.) gazed with relish at the frayed payot and scuffed prayer shawl of a member of his rarified race run afoul. His swollen nose hung like an old man’s gut over gouged smile lines. He clenched his jaw and stared at me his relishing gaze quickly disappointed and fading to the look of a man disgusted by his wife’s cooking.
One of my assailants passed Lieberman a brown, suede briefcase. Lieberman took it and placed it on his desk. His eyes never left me. He unfastened each lock with a deliberate clack and allowed the top to spring open. From the briefcase he removed an 8.5” by 11” manila envelope. The other assailant flanking Lieberman clamped the case shut and removed it from his desk immediately.
“William Heschel Herschovitchz,” he said tapping the folder. “I knew a Heschel Herschovitchz once…”
He let the words linger. I could survive an encounter with Lieberman. I doubted I could survive a conversation about my father.
“He was a congressman for a spell, Fifth District, Waterbury. A lame duck, but a mensch. Definitely a mensch. Sold beautiful watches. I am not so sure he would be proud of the man his son has become.” He paused for effect. I cursed silently under my breath. He raised an eyebrow and then emptied the contents of the folder onto his desk. Pictures and programs, a few ticket stubs, horse hair, two gun shells, a piece of parchment, a yarmulke, two copies of Shiksa Tail (October 99, shit, I have been looking for that one!), a tattered copy of Twice Chai, and then you Die, and a dreidel all tumbled onto the varnished oak desktop. The dreidel landed on Nun.
“What a shame,” he sighed. “I saw the play, Twice Chai, with Hadassah in 1998. We liked it very much. The fact is I thought you were probing the depths of the Jewish soul in a manner befitting a young Philip Roth. The fact is I thought you had promise and talent. The fact is I was wrong.” He dragged his arm across the desk, raking all the contents toward its edge. The same guard who had produced the briefcase out of apparent nowhere waited with a wire garbage can to collect my file. I wanted to scream take it, take it all, just leave me October ’99! But the relics of my life flopped into the receptacle, a side door opened, a diminutive Latino maid scampered in, took the garbage can, bowed her head in the direction of Lieberman, and scampered out.
“I wish, for your father’s sake alone, I could say otherwise. I wish that William, but the fact is your once promising career has turned into a farce. Ever since the Obie ceremonies in September of 1999 you have displayed what I would characterize as horrific judgment. Two years sabbatical in Venezuela doing God knows what. Years of co-authoring a comic book with some Canadian hip-hop has-been. I’m not going to even try to pronounce his name. Last fall you were arrested in an empty office in the RNC National Headquarters with a blood toxin and alcohol level so high it’s a miracle you didn’t explode. Actually it’s less of a miracle and more of a shame. Somehow, you have ended up covering the McCain campaign for a periodical no one on my staff heard of. A periodical we should know. And you have made a mockery of that assignment in less than a month! The Hanoi treatment? Trysts with Sela Ward? Taking claim for Recipe-gate! How do you account for this behavior? How?”
I braced and made ready to answer. I had listened patiently while my brow bunched. Before I could open my mouth though he was back at it, practically standing, and leaning on both elbows out over his desk.
“I have just one question for you, William. Just one. Have you ever seen the Owen Wilson film Behind Enemy Lines?”
Senator Joseph Lieberman (R/D, Conn.) gazed with relish at the frayed payot and scuffed prayer shawl of a member of his rarified race run afoul. His swollen nose hung like an old man’s gut over gouged smile lines. He clenched his jaw and stared at me his relishing gaze quickly disappointed and fading to the look of a man disgusted by his wife’s cooking.
One of my assailants passed Lieberman a brown, suede briefcase. Lieberman took it and placed it on his desk. His eyes never left me. He unfastened each lock with a deliberate clack and allowed the top to spring open. From the briefcase he removed an 8.5” by 11” manila envelope. The other assailant flanking Lieberman clamped the case shut and removed it from his desk immediately.
“William Heschel Herschovitchz,” he said tapping the folder. “I knew a Heschel Herschovitchz once…”
He let the words linger. I could survive an encounter with Lieberman. I doubted I could survive a conversation about my father.
“He was a congressman for a spell, Fifth District, Waterbury. A lame duck, but a mensch. Definitely a mensch. Sold beautiful watches. I am not so sure he would be proud of the man his son has become.” He paused for effect. I cursed silently under my breath. He raised an eyebrow and then emptied the contents of the folder onto his desk. Pictures and programs, a few ticket stubs, horse hair, two gun shells, a piece of parchment, a yarmulke, two copies of Shiksa Tail (October 99, shit, I have been looking for that one!), a tattered copy of Twice Chai, and then you Die, and a dreidel all tumbled onto the varnished oak desktop. The dreidel landed on Nun.
“What a shame,” he sighed. “I saw the play, Twice Chai, with Hadassah in 1998. We liked it very much. The fact is I thought you were probing the depths of the Jewish soul in a manner befitting a young Philip Roth. The fact is I thought you had promise and talent. The fact is I was wrong.” He dragged his arm across the desk, raking all the contents toward its edge. The same guard who had produced the briefcase out of apparent nowhere waited with a wire garbage can to collect my file. I wanted to scream take it, take it all, just leave me October ’99! But the relics of my life flopped into the receptacle, a side door opened, a diminutive Latino maid scampered in, took the garbage can, bowed her head in the direction of Lieberman, and scampered out.
“I wish, for your father’s sake alone, I could say otherwise. I wish that William, but the fact is your once promising career has turned into a farce. Ever since the Obie ceremonies in September of 1999 you have displayed what I would characterize as horrific judgment. Two years sabbatical in Venezuela doing God knows what. Years of co-authoring a comic book with some Canadian hip-hop has-been. I’m not going to even try to pronounce his name. Last fall you were arrested in an empty office in the RNC National Headquarters with a blood toxin and alcohol level so high it’s a miracle you didn’t explode. Actually it’s less of a miracle and more of a shame. Somehow, you have ended up covering the McCain campaign for a periodical no one on my staff heard of. A periodical we should know. And you have made a mockery of that assignment in less than a month! The Hanoi treatment? Trysts with Sela Ward? Taking claim for Recipe-gate! How do you account for this behavior? How?”
I braced and made ready to answer. I had listened patiently while my brow bunched. Before I could open my mouth though he was back at it, practically standing, and leaning on both elbows out over his desk.
“I have just one question for you, William. Just one. Have you ever seen the Owen Wilson film Behind Enemy Lines?”
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
It's the economy, Jew Boy!
PART ONE.
Apparently McCain was not fucking around.
On Friday the locks to the Straight Talk Express were changed. I slept on my jacket in the nearby woods.
When I woke Saturday morning my watch was missing and when I arrived at the weekend press briefing a grease soaked white paper bag greeted me at my customary seat. The bag smelled delicious. The aroma was sweet and briny. Bacon. I stood in the back, arms folded tight across my chest. When McCain walked in he looked at the empty seat and then at me. He smiled. I gave him the finger. His smile slid off his face and his eyes narrowed.
Sunday passed without incident.
And then, on Monday morning, I was jostled awake by four gloved sets of hands wrenching me up from the forest floor. I struggled, swiveling my head in an attempt to identify my assailants. The men all wore black ski masks. They tossed me into the back of a van and slammed and locked the doors. They did not cover my head, but there were no windows for me to look out of anyway. Fifteen minutes later, I felt the van ease down a ramp and break. The temperature had dropped in the air, I could feel it through the van's rusty hinges. The doors opened again. I was in a parking lot, below ground. The same four men yanked me out of the car and slammed me against the side of the van. One of the masked men stepped forward, cocked his arm, and punched me in the face.
When I came to I was sitting in a leather Trillipsie meeting chair (I only knew this particular make because of its offensive lack of upper back support and swivel). The overhead lights were off and two halogen desk lamps illuminated the center of what I took to be an office. One faced me and one faced a decidedly more appealing chair. The rest of the room was cloaked in a half darkness that obscured but did not obliterate the room's owners stately office furniture. I was not tied to my chair, but two men (who I assumed to be two of the four who had picked me up earlier) stood on either side of the comfy-looking chair. They still wore masks and were much more deterring than any knot could have hoped to be. The three of us sat in silence for another twenty minutes.
A door behind me opened. A brown suit passed. The back of the head attached to the suit was topped with a thick mash of wavy, styled white hair. The head was wide, made even wider by two date-sized earlobes that plumped out on either side. The man was short but purposeful. The air around him smelled like moth balls and cologne, Calvin Klein I guessed. I should have listened to McCain, I should have taken his words at face value. This was too horrible to be true. It was him. It was Joe Lieberman.
Apparently McCain was not fucking around.
On Friday the locks to the Straight Talk Express were changed. I slept on my jacket in the nearby woods.
When I woke Saturday morning my watch was missing and when I arrived at the weekend press briefing a grease soaked white paper bag greeted me at my customary seat. The bag smelled delicious. The aroma was sweet and briny. Bacon. I stood in the back, arms folded tight across my chest. When McCain walked in he looked at the empty seat and then at me. He smiled. I gave him the finger. His smile slid off his face and his eyes narrowed.
Sunday passed without incident.
And then, on Monday morning, I was jostled awake by four gloved sets of hands wrenching me up from the forest floor. I struggled, swiveling my head in an attempt to identify my assailants. The men all wore black ski masks. They tossed me into the back of a van and slammed and locked the doors. They did not cover my head, but there were no windows for me to look out of anyway. Fifteen minutes later, I felt the van ease down a ramp and break. The temperature had dropped in the air, I could feel it through the van's rusty hinges. The doors opened again. I was in a parking lot, below ground. The same four men yanked me out of the car and slammed me against the side of the van. One of the masked men stepped forward, cocked his arm, and punched me in the face.
When I came to I was sitting in a leather Trillipsie meeting chair (I only knew this particular make because of its offensive lack of upper back support and swivel). The overhead lights were off and two halogen desk lamps illuminated the center of what I took to be an office. One faced me and one faced a decidedly more appealing chair. The rest of the room was cloaked in a half darkness that obscured but did not obliterate the room's owners stately office furniture. I was not tied to my chair, but two men (who I assumed to be two of the four who had picked me up earlier) stood on either side of the comfy-looking chair. They still wore masks and were much more deterring than any knot could have hoped to be. The three of us sat in silence for another twenty minutes.
A door behind me opened. A brown suit passed. The back of the head attached to the suit was topped with a thick mash of wavy, styled white hair. The head was wide, made even wider by two date-sized earlobes that plumped out on either side. The man was short but purposeful. The air around him smelled like moth balls and cologne, Calvin Klein I guessed. I should have listened to McCain, I should have taken his words at face value. This was too horrible to be true. It was him. It was Joe Lieberman.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The plot thickens...
The response to my post yesterday has been overwhelming. Cindy McCain has denied that the conversation ever took place. Lacey, the intern in question, says it was her idea (she is trying to negotiate some sort of deal with the O! Network as we speak and the truth is impeding her negotiations) and that I am posturing to be picked up by a bigger publication (all apologies to the fine folks at the Middletown Republican Chassidic Dispatch, if you rat bastards even exist. Return a fucking phone call! It's called common courtesy). And then, to top it all of, after weeks of requesting a one on one interview, I was treated to the more abrasive side of Senator McCain's personality in our first private conversation.
Here is a word for word transcript (I have a tape recorder in my watch! That's right John boy, you Hanoi bitch!):
McCain: Bill, you got a second?
Me: Of course, Senator.
McCain: Let's take a walk.
Me: Yes sir.
McCain: You know, Bill, I like to read the columns of everyone who travels with me. I have an intern assemble them. It's what I do over lunch.
Me: I have been very impressed by the access you've allowed the press and the respect you've offered us.
McCain: Well, Bill, that's nice, but this time you've crossed the line.
Me: Excuse me, Senator?
McCain: This whole recipe-gate thing is nonsense to begin with, and now for you to claim that it was your idea...
Me: It was my idea, sir...
McCain: DO NOT interrupt me. As I was saying, Billy, I've spoken to Cindy and she denies even knowing who you are. Now, I know my wife to be an honest woman...
Me: It was just two harmless drinks, Senator. Nothing more happened. Now, I know with all the talk on the ol' Straighttalk about me and Sela, that you might feel a bit threatened by me and Cindy sharing a private conversation, but I can assure you---
McCain: Listen, dick, I don't know what kind of horseshit you think you're running, but MRS. McCain never spoke to you and certainly would never entertain the idea of sleeping with you if she even had the first fucking clue who you are!
Me: Touchy.
McCain: What?
Me: It seems like I've hit a nerve. I'm sorry. I didn't realize Mrs. McCain's fidelity had ever been an issue. However, based on your response...
McCain: Did you think the Hanoi treatment was a joke, Bill? Well, let me tell you something my little Chassidic friend, you utter one more word about this recipe-gate, you come within ten fucking feet of MRS. McCain, I swear on my father's grave, I will sick Lieberman on you! Do you know what Joe will do to you? Do you? You think this is a joke? Huh? Because you two share the same God, you're entitled to some sort of home team discount? Well, be advised, sir, that Joe has a particularly rabid disdain for members of his tribe who don't play ball. So, unless you want one of your own people to show you that yes my friend there is a hell and dear sweet Jesus it's probably a lot better than what I'm going through right now, then I would advise you to cease all recipe-gate related activities! Me and Joe do not fuck around!
And with that he stomped off.
Well, Johnny, I hope your interns are serving this to you right now with a nice turkey sandwich on Wonder Bread with Hellman's low fat mayonnaise. I hope you're choking on your little goyische lunch, pal! Because this dog can bite back!
Here is a word for word transcript (I have a tape recorder in my watch! That's right John boy, you Hanoi bitch!):
McCain: Bill, you got a second?
Me: Of course, Senator.
McCain: Let's take a walk.
Me: Yes sir.
McCain: You know, Bill, I like to read the columns of everyone who travels with me. I have an intern assemble them. It's what I do over lunch.
Me: I have been very impressed by the access you've allowed the press and the respect you've offered us.
McCain: Well, Bill, that's nice, but this time you've crossed the line.
Me: Excuse me, Senator?
McCain: This whole recipe-gate thing is nonsense to begin with, and now for you to claim that it was your idea...
Me: It was my idea, sir...
McCain: DO NOT interrupt me. As I was saying, Billy, I've spoken to Cindy and she denies even knowing who you are. Now, I know my wife to be an honest woman...
Me: It was just two harmless drinks, Senator. Nothing more happened. Now, I know with all the talk on the ol' Straighttalk about me and Sela, that you might feel a bit threatened by me and Cindy sharing a private conversation, but I can assure you---
McCain: Listen, dick, I don't know what kind of horseshit you think you're running, but MRS. McCain never spoke to you and certainly would never entertain the idea of sleeping with you if she even had the first fucking clue who you are!
Me: Touchy.
McCain: What?
Me: It seems like I've hit a nerve. I'm sorry. I didn't realize Mrs. McCain's fidelity had ever been an issue. However, based on your response...
McCain: Did you think the Hanoi treatment was a joke, Bill? Well, let me tell you something my little Chassidic friend, you utter one more word about this recipe-gate, you come within ten fucking feet of MRS. McCain, I swear on my father's grave, I will sick Lieberman on you! Do you know what Joe will do to you? Do you? You think this is a joke? Huh? Because you two share the same God, you're entitled to some sort of home team discount? Well, be advised, sir, that Joe has a particularly rabid disdain for members of his tribe who don't play ball. So, unless you want one of your own people to show you that yes my friend there is a hell and dear sweet Jesus it's probably a lot better than what I'm going through right now, then I would advise you to cease all recipe-gate related activities! Me and Joe do not fuck around!
And with that he stomped off.
Well, Johnny, I hope your interns are serving this to you right now with a nice turkey sandwich on Wonder Bread with Hellman's low fat mayonnaise. I hope you're choking on your little goyische lunch, pal! Because this dog can bite back!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
All right, I admit it.
It was my idea. I'm not proud of it. I'll probably lose my seat on the Straight Talk Express. I'll certainly have some answering to do to my still non-existent editor at the Middletown Republican Chassidic Dispatch. I told her to do it. We were having a mid-afternoon cocktail and I was sure she wouldn't take me seriously. I was bragging about the letter from Sela Ward. She seemed interested and my shiksometer was going ape just being in her presence. I was nervous so I made some jokes. And she laughed. A few more jokes (apparently the mere mention of a rabbi and a priest in the same sentence was enough to send her into a tizzy) and a second cocktail and all of a sudden we're chums. And then...
She glances around the bar. Her still smooth skin glows even brighter after a Stoli on the rocks. She lowers her gaze a bit.
"Bill, I have to tell someone this. I just don't know what to do when I'm First Lady. There are so many issues I care about, but, what will my issue be?" She takes a furtive sip and looks at me, expectantly.
"Cindy, I'm no politician, but it seems like your job over the next few months is to appear solid and supportive, speak eloquently, and stay out of the limelight. Why would you try to compete with Bill or Michelle anyway?" I sniff my whiskey but do not drink. I am pretending to be much cooler than I feel.
"But, that's the problem, exactly. The American people are going to want me to rise to the occasion. Be a Laura Bush, a Hillary, ya know?"
"I'm not sure I agree. Maybe you should consider the fact, especially in a campaign where race and sex are bound to play predominant roles, that your campaign might benefit from a First Lady trumpeting more, well, traditional values." I sound like an asshole. I sound like a know-it-all douchebag. I sound like a---
"That's exactly what I've been telling John!" She practically slaps my whiskey out of my hand. "But I'm no good at the traditional stuff. I mean, I can barely cook."
"Eh, get an intern to look up some recipes somewhere and post them on the site. If it sticks you can learn how to cook. You can be the nutrition First Lady. A healthy America or some shit like that."
She grabs her cellphone and dials.
"Laney, it's Cindy. I need recipes. Interesting, but not too interesting. And healthy. Very, very healthy. And with some variety. Maybe throw in little ethnic touches. Not too ethnic. We're not Democrats for Christ's sake. Oh, I don't give a shit, Laney, just find the things. Get 'em on the website. Say they're family recipes. Yeah, that sounds good. The McCain Melting Pot! No? No, that is too much. Ok, good." She turns to me. "Bill, thank you, this is brilliant. Thank you." And she leaves.
And now this... Recipegate! Oy, what a disaster! This can't be good...
She glances around the bar. Her still smooth skin glows even brighter after a Stoli on the rocks. She lowers her gaze a bit.
"Bill, I have to tell someone this. I just don't know what to do when I'm First Lady. There are so many issues I care about, but, what will my issue be?" She takes a furtive sip and looks at me, expectantly.
"Cindy, I'm no politician, but it seems like your job over the next few months is to appear solid and supportive, speak eloquently, and stay out of the limelight. Why would you try to compete with Bill or Michelle anyway?" I sniff my whiskey but do not drink. I am pretending to be much cooler than I feel.
"But, that's the problem, exactly. The American people are going to want me to rise to the occasion. Be a Laura Bush, a Hillary, ya know?"
"I'm not sure I agree. Maybe you should consider the fact, especially in a campaign where race and sex are bound to play predominant roles, that your campaign might benefit from a First Lady trumpeting more, well, traditional values." I sound like an asshole. I sound like a know-it-all douchebag. I sound like a---
"That's exactly what I've been telling John!" She practically slaps my whiskey out of my hand. "But I'm no good at the traditional stuff. I mean, I can barely cook."
"Eh, get an intern to look up some recipes somewhere and post them on the site. If it sticks you can learn how to cook. You can be the nutrition First Lady. A healthy America or some shit like that."
She grabs her cellphone and dials.
"Laney, it's Cindy. I need recipes. Interesting, but not too interesting. And healthy. Very, very healthy. And with some variety. Maybe throw in little ethnic touches. Not too ethnic. We're not Democrats for Christ's sake. Oh, I don't give a shit, Laney, just find the things. Get 'em on the website. Say they're family recipes. Yeah, that sounds good. The McCain Melting Pot! No? No, that is too much. Ok, good." She turns to me. "Bill, thank you, this is brilliant. Thank you." And she leaves.
And now this... Recipegate! Oy, what a disaster! This can't be good...
Friday, April 11, 2008
A Letter from Meridian
Dearest Bill,
When I woke up next to you two weeks ago, I was horrified. The McNasty, his mother, and I had been doing shots of Southern Comfort in the kitchen for four hours after the rest of the potential donors had said their adieus and I was, needless to say, hammered. I went walking in the garden to clear my head and found myself reminiscing over lost love and the trials of my early life. I know it’s horribly cliché, probably makes a writer like you cringe just to read a sentence like that, but it’s true. And in that haze of alcohol and melancholy remembrance I found you, sitting there in the gazebo, alone. I had never seen, let alone, met anyone like you (I don’t mean a Jew, by the way, some of my best friends, well, at least my agent and my lawyers, they’re all Jews). I lied about having read your play. I was plastered enough to not be disturbed by your encyclopedic knowledge of my career. I was so shit-housed, frankly, that your dead-on impression of me in Sisters was actually amusing as opposed to terror inducing. And I could barely keep my eyes on you as we slept together. I thought of, well, anything but what we were doing.
And yet, something about you lingers in a way no one has lingered for me for years. Maybe it was those strange braids of yours draped across my heaving chest. Maybe it was the gruff yet gentle aroma of saddle leather and parchment that seemed to ooze out of all of your pores. And, it could just be my own narcissistic delight in your clear obsession with me. Whatever it was, whatever it is, and I can’t believe I am saying this here and now, whatever it is that is keeping you on my mind I… I… I want to see you again. Please call me.
Sela
YEAH BABY!!!!
When I woke up next to you two weeks ago, I was horrified. The McNasty, his mother, and I had been doing shots of Southern Comfort in the kitchen for four hours after the rest of the potential donors had said their adieus and I was, needless to say, hammered. I went walking in the garden to clear my head and found myself reminiscing over lost love and the trials of my early life. I know it’s horribly cliché, probably makes a writer like you cringe just to read a sentence like that, but it’s true. And in that haze of alcohol and melancholy remembrance I found you, sitting there in the gazebo, alone. I had never seen, let alone, met anyone like you (I don’t mean a Jew, by the way, some of my best friends, well, at least my agent and my lawyers, they’re all Jews). I lied about having read your play. I was plastered enough to not be disturbed by your encyclopedic knowledge of my career. I was so shit-housed, frankly, that your dead-on impression of me in Sisters was actually amusing as opposed to terror inducing. And I could barely keep my eyes on you as we slept together. I thought of, well, anything but what we were doing.
And yet, something about you lingers in a way no one has lingered for me for years. Maybe it was those strange braids of yours draped across my heaving chest. Maybe it was the gruff yet gentle aroma of saddle leather and parchment that seemed to ooze out of all of your pores. And, it could just be my own narcissistic delight in your clear obsession with me. Whatever it was, whatever it is, and I can’t believe I am saying this here and now, whatever it is that is keeping you on my mind I… I… I want to see you again. Please call me.
Sela
YEAH BABY!!!!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
"This is the color of the new civil rights revolution"
And he waved a one dollar bill.
Jack Kemp was the one waving the money and making the speech. The year was 1996 and the place was Sylvia's on 126th Street and Lenox in Harlem. The real context is much less inflammatory than the initial trappings would suggest. The luncheon was private, featuring prominent New York and African American Republicans, primarily, with the addition of the types of political figures (local and powerful Democrats, Conrad Muhammad, Farrakhan's New York representative) that such an event would necessitate. Sylvia's son, Van DeWard Woods, was a Democrat turned Republican. And the event was private, with the candidate doing most of his campaigning inside of the restaurant. There was great fear in the Dole Campaign that Kemp's visit would be seen as an offensive affront to a constituency that the Republican Party had "written off" (Kemp's words). Perhaps an angry mob would greet the Vice-Presidential candidate? Raucous protest? Riots? But, no, disinterest more than anything else. The most vocal crowd were New York City Republicans assembled by the party to act as a buffer between their candidate and potential protesters.
McCain's campaign has drawn a lot of attention, especially in light of the growing surety around here that McCain will face off with Obama, for its stated intention to campaign in traditional Democratic strongholds, particularly poor urban areas with predominantly African American populations. The assertion, which is the same one Kemp was campaigning on in '96, is that, while the Republican Party has "written off" African Americans, the Democratic Party has made the worse offense of taking their support "for granted."
And there is all sorts of rampant speculation as to the role race will play in the coming showdown between the oldest white man ever to run for the presidency and the first black man ever appointed his party's candidate of choice. Because, for all the talk in McCain land right now about new Republican voters and independents and braving new political constituencies, I believe when the dust settles, both of these men, both victorious in the race for the green, will end up using the green in the exact same way their parties have for a century: to do everything within and marginally beyond the law to press the other candidate's face in the mud and take the entire campaign right down with it.
Because that's where the entertainment value is. Because on that day in Harlem in 1996, had there been riots or some event more spectacular than an innocuous luncheon, I think Kemp and Dole would have been back in the inner city begging for the controversial P.R. and trying to point out that this was what a Democratic presidency had created. Look at what the 1968 Democratic Convention did for Nixon. Instead, in 1996, the Dole campaign had lunch and never came back. Disinterest doesn't occupy a lot of time on CNN.
But Kemp was wrong. Green is not the new color of the civil rights revolution. It's merely a newly acquired weapon. The battle is still the same. And once we get through the preliminaries and to the prize fight, both sides will bring out every old trick to win.
And we'll be throwing elbows to get closest to the ring.
Jack Kemp was the one waving the money and making the speech. The year was 1996 and the place was Sylvia's on 126th Street and Lenox in Harlem. The real context is much less inflammatory than the initial trappings would suggest. The luncheon was private, featuring prominent New York and African American Republicans, primarily, with the addition of the types of political figures (local and powerful Democrats, Conrad Muhammad, Farrakhan's New York representative) that such an event would necessitate. Sylvia's son, Van DeWard Woods, was a Democrat turned Republican. And the event was private, with the candidate doing most of his campaigning inside of the restaurant. There was great fear in the Dole Campaign that Kemp's visit would be seen as an offensive affront to a constituency that the Republican Party had "written off" (Kemp's words). Perhaps an angry mob would greet the Vice-Presidential candidate? Raucous protest? Riots? But, no, disinterest more than anything else. The most vocal crowd were New York City Republicans assembled by the party to act as a buffer between their candidate and potential protesters.
McCain's campaign has drawn a lot of attention, especially in light of the growing surety around here that McCain will face off with Obama, for its stated intention to campaign in traditional Democratic strongholds, particularly poor urban areas with predominantly African American populations. The assertion, which is the same one Kemp was campaigning on in '96, is that, while the Republican Party has "written off" African Americans, the Democratic Party has made the worse offense of taking their support "for granted."
And there is all sorts of rampant speculation as to the role race will play in the coming showdown between the oldest white man ever to run for the presidency and the first black man ever appointed his party's candidate of choice. Because, for all the talk in McCain land right now about new Republican voters and independents and braving new political constituencies, I believe when the dust settles, both of these men, both victorious in the race for the green, will end up using the green in the exact same way their parties have for a century: to do everything within and marginally beyond the law to press the other candidate's face in the mud and take the entire campaign right down with it.
Because that's where the entertainment value is. Because on that day in Harlem in 1996, had there been riots or some event more spectacular than an innocuous luncheon, I think Kemp and Dole would have been back in the inner city begging for the controversial P.R. and trying to point out that this was what a Democratic presidency had created. Look at what the 1968 Democratic Convention did for Nixon. Instead, in 1996, the Dole campaign had lunch and never came back. Disinterest doesn't occupy a lot of time on CNN.
But Kemp was wrong. Green is not the new color of the civil rights revolution. It's merely a newly acquired weapon. The battle is still the same. And once we get through the preliminaries and to the prize fight, both sides will bring out every old trick to win.
And we'll be throwing elbows to get closest to the ring.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Please, don't feed the egos.
We, the press, have a lot of time to think on the trail of The Straight Talk Express. The McCain campaign cordons off the majority of the day for meetings, allowing for brief question and answer sessions once daily, and primarily allowing us to tag along like yapping sycophants sponging up every word the presumptive Republican nominee utters. And we do. And then we scuttle off to diners and bars and book stores and libraries and local monuments to see what the man on the street thinks of McCain's policies and positions. And then we collect our notes, organize them into cogent and occasionally coherent nuggets of journalese and submit them to our various editors via the world wide web. And then we sleep. We breathe, eat, drink, and sleep the world of one man.
I woke up this morning with a headache. I have to be up before five a.m. every day so I can get off the bus before the McCain team gets on. That way Joe, the Straight Talk driver, doesn't get in any trouble for letting me use the bus as my hotel. This morning I grabbed a smattering of the day's newspapers and, much to the chagrin of the McCain operatives, found myself buried in The New York Times. And, today more than normal, the names and faces of the political and business elite are stewing in scandal, miring in financial or personal catastrophe, tearing at each other's throats, and winnowing their way out of the kind of crises that would send you and me into complete paralysis. I'm so engaged that I need to be tapped on the shoulder by the same driver Joe to let me know that the bus will be pulling out and I should probably not be leaning on it when it does.
And I'm thinking, now that I've digested all the media tripe I can for one morning, that maybe this mess is all my fault. I know politics is a circus and that the men and women who occupy its center ring are there for their own gratification much more than they are for the banners of reform or progress. And I know that when we, the people, finally give them the center ring all to themselves that they'll use it for themselves first and for whatever directly benefits their interests second and then they'll start in on friends and family and the like and someday, if the media would just leave them alone long enough, they'll get to you and me, the people, and whatever our concerns were when you gave them control of that center ring. Someone was taking notes, right? And the real kicker is that I know this game, know what little it accomplishes, and yet I choose to dedicate my time to codifying and disseminating it in edible nuggets. Because I, here, think the ringleader is actually going to do something for us. I hope and pray and sometimes give the person another two or four or six years to accomplish something for someone other than himself. And then, when he doesn't, I get pissed, pack up my toys, and go write about someone else. I'm the problem then, aren't I?
I woke up this morning with a headache. I have to be up before five a.m. every day so I can get off the bus before the McCain team gets on. That way Joe, the Straight Talk driver, doesn't get in any trouble for letting me use the bus as my hotel. This morning I grabbed a smattering of the day's newspapers and, much to the chagrin of the McCain operatives, found myself buried in The New York Times. And, today more than normal, the names and faces of the political and business elite are stewing in scandal, miring in financial or personal catastrophe, tearing at each other's throats, and winnowing their way out of the kind of crises that would send you and me into complete paralysis. I'm so engaged that I need to be tapped on the shoulder by the same driver Joe to let me know that the bus will be pulling out and I should probably not be leaning on it when it does.
And I'm thinking, now that I've digested all the media tripe I can for one morning, that maybe this mess is all my fault. I know politics is a circus and that the men and women who occupy its center ring are there for their own gratification much more than they are for the banners of reform or progress. And I know that when we, the people, finally give them the center ring all to themselves that they'll use it for themselves first and for whatever directly benefits their interests second and then they'll start in on friends and family and the like and someday, if the media would just leave them alone long enough, they'll get to you and me, the people, and whatever our concerns were when you gave them control of that center ring. Someone was taking notes, right? And the real kicker is that I know this game, know what little it accomplishes, and yet I choose to dedicate my time to codifying and disseminating it in edible nuggets. Because I, here, think the ringleader is actually going to do something for us. I hope and pray and sometimes give the person another two or four or six years to accomplish something for someone other than himself. And then, when he doesn't, I get pissed, pack up my toys, and go write about someone else. I'm the problem then, aren't I?
Friday, April 4, 2008
A Greater Purpose
It's three a.m. in the lobby bar of the La Quinta Inn in Jacksonville, Florida. Next to the cash register a phone is ringing. You can bet your ass I am not going to answer it. I've got my first drink of the night in front of me, Ginger Schnapps (Don't ask.), and I'm settling in with my notes from three days of research and speeches, platforms and platitudes, congressional records and Op-Ed pieces. As I have had no luck, still, contacting my editor and my agent, the illustrious Mr. DeShapiro, is on his annual prostitution binge in Thailand, I have been bribing the driver of the Straight Talk Express to let me sleep on the bus. But, I'm fired up tonight. The bar's empty, but for one sad drunk with his head slumped in front of a half full snifter, and the bartender, who doesn't appear to be heading home anytime soon.
I've been so busy getting to know this McCain character that I haven't even thought of or called Sela (Oy Sela!).
The bartender, a middle aged man with hairy knuckles and a fanny pack like paunch, is itching to talk. He's been polishing glassware for twenty minutes with what looks like a used hankerchief. Every five glasses he stops and takes a swig of whatever bottle is closest to his hand. The phone stops ringing. He walks over and puts his chunky hands on my pile of papers. He smiles.
"So, uh, you covering McCain, right?" Obviously a seasoned drinker, he stammers a bit, but betrays no other sign of the seven shots I've watched him put down in the last twenty minutes.
"I am." I say. I am not interested in having this conversation. This enigma, this McCain is starting to coalesce into more than a concept, an idea maybe, and the last thing I need is another conversation with another drunk bartender.
"Me, I'm gonna vote for 'im. I was gonna vote for Thompson. Principally, I'd say, for his work in Die Hard Two, which kicked ass--- I used to work in an airport bar and I used to bang these lonely middle-aged types two at a time in the security office, course that was before 9/11. Shit, you just can't have a good fling in an airport security office in these trying times. Fucking terrorists. Anyway, so I liked the second Die Hard more than the first principally because it was set in an airport. And I got a lot of ass in airports. And I liked the people. And I figure any guy who could've run an airport with that much shit going down like Thompson did, well, I'd like him to kick the shit out of Osama. Ya' know?"
This man was clearly insane. I had to talk to him.
"So, I understand your position on Mr. Thompson, Mister... what's your name?" I asked putting down the David Brooks piece I had been rereading.
"Bart."
"Bart. Perfect. So, Bart, why have you taken to Mr. McCain since Mr. Thompson left the race?"
Bart was excited now. His red face flashed redder. He leaned in and I could smell the horrid combination of gin, whiskey, and creme de menthe that he had poured into his system.
"It's not because he's a Republican. I mean I voted for Clinton three times." Bart did not show a trace of irony when he said this.
"Because he got ass in the White House?" I offered.
"Exactly. I like you. What's your name?" Bart asked with a lizard like grin.
"Bill." I said.
"Bill." He frowned. I was about to ask him why the name displeased him. "It's not you." He grimaced and grabbed a bottle of Jameson's without even looking at the bottles behind him.
"Let's drink!" he said loud enough to elicit a groan from the passed out man at the other end of the bar. He poured two full pint glasses of Jamesons, leaned back on the back bar, and crossed his arms.
"The thing about this McCain guy, and I got this from listening to all those speeches this week, the thing is he's basing his whole campaign thing on this phrase that he keeps repeating: A greater purpose. Now, I bet you think that it's a Jesus thing and I 'm some sort of nut. But, that's not it. Me and Jesus, we got issues. Big fucking issues. You don't like Jesus, do you Bill?"
"No, Bart, I do not."
"Good. So, the thing about this greater purpose that McCain keeps talking about is that I think, you know since the country's fucked right now, that maybe this guy, who, as I've discovered," He leaned in and lowered his voice to an emphatic whisper, "this guy has been through more shit than any of the character's Fred Thompson ever portrayed, even the guy in Die Hard Two. Did I mention that movie yet, because I love that movie."
"Yes, Bart, you did."
He frowned again and I tensed up. I wasn't sure how Bart would take my candor. He palmed the pint glass and tipped it up to his cracking lips and downed six ounces of Jamesons in one gulp. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and smiled.
"I get mad at myself when I repeat things. Ya know? A little sip calms the nerves. So, this greater purpose thing is important to me because I am thinking, principally, that this is a guy who knows when a man, like those guys with the weird eyebrows in that war that McCain was in, when a man's purpose is at his worst, cause he's seen it, probably seen it more than Bruce Willis ever did, even when he was walking on all that glass in the first Die Hard, which is good too, and he knows that since the country is fucked, and that a man is capable of doing some really brutal shit to another man that well since every reaction must have another reaction in the other direction, that maybe a man who's seen so much of our lesser purpose, maybe he really knows what our greater purpose is. And that is why I think he'll make the best president we've had since Nixon."
Bart was pleased with himself. He knocked back the other half of his pint full of Jamesons. I was riveted. I had barely taken a sip of my whiskey. Hundreds of questions jostled in my mind. Before I could open my mouth and ask one, Bart's entire face had changed. He wore an impatient scowl and had put his hand around the rim of my pint glass.
"Mister, it's nearly 3:30 in the morning. You should have been gone hours ago. Now pack of those papers and head off to wherever you're sleeping."
My jaw dropped. The childish banter, the delightful insanity of his logic, had all disappeared. He walked away with my drink in his hand and dumped the remains in a sink. He woke up the other squatter, walked through two wooden doors, and disappeared.
I've been so busy getting to know this McCain character that I haven't even thought of or called Sela (Oy Sela!).
The bartender, a middle aged man with hairy knuckles and a fanny pack like paunch, is itching to talk. He's been polishing glassware for twenty minutes with what looks like a used hankerchief. Every five glasses he stops and takes a swig of whatever bottle is closest to his hand. The phone stops ringing. He walks over and puts his chunky hands on my pile of papers. He smiles.
"So, uh, you covering McCain, right?" Obviously a seasoned drinker, he stammers a bit, but betrays no other sign of the seven shots I've watched him put down in the last twenty minutes.
"I am." I say. I am not interested in having this conversation. This enigma, this McCain is starting to coalesce into more than a concept, an idea maybe, and the last thing I need is another conversation with another drunk bartender.
"Me, I'm gonna vote for 'im. I was gonna vote for Thompson. Principally, I'd say, for his work in Die Hard Two, which kicked ass--- I used to work in an airport bar and I used to bang these lonely middle-aged types two at a time in the security office, course that was before 9/11. Shit, you just can't have a good fling in an airport security office in these trying times. Fucking terrorists. Anyway, so I liked the second Die Hard more than the first principally because it was set in an airport. And I got a lot of ass in airports. And I liked the people. And I figure any guy who could've run an airport with that much shit going down like Thompson did, well, I'd like him to kick the shit out of Osama. Ya' know?"
This man was clearly insane. I had to talk to him.
"So, I understand your position on Mr. Thompson, Mister... what's your name?" I asked putting down the David Brooks piece I had been rereading.
"Bart."
"Bart. Perfect. So, Bart, why have you taken to Mr. McCain since Mr. Thompson left the race?"
Bart was excited now. His red face flashed redder. He leaned in and I could smell the horrid combination of gin, whiskey, and creme de menthe that he had poured into his system.
"It's not because he's a Republican. I mean I voted for Clinton three times." Bart did not show a trace of irony when he said this.
"Because he got ass in the White House?" I offered.
"Exactly. I like you. What's your name?" Bart asked with a lizard like grin.
"Bill." I said.
"Bill." He frowned. I was about to ask him why the name displeased him. "It's not you." He grimaced and grabbed a bottle of Jameson's without even looking at the bottles behind him.
"Let's drink!" he said loud enough to elicit a groan from the passed out man at the other end of the bar. He poured two full pint glasses of Jamesons, leaned back on the back bar, and crossed his arms.
"The thing about this McCain guy, and I got this from listening to all those speeches this week, the thing is he's basing his whole campaign thing on this phrase that he keeps repeating: A greater purpose. Now, I bet you think that it's a Jesus thing and I 'm some sort of nut. But, that's not it. Me and Jesus, we got issues. Big fucking issues. You don't like Jesus, do you Bill?"
"No, Bart, I do not."
"Good. So, the thing about this greater purpose that McCain keeps talking about is that I think, you know since the country's fucked right now, that maybe this guy, who, as I've discovered," He leaned in and lowered his voice to an emphatic whisper, "this guy has been through more shit than any of the character's Fred Thompson ever portrayed, even the guy in Die Hard Two. Did I mention that movie yet, because I love that movie."
"Yes, Bart, you did."
He frowned again and I tensed up. I wasn't sure how Bart would take my candor. He palmed the pint glass and tipped it up to his cracking lips and downed six ounces of Jamesons in one gulp. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and smiled.
"I get mad at myself when I repeat things. Ya know? A little sip calms the nerves. So, this greater purpose thing is important to me because I am thinking, principally, that this is a guy who knows when a man, like those guys with the weird eyebrows in that war that McCain was in, when a man's purpose is at his worst, cause he's seen it, probably seen it more than Bruce Willis ever did, even when he was walking on all that glass in the first Die Hard, which is good too, and he knows that since the country is fucked, and that a man is capable of doing some really brutal shit to another man that well since every reaction must have another reaction in the other direction, that maybe a man who's seen so much of our lesser purpose, maybe he really knows what our greater purpose is. And that is why I think he'll make the best president we've had since Nixon."
Bart was pleased with himself. He knocked back the other half of his pint full of Jamesons. I was riveted. I had barely taken a sip of my whiskey. Hundreds of questions jostled in my mind. Before I could open my mouth and ask one, Bart's entire face had changed. He wore an impatient scowl and had put his hand around the rim of my pint glass.
"Mister, it's nearly 3:30 in the morning. You should have been gone hours ago. Now pack of those papers and head off to wherever you're sleeping."
My jaw dropped. The childish banter, the delightful insanity of his logic, had all disappeared. He walked away with my drink in his hand and dumped the remains in a sink. He woke up the other squatter, walked through two wooden doors, and disappeared.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Holy Shit!
John McCain's great uncle was known as 'Wild Bill' McCain! I knew there was a reason I was covering this bastard! Yes! Ok, now I need to sober up and start actually reading his platform.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Service to America Tour Notebook. Day One.
Meridian, Mississippi. April 1, 2008.
The Straight Talk Express rolled into Meridian at 1pm on Sunday the 30th. Day One of the week long ‘Service to America’ tour’s stated intention ‘to show the voters the Real McCain’ began in the McCain ancestral home where the presumptive Republican nominee found himself a young base commander or some such thing or another some time after the whole Hanoi thing. But, I knew this would be a special trip for me (and not just because I had been released by customs a scant twelve hours earlier). No, there would be speeches extolling the life of an ‘American Hero,’ touching slices of life, inspiring struggles, and all the other shit that every presidential candidate since the advent of television has assaulted the poor and battered populace with for the ever swelling waistline of months and now years that we call ‘election season.’ I’ll get to all that at some point. I was here for Sela Ward.
Ever since Burt Reynold’s tabbed my dear Sela to play a small part in The Man Who Loved Women (and especially after the five greatest years of my life where every week I rode the tidal wave of Terry Reed’s alcoholism with the rest of America on Sisters), I pined to touch the hand of Jessica Savitch, I wept at the promise of kissing the thigh of Helen Kimble, I swooned to spoon Lily Manning! And here she was, a native of Meridian, a graduate of the University of Alabama, a real honest to shiksa-goodness homecoming queen, hosting a fundraiser for my man McCain!
My initial essay into the party ran smack into an angry Roberta McCain relegated to invitation check-list duty. She smacked at my payot with her clipboard and sent me scurrying into the garden. Twenty minutes later I had located the service entrance and was once again swatted away, this time by an oversized slotted spoon draped in grease and collared greens. Dejected, I wandered Ms. Ward's gazebo and started reciting lines from her 2002 memoir, Homesick: A Memoir. Two hours passed in quiet reflection, until a lilting alto mused between the hickory and tupelo's. Could it be? Could she have come to me?
We talked for hours. She had read my play, Twice Chai, And Then You Die, and had wanted, desperately, she said to play the part of Chave, the embittered wife of a corrupt rabbi who led a double life as a homemaker by day and assassin by night. Sela said she felt Chave's struggle, felt it deeply. Her knowledge of Yiddish literature and Jewish history was astonishing and stirred a primordial passion that I could not contain. As the sun rose, I kissed her, at first gently and then with increasing intensity. She welcomed my lips guiding my hands to her hands and leading me back to her home.
We wended our way, lip-locked, through the remains of the party, up the winding staircase, and into her bedroom. And there, on a bed of white satin and lace we made love. Hours passed. I knew I was missing McCain's speech, but I did not care. Sela and I were entwined not just physically, but spiritually, listening to the soft beating of each other's hearts. I was in love.
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