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...
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
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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