Sarah, We Hardly Knew Ye

Ok, so let’s just say it. We won. In this playground game of politics right now the left are on top and the Republican Party is leaned up against the jungle gym, pants down, taking it but good.

So why do I feel so empty?

The fact is, I actually liked the two party system. Sure, it drove me crazy when visiting my hometown of Columbus, Ohio during election years most of my mother’s and sister’s neighbor’s yard signs gleamed elephant red. But those boisterous, loud bar “debates” over just how socialized our healthcare could get before people started getting treated for each other’s ailments? Absolutely priceless—especially if those “debates” finally resolved into a confident, if unpleasant rendition of “God Bless the USA.”

But ever since Sarah Palin got chased out of the schoolyard in her three inch Manolo’s by the bullying liberal media, an eerie silence has settled over the swing set. The dust on the baseball diamond is blowing in a quiet storm. No one is unpleasantly wielding a bat and saying dumb things like, “The Un-American Party,” because suddenly all Americans are pretty much on the same team. And none of us are sure we like it.*

Yesterday I sat down with my boyfriend’s Esquire magazine. I did so, not because I am putting away the US Weekly or the OK  but because someone foolish is paying me to write a book with big words (not including swear words—I know, I’m freaking out—) so I decided to read about a politician because I figure my target audience, though likely not to include politicians, will probably be folk who read about them. Since I have been known only to engage in politics in so far as they involve pretty moms from Alaska and their super cool daughters with whom I hope to someday paint our nails, I figured I’d start with Esquire and work my way up, ehem. Anyway, there on the cover of the magazine left on the floor next to the toilet was an article about Jeb Bush and the future of the Republican Party. So, for research for a book with big words, I picked it up. I know what you’re thinking. He’s a Bush for Christ’s sake! What does this guy know about big words? Right, but as I read I realized that this Bush was the Bush who often uses three-syllable words correctly. So I kept reading.

The thing about Jeb is that he gets something intrinsic to Americana. We are not a passionate people. And for far too long the Right has spent its time trying to either rally us through love (God, guns and anything intrinsically American, except French Fries for obvious reasons) and hate (see French fries). They also spent a great deal of time with fear. Fear works on a lot of people. Rush Limbaugh’s career is proof of that. But if that’s all the right wing has to go on…Well, just look at the landscape of the playground. The Republican National Convention last year looked like a Kenny Chesney concert—pre-Renee Zellwegger.

Jeb said a lot of things in that article but the biggest thing that he said that gave me hope for a good old-fashioned game of political dodge ball was that the Republicans needed to update their message. He even said that they weren’t afraid of a good three-syllable word. (Seriously. Read the article.)

I want the Republican Party to come back for the sake of a good debate. A one party America is not American enough for this card carrying liberal. I want them to come back and make valid, thought-out arguments that are based on intellect and not on passion. I want them to offer a little guidance to the wackjobs who want to believe in a political party like they believe in a shot of Jack and a good ass whoopin’. Because that’s what they should be doing. For now it’s just a bunch of crazies speaking in tongues and yelling out words like “communist!” and “socialist!” and “freedom fries!” like they are giving the opening speech at a tourette syndrome convention.

I just hope they can get their pants on and on a plane back from Argentina before the next election. But that’s a whole nother blog.

*The blogger (which is like a booger but with less facial hair) would like to say that she is not talking about Right Wing Conservative Radio hosts. They get paid to be douche bags and will not back down because it will cost them a job. It is a bad economy in which to lose ones job. Anyhoo…

This Just In

I’m not sure if you heard, but Michael Jackson passed away last week. His death, as you can imagine, was shocking. If you can’t imagine it, Jesse Jackson (no relation) and Louis Farrakhan were on every channel to tell us about how shocking it is so you could know and be shocked. They made good sources because they both owned several copies of Thriller including Farrakhan who had one of his opened up to the picture of Michael with the white tiger framed and hanging on the wall in his billiard room. I think Jesse Jackson even has Michael’s dad, Joe Jackson in his cell phone, so you can imagine how shocked he was in particular. Thanks to speedy and fast breaking new coverage, I have been able to glean how Playboy bunny Kendra, a guy whose kid went to school with Blanket and Mclovin all feel about the death of this powerful musical phenomenon and inventor of the moonwalk.

I am interested in those opinions, but frankly, what I want to know is, how is Paul McCartney doing? No longer side-by-side on his piano keyboard, oh lord! And as long as we are talking to people with the last name Jackson what does Jackson Brown think, not to mention Joe Jackson (not MJ’s dad. This guy: http://www.joejackson.com/) and while we’re at it, let’s hear from Hugh Jackman who is almost a Jackson. How does he feel about being a Jackman and not a Jackson? These are the real questions.

Now that the great icon is gone, wouldn’t you say it’s time to engage in a serious dialogue about those lyrics? Cryptic and likely transformative to our culture and lives, I for one would like to get to the bottom of a few things. Like, who is the man named Dimira, anyway? Why did Michael want him to change his ways? And did he? I also still want to know if Eddy is okay—after all, at the sound of the window, he might have touched him like a shindo. What is a shindo, Eddy? Like nun chucks?

And if Billy Jean is not his mom, but she kicked a girl who sinks in all at the one—well, frankly I just don’t know about Billy Jean. The whole thing sounds fishy.

Michael Jackson is gone now and the tome he has left will take a Rosetta Stone to solve. But someday I believe we will understand Michael. It might take a few more hours of interviews with the guy who cut the bushes into weird hieroglyphic shapes at Neverland or a person who once ate lunch with a person who had used a restroom at the same time as Latoya a few hours earlier. But dammit, we will get to the bottom of it. We will someday make sense of the life and death of Michael Jackson. For now, let’s remember one great truth with which he left us: No one wants to be receding. So beat it.

Willow for President!

I was just asked for my take on the Palin/Letterman fiasco (thanks Charlie) and figured, what better opportunity to visit ye old Purity Test Blog? Because, frankly there are few things less pure than having sex with an underage person while on steroids and playing major league baseball as Madonna looks on. In fact, I cannot believe that question didn’t make the book!

I had intended to write a blog about how dating is like musical chairs and when you hit your 30’s you suddenly find yourself having to decide if this is the chair you want to sit in for the rest of your life or if you want to press your luck when the music starts again to see if you end up in a comfier model, a crappier model or worst of all, your ass on the linoleum—But you’ll have to wait for those musings until a later time.

For now, I am going to tell all of you (or, in other words, pretty much just Charlie) what I think about the hole into which David Letterman fell (after digging it out himself, putting his hands over his head in pre-dive pose and leaping that is). Sarah Palin represents exactly what America believes about greatness—We needn’t do a thing to achieve it so long as we have good taste in footwear and a gaggle of cute children with “cool kid” names. We are a society that values appearances over truths—in fact we are not ones to turn away a good lie as long as it comes in sparkly colors or in an all you can eat buffet. But Sarah Palin being a poser has nothing to do with how I feel about David Letterman’s tasteless joke about her fourteen year old daughter, Willow. I am angry about it but not for the reasons you might think. I am not mad because I am a woman who wants to honor feminine strength and tell men to take it to the locker room if they want to insult my peeps. In fact, I’d rather they kept their misogynistic blather in the open where I can see it and deny my partner sex as punishment. I am also not mad on behalf of mothers who may or may not have a right to publicly defend their children even though it was they that thought it a good idea to run for president while their underage kid was knocked up and about to be presented on a national stage. Further, I am not mad that comedians are now being dragged through the mud over really dumb jokes that are one of about a million similar dumb jokes told by about a million other comedians ever since the hypocrisy of the Palin family began to appear in our US Weekly’s.

What I am upset about is the fact that Willow Palin, the third cutest Palin kid, trailing Piper, the fricken adorable six year old who almost dropped the baby at the Republican convention and Levi Palin, the hot guy from Tyra, is not my best friend (yet). Willow, better than being the cutest, is far and away the coolest Palin (not counting Todd). She is so because she hasn’t f’ed it up yet by talking. She is smiley and confident and has great hair. She hasn’t gotten pregnant, looks adorable in a hip, yet conservative skirt suit and isn’t publicly dating, joining the military or having to defend the name Tripp. Instead, she goes to baseball games with her celebrity mom, probably throws great slumber parties and (I hope hope hope) listens to great Brit pop from the 80’s.

So am I pissed at Letterman for what he’s done? Only if it in any way offended the Palin I most want to pass me notes in English class and call after school just because she wasn’t done telling me the story about Chuck Norris’ whiskers. I don’t care about Letterman or politics. I only care about my BFF Willow Van Palin. If she’s pissed, than so am I. But I have a feeling (because she’s like the super coolest) that she thinks it’s all kind of funny. After all, A-Rod wouldn’t have time to knock her up while sliding into first. She’s so cool, she make sure he at least took her out to a cool Indie movie and bought her dinner at the best dive joint in town—after which they’d have a burping contest and she’d tell hilarious stories about hiking in Alaska and how she totally hates guns but supports her mom and then they’d go to sleep after deciding that she’s too young for sex, but not too young for season’s tickets! Ah Willow. You’re so awesome. Call me! xoxox

The Least Pure Thing About Bristol Palin

Now when Bristol and Levi announced their break up yesterday, from the mainland, to the furthest reaches of Hawaii with the best strung flower necklaces, out to the darkest corners of Alaska’s tundra few people were left with a dry eye.

“What about Tripp?” you might have hollered, slamming a fist down on a Formica counter top.

“What will the FreeRupublic.com say about the good governor now?” perhaps you intoned, shaking your weary head slowly from side to side.

“Hasn’t poor Sarah had enough?” you shout recalling the cruel rumors of the far left accusing her of never having been pregnant with little Trigg Van. And now this.

Let’s go over the history of young Bristol and her sweet Baby Daddy. It all began in a small town in a super underpopulated state where hair is high and boredom is a lifestyle. Tripp Palin was the product of American sexual idiocy at its dumbest, the kind that is leaving 25% of women under the age of 20 with one of the four biggies of the STD world: Clamydia, trichomoniasis., HPV and genital herpes. Condomitis is a dislike of condoms due to the fact that sex doesn’t feel as good while wearing one. (I have it on good authority that herpes feel worse than sex with a condom, but I’m just guessing.) When ladies hit their 20’s, 25% have a raging case of herpes alone. The men are close behind with just under 15% burning and itching where the sun don’t shine. I somehow managed to miraculously avoid this fate. But I know people who have it. And I know many more people who know many more people who have it. And some of them are hot, rich and well dressed. (Not all are backwoods Alaskans with funny names. Just saying.)

So, now Bristol and the condomless wonder are back on the market. And I just want to say to them both, if not for yourselves, do it for your mother– Wear a condom, even if she doesn’t think you should know what one is. As for those of you reading this, for the love of God, wear a condom if only because you know these two are back on the market! Genetal warts aren’t pretty. And they sure as fuck aren’t pure.

Purity

Sari, yours truly, Jacob and Aaron at my b-day. The surprising thing is that there isn't a single picture of me anywhere holding booze. May have to remedy that this evening-- for the sake of the blog, you know.

Well, yesterday I walked up Broadway and hit 3 Barnes and Nobles and one Borders. I signed about 10 copies of the book because by signing them they cannot be returned to the publisher. Which is impure, I know. Or pure depending on where you fall on the “Screwing the Man” spectrum. In other words, is Barnes and Noble the Man? or is St. Martins the Man? Am I the Man? (Good lord, I am so not the man.)

As proof of my not-being-the-man-ness, here is my attempt at a blog about purity. How am I doing so far?

I should begin by stating that as far as impurity goes, this week is supposed to be lay-off-the-booze week. I know you are wondering how lay-off-the-booze week can fall on the week of St. Patrick’s day, but I am allowed to drink ON St. Patrick’s day, so no worries.

In the meantime, my purity blog is destined to blow. So instead of telling you about how I am planning to roast a chicken and sit here with my sober boyfriend and monkey-dog, I will instead recount for you why I am taking the week off.

I am a drinker. It started when I lived in Prague from 1998-2000. It was kind of a thing. Everyone did it. In fact, I did it less than everyone around me. But less is still a lot when the competition is doing keg stands and smoking joints on their cigarette breaks. When I produced Hamlet in the spring of the new millennium, somehow I tricked Ballantine’s whiskey into giving us one shot of whiskey for each of 500 people, which ended up being 10 cases of whiskey and about 150 people. I also managed to bewitch the Jameson people into dropping off a case. (They didn’t know about each other. I can admit this now because the parties involved speak very little English and are too drunk to give a shit.) I kept the Jameson and shared the Ballentines. 8 years later, I think it is safe to say that I am a little bit like Marion in Raiders of the Lost Ark as she knocks back those shots against the large man. And that’s what I learned in Eastern Europe.

Which brings us to 2009, Brooklyn. I continue to drink with gusto. Recently I began to wonder because, while I can quit drinking with the best of them when I am around small children (it’s rare, but it has been known to happen) or in the company of my mother, can I do it just because? Like for a week?

The answer is no. I plan to meet up with a friend for drinks tomorrow. And then I’m hanging with another friend who just aced her nursing boards on Thursday and expect to be very thirsty. But I am going to keep trying. And if nothing else, trying is as pure a thing as one can do when challenged by things like really enjoying a glass of wine (you know, to help prevent lung cancer…).

And that’s at least a little bit pure.