On December 17, 1903 in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina….in the United States…Two great American brothers did the impossible: an expression that if considered at any length, truly makes no sense at all, for if they actually did it, then clearly it’s possible. In reality it’s impossible to do the impossible. 

I’ll be right back. 

On December 17, 1903 in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina….in the United States…Two great American brothers did the possible, albeit, the improbable.  On that glorious and mystical morning, the conditions were perfect save for the freezing headwinds gusting up to 27 mph, slapping both the brothers in their collective face like a cold black glove from the cruel dominatrix Nature herself. But they would not be deterred. They would press on…because the wheels of Innovation do not stop for a little ice on the tracks nor does Greatness reveal itself only in the most moderate of conditions. Not to mention, and let me preface this with I can’t speak for Orville and Wilbur, but some people like a good slap in the face from a cold black glove, I being one of them. 

Bear with me. 

On December 17, 1903 in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina, Orville and Wilbur Wright became the first people in the world to execute sustained flight of a powered heavier-than-air machine under the complete control of a pilot….They invented the airplane and it worked….they flew…well Orville flew….for 12 seconds…120 feet. 

At noon Wilbur took the final flight of the day and soared 852 feet for a flight time of 59 seconds. No movie. No snacks.  No Sky Mall. The only luggage he carried was a dream. 

Now this is where my theory deviates from most aeronautic historians. 

If you were to read any thorough history of the Wright Brothers, and by thorough, I mean Googling “The Wright Brothers,” you would find passage after passage describing their fascination with flight…the way they spent hours observing birds in flight, noticing how the air flowing over the curved surface of their wings created lift…how they change the shape of their wings to turn and maneuver.   

Why this fascination? Was manned flight truly their end game? Or was it something even greater?  And if so, what? 

59 seconds.  59 seconds.  Why the celebration over 59 seconds? Doesn’t seem like a long time at all. But then I thought of my own experiences and how there were many occasions where 59 seconds would have been setting the bar fairly high.  Then it became clear to me. 59 seconds was plenty of time to accomplish what they needed to accomplish. What they knew was possible. What they needed to be possible.

The Wright Brothers were innovators, sure….but they were more than that. They were fetishists with foresight: sexual soothsayers if you will. Perverted visionaries where flight was not about getting from one place to another, but rather about creating an arena of sexual gratification where only the boldest dare attempt to enter….an arena that would eventually reach legendary and mythical status in our culture. 

God Bless Orville and Wilbur for realizing that those 59 seconds were more than enough time to gain entry into what would eventually be dubbed The Mile High Club. 

——– 

As I boarded American Airlines flight 75 returning from a recent trip to DC, I was filled with very little anticipation. The plane was filled to capacity with coughing masses such that one could almost visualize strains of swine flu chilling on head rests waiting on their next host.  

The only thing I enjoy about flying is the fleetingly cinematic fantasy that I as head down the aisle, repeatedly checking my ticket to verify a seat number I’ve already memorized, I might look up to see beautiful girl sitting in the seat next to mine….not just beautiful, but the kind of beauty where she doesn’t know she’s beautiful…but I think she’s really beautiful. Or even better, she’s beautiful to me but not necessarily beautiful to other people…but beautiful enough such that I garner a certain stature without eliciting any competition. 

I moved further down the aisle, checking my seat assignment again. It hadn’t changed.  As the impatient jammed carry-on luggage too large to be called carry-on luggage into overhead bins, the view of my row was slowly revealed.  I could feel it in my soul: this would be the flight where fantasy would merge with reality. Where a dream would become truth instead some of some nocturnal lie only exposed by the sound of an alarm clock. 

There was my seat: 14B…I confirmed it on my ticket.  

And next to mine 14A….and sitting in 14 A….was 71 year old Ed.  

He looked up, far more excited to see me, than I, him. Almost as if he had something to get off his chest, like he was waiting for me…or frankly, waiting for anybody.  The only thing that fit him more closely than his expensive suit, was the coat of sadness he seemed unable to take off and yet hoped nobody noticed.  Something about this man moved me instantly, and to this day I cannot explain why. There was a hollowness in his blue eyes, and a weathering around them which only accentuated that feature. 

What was equally intriguing was the amount of facial extremity hair. And by facial extremity hair, I mean his nostrils looked like 2 sea anemones, his eyebrows like pregnant caterpillars, and his ear hair so unwieldy I couldn’t help but wonder if he might benefit from a landscape designer. 

Now some of you might be thinking that this is not a “Date.”  Well that might be the case if defined in romantic terms. However, the way I look at it is this:  Flight time was estimated 5 and ½ hours which is certainly longer than the majority of my real dates….not to mention Ed and I were traveling together…an intimate first step in a relationship. We shared a destination.  But the conversation would take us somewhere not listed on our itineraries and the black box housing the flight data recorder would be opened up right here on Big Hollywood. 

——– 

For the first hour we exchanged pleasantries but I was more concerned with out maneuvering Ed in an attempt to lay claim to the real estate we shared in the form of the elbow rest. It was a chess game which due to my claustrophobia, I had to win, and I did. I can’t tell you how I won for fear you might use this strategy against me should we share a flight some day. 

Once our spacial relationship was firmly established, I relaxed a bit. Sensing this, Ed felt more comfortable engaging me in conversation bigger than small talk. He relayed a story about a recent dinner party he attended where a hypothetical scenario was presented by one of the guests…and it apparently caused a disruption in the party and some irreparable damage between guests.  Ed was interested in my take on the scenario.  

If you were King and in possession of a handcrafted Cello retrieved from a thief, to whom of the follow would you give the cello? 

1. The man who built it. Would you give it back and allow him to keep it?
2. A man who has nothing, never had anything, and no means to build a cello?
3. A musician of immense talent? 

I asked him what his answer was and he told me that he’d give the cello to the man with nothing. 

I said you’re a Democrat. This was not accusatory. 

He nodded and said you’re not?  

No.  I’m a Republican.  

Then what would you do if you were King? 

I would give it back to the man who made it. He asked why and I explained that I believe in innovation, personal responsibility, and free markets.  So if I were King, I’d give the man his cello back and hope that he would sell it to the musician with immense talent. Perhaps that musician would create a piece of music that would be heard by the man with nothing such that it might inspire him to get off his ass and build his own cello. 

Ed smiled. He was oddly curious, as if he had never been exposed to this ideology. I thought maybe he was toying with me because I outgunned him on the arm rest. But he wasn’t toying.  He was 71….a seasoned lawyer, recently retired from the Justice Department…and legitimately unfamiliar with the tenets of the only other political party in the nation.

Just then the captain came on the radio.  Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened. Looks like we’re going to encounter some choppy air. I recognized the voice. Like the message was meant solely for me. It was Breitbart. How did he know the air was gonna get choppy?  How did he hear my conversation? When did he learn to fly a plane? 

But he was right: the air was about to get choppy. 

——– 

The flight continued as did our conversation. We covered a wide array of subjects and he seemed sincerely interested in my life which I thought was a unique quality in a liberal.

There was trust developing between us….a trust so pure that I had no qualms telling him that he had half a sandwich lodged in his beard.  He thanked me and wiped his chin.  He didn’t get all of it.  

Ed liked me. I don’t say this because I am inherently likable. I say this because he needed to like me…at that moment….on that flight.  He stopped talking abruptly, as if he had come to some conversational intersection and wasn’t sure if he should turn. He turned. 

Do you have a good relationship with your father? He asked me. 

I looked at him. I could feel the depth of the question. 

Not particularly. No.  

He nodded sadly. We do our best you know?  

This didn’t require an answer, so I didn’t give him one. 

My daughter doesn’t like me. He said.  

Why? I asked. 

Because I meddle in her life and she resents me for it.  The problem is I can’t stop.  

Why not?  

She makes mistakes. Bad choices.  

Where does that end? How many choices can you make for her?  I asked.    

He had no answer.  

He was sacrificing the greater relationship for his need to engineer a life he thought she should have.  The same unconsciously progressive ideology that dictated his answer to the cello scenario was spilling over into his parenting style and it was destroying two lives.  This relationship was a microcosm of the political debate happening in America: Ed was Big Government. His daughter…The Tea Party movement. 

When doing research for this installment, and by research I mean Googling “The Wright Brothers,” I came across the following passage: 

The Wrights supportive home life provided Wilbur and Orville with a strong belief in themselves. This self-confidence enabled them to reject the theories of well-known and more experienced aeronautical experimenter when the brothers felt their own ideas were correct. Often it was the emotional anchor provided by their strong family ties that helped Wilbur and Orville persevere when they encountered difficulties in their research. 

It’s belief in the self that fuels innovation. And it’s innovation that makes America great. It starts with family. It starts at home…that belief….that anything is possible. It’s not a bumper sticker or a catch phrase, but it is the purest meaning of “Yes We Can,” because if you limit choice or make choices for another which is the aim of our current administration, our King, our collective Father, then you are essentially say “No You Can’t.” And when you say “No You Can’t,” then you will have a revolution. 

What do I do?  What am I supposed to do now? Ed asked.  

I found myself in the odd position of giving advice to a man well my senior with far more life experience. I didn’t have much time as we were pulling into the gate in Los Angeles. 

I said: It’s very simple. Tell your daughter you love her and believe in her. She’ll forgive you.  I promise you.  

He had tears in his eyes and he thanked me.  He said he would think about it. 

I said isn’t your daughter picking you up curbside? 

He said yes….I said what’s to think about?    

He smiled. We shook hands, and I then I watched Ed exit the plane.  My Date with a Liberal had ended. Whether it was successful, I won’t ever know. What I did know was that flight 75 would not be the flight on which I would obtain that elusive membership card to…. 

….The Mile High Club. 

As I left the plane I wanted to thank the Captain but was told by a rather uppity flight attendant that he was unavailable.  Apparently he was currently embroiled in a ferocious Twitter war with a rival airline. 

Note:  As an interesting addendum to this story. I Googled Ed upon my return home.  The first result was an article about 3 lawyers who chose to defend terrorists and war criminals. Ed was one of them.

Thank you for your patience.  Let’s begin.

Although facebook has been the gift that keeps on giving in terms of confirming whether or not a prospective date is or is not a liberal, for this installment I thought I’d put my instincts to the test by participating in the very underrated process of “stereotyping.”

I think, and rightfully so, that many Americans feel that Los Angeles is a place bankrupt of spirituality…not to mention just plain bankrupt. However, there is a spiritual movement among Angelinos that folks may not be aware of, largely because it is a faith so self indulgent it would be difficult for the average hard working American to fathom.  This movement is called “Spiritual Psychology.”

Let me just say this for fear of being labeled judgmental: I have nothing against spirituality or psychology; in fact, I actually saw a Medicine Man on an Indian reservation in the Jemez Valley to help me with a “problem” I’d prefer not to discuss here. It was an extremely spiritual, dare I say magical experience, after which my “problem” did not improve in the least.

In terms of psychology, I am a huge proponent, having spent countless hours and dollars on a therapist’s couch over the years. The results have been miraculous: I am aware of every problem I have ever had and the root cause behind each one of those problems, and yet somehow have not discovered the means to change a single pattern of behavior.

So what I’m saying is….I’m open.  So when a platonic girlfriend of mine mentioned she was attending a University for Spiritual Psychology, my interest was peaked. She was what I call a “Utopian Liberal” with an impossibly positive attitude–the kind of person who if her arms fell off, would know destiny was calling her to be an apple bobbing champion.  If God gave this girl lemons, she didn’t make lemonade, she made a lemon curd tart with a Raspberry drizzle.  I couldn’t fault her for this. However, due to my complete lack of ability to live my life that way, I did what anyone would do, and resented her greatly.

Here’s where the stereotyping comes in, and I think justifiably so.  It was very difficult for me to imagine a Conservative….Republican…..okay, anyone who would attend an institution of lower learning that had the audacity to label itself a “University” when the only requirements for admittance were thousands of dollars, a bevy of emotional problems, and a tremendous amount of spare time.  However, if I had to take that leap, I would imagine that the student body would be comprised solely of liberals, so I asked my friend if she could set me up with a classmate.

She was amenable to the idea if someone stepped forward. Then she closed her eyes.

I want all of you to stop reading and wait 15 seconds in silence….because that’s what I was forced to do. Apparently she couldn’t “actively” think of someone.  My potential date had to reveal herself in my friend’s mind. A few more seconds and her eyes opened along with her cranial curtains to reveal who had taken the stage: Jaquelib.  However, I had to promise two things before my friend would make the call.

First: I would have to approach this with an open heart and look for her loving essence.

My response…yeah, yeah, that’s fine…heart’s open….and looking for a woman’s loving essence is always part of the plan anyway.  What else?

Second: I would have to attend an orientation night at the University so that I could understand and lovingly embrace Jaquelib’s emotional journey without judgment.

My response: a round off double back handspring into an Arabian dive roll. The promise of material was extremely exciting.

***

The Orientation

I got out of my car in front of the building, scaled the stairs to the information desk where I signed in and took a seat in the banquet hall. This process took me all of 90 seconds and within that brief period I was greeted no less than 457 times.  There were hosts and hostesses everywhere…all dressed in identical black suits…smiles plastered on.  There was no wavering in expressions or vocal tones. They held their arms down in front of them with hands folded. All the men were curiously bald and shiny. I figured at any moment the protective plates which housed their facial features would slide off revealing tiny alien beings driving their respective bodies.

I would have made a break for it but they were positioned at every exit and with my imagination already running wild; I didn’t want to consider the consequences of a failed escape attempt.

As I enjoyed the melding of scented candles and Carpet Fresh, I turned my attention to the potential student body, eavesdropping where I could to get some sense of my fellow spiritual psychologists in the making.  This group was the “Who’s Who” of those who had no idea who they were. In a strange way, I was beginning to feel lost myself…I found this noteworthy as if there were some sub-auditory subliminal message being broadcast throughout the room:  “Doubt yourself. Doubt yourself. We can help. We can help.”

One of the black suited extraterrestrials took the stage and enthusiastically introduced the founders of the university. I don’t quite know how to explain this, but for me, there is nothing more unnerving than a husband/wife team teaching anything to anyone.  I know I am not alone in this theory or the world would never have been introduced to Marty and Bobbi Mohan-Culp, the musical directors at Alta Dena Middle School portrayed so accurately by Will Ferrell and Ana Gasteyer.

Out of respect for the anonymity of the institution and for my ease of association, I will henceforth refer to the founders of the University as The Culps.

Now the Culps had their pitch down. They knew that every potential buyer in that room (save for one) was lost, desperate, searching, dissatisfied with his or her life, and therefore open–and by “open” I mean subject to influence.

They cleverly used the word “Stuck.” A word so general anyone could find meaning in it, not unlike a fortune cookie.  We were all united by our inability to improve our lives….and guess who had the ability to pull us out of the mud?  The Culps. They would lead us out. Don’t get me wrong, we would all have to do our part. We would all pitch in like a not so shovel ready emotional public works program which would require extensive sharing….so much sharing, in fact, that it would make an Alanon group seem like a bunch of introverts.

In addition, we would have to “let go of our painful ego structure by removing identity.” Let me repeat that “let go of our painful ego structure by removing identity.” The math was basic…and alarming.

Once we removed our identities, we could “manifest” what we wanted in our lives: the great job, the big break, the perfect woman, less back hair…

This is far from an original concept and it’s generally explained by the Kool-Aid drinkers as a technique to attract the things that you want in life. My theory is, at the root of “manifesting” is a sense of entitlement along with the inherent belief that you deserve to have whatever you want regardless of the work you put in or your qualifications….and that is not how this world works…unless your goal is to be the President of the United States of America.

The Culps however, didn’t use the President as an example. Rather, they rolled a video testimonial from a graduate of the program, who once she realized her ego was irrelevant, she was able to realize the dream of running her own business: Alpaca rugs weaved by imprisoned Bolivian mothers. That woman was Meg Whitman , Carly Fiorina, nobody you’ve ever heard of.

If you took a step back and put the pieces together, it was easy to see the Culps’ agenda. Excessive sharing under the guise of transparency, the removal of the self, the devaluation of initiative through “manifestation,” and cult-like homogeny. This wasn’t spiritual psychology. It was “emotional and spiritual redistribution.”

And then it occurred to me… something horrifying:  The journey from this….

….to this…

…..was far shorter than one might expect.

I left the orientation, hopped on the Hale-Bopp comet, and headed home to secure my date with a liberal. Call me a stereotyper.

***

The Date

Jacquelib’s idea for a date was to meet in any open space where we wouldn’t be limited by any physical barriers such as walls. This was consistent with my post-orientation expectation. She picked the bluffs over looking the Pacific Ocean. I agreed. No walls.

She was late, but had a valid excuse: Being a liberal, her time was far more valuable than mine and I knew that going in, so I waited…feeling surprisingly at one with the…cliff.

I was just about to discover an internal truth that been evading me for 23 years….when she showed up.  I don’t think looks are generally that important to my ongoing research, but I think it’s important in the instance to tell you all that Jacquelib was beyond beautiful.  The kind of beautiful that makes you ignore things like compatibility.

For some bizarre reason when we hugged “hello” I stood on my toes as if to momentarily fool her or myself into believing I was taller than I am. The odd thing was I am already taller than her, than she, whatever.

She had a very soothing vibe about her. She even handed me a cold tea drink called The Dragon which was an oddly colored green and came with an industrial-sized wide-mouth straw with which to inhale the numerous boba tapioca pearls which were stacked high at the bottom of the cup.

We chose a nice spot to sit down. The lotus position was implied so I bent myself uncomfortably into it. Before there was sharing of any kind, Jaquelib wanted to begin with a guided meditation. She would be my guide. Eyes closed. Breathe. Breathe. I was instructed to mentally travel to the whitest of sand beaches where I would discover a box that was left just for me. I was to open the box and see the note inside. On the note something was written, something I wanted.  My note said “Newt in 2012.”  I was to put the note back in the box and bury it in the sand for another loving soul to find. I hoped 65 million loving souls would find that box. Breathe. Breathe. I was definitely breathing, yet she kept saying it. Eyes closed…but then I heard a stirring in the brush from below the ridge so I opened one eye. Breathe. Breathe. The noise louder….closer and then up from God knows where, Breitbart appeared on horseback, riding sidesaddle, as he is wont to do. She must have still been on her beach because she didn’t see him, but I saw him, and he saw me….. in the lotus position, breathing…with one eye open. I was embarrassed. He shook his head, gathered up a mouthful of tobacco juice, coiled, and released, sending a tightly bound liquid bomb 20 feet in distance just over my head blinding a rattlesnake which was descending from a tree just inches behind me. I turned back to Breitbart who gave me a nod, but it was really a warning: be careful. Eyes open she said. Breitbart was gone.

It was time to share….let me be more specific. It was time for her to share and this was when I became painfully aware of an experiment she had been conducting as part of her emotional growth….it was her journey.

Jaquelib had decided that in an attempt to become less self-involved she had removed the use of the word “I” from her vocabulary.  She could use other words to refer to herself, just not “I.” This would serve as some sort of self-prescribed Pavlovian bell to curb her inherent narcissism.  The first time I heard it I nearly choked on a tapioca boba from my Dragon tea.

Jaquelib:  Me had a conversation yesterday with my fear.

Now forget about the content for a second. I couldn’t figure out why using the object form of the 1st person was less self indulgent than using the subject form of the 1st person. It seemed to me she was equally self involved but with the grammar and syntax of primitive man. I pulled myself together.

Jon David: What did your fear say?

It said me is your friend and me is necessary for spiritual growth. So embrace me like you would a friend.

Apparently Fear was conducting the same grammatical experiment. What followed was the biggest series of 1^st date “over-shares” ever recorded in modern dating history. Here’s a small sampling.

Me knows that me is not very smart. This emerald encrusted gem of self-esteem was followed shortly thereafter by….me’d like to have children as soon as possible. Now my heart was open but I must confess I am in no hurry to have stupid children.

With each new share her external beauty dissipated, or at the very least lost its relevance..

My parents were both alcoholics so me have that gene in my family.

Me doesn’t know what my passion is.  Me used to be promiscuous.

She also told me that she had been writing a series of letters to her father from her six-year-old self. She would write them left handed. This would transport her back to a place of rudimentary thinking and expression so that she could truly gain access to how she felt about her father when she was a child.

I was beginning to have a conversation with my Fear, except my Fear was morphing into Sadness and then slowly into Regret.  And Regret was telling me to be careful when writing this article. Jaquelib was sad, and it was real. She was wounded and she was lost. I know what that feels like. Everybody does. And if anyone says they don’t, they are liars..

This didn’t have anything to do with politics. It didn’t have anything to do with being a liberal or a conservative. It had to do with being a human being, and frankly, I felt badly for her and hoped that whatever path she chose, she’d eventually find her box in the sand.

So I listened. Maybe I even looked for her loving essence, but I didn’t feel the need to bring up my political affiliation. It would not have served any purpose.  I knew I would never buy what she had already purchased so blindly and enthusiastically from the Culps.

But there is a lesson here. Redistribution, whether it be emotional or financial, doesn’t work. We should not be forced to share. Americans are kind-hearted people. Hard working and generous people. We do the right thing. We give to charity. We help elderly ladies across the street. We don’t need to be forced to share nor should we be stripped of our individuality.  We need to hold on to our identities because the collection of the unique is what makes this country so amazing.

Kool-Aid tastes good. It goes down smoothly and needs no chaser. It’s easy to understand why someone would reach for the glass. It’s more difficult to understand how and why somebody would serve it.

A few days later, I was reflecting on the date…my fingers hovering over the keyboard indecisively…the phone rang. What I thought was an automated recording was actually a real-life staff member from the University following up with me to see if I’d be interesting in pursuing a degree in spiritual psychology.

Respectfully, me declined.

“My Weekly Date with a Liberal” is sponsored by

“American Heart” available at iTunes

I understood when I took on this project that I could easily suffer severe trauma, mentally, emotionally, spiritually…and sexually, although depending on your proclivities, the latter could be considered a bonus. Be that as it may, I am writing to let you all know, that the trauma I anticipated did in fact materialize in a way that has profoundly affected me: I have developed a strong affinity for night blooming jasmine, I cry all the time, and I apologize incessantly for things for which I am not responsible.  Now I can tell you with no uncertainty, extensive knowledge of Cestrum Nocturnum accompanied by inexplicable outbursts of tears is no way to procure a date. My mojo has deteriorated, as if I didn’t pinch its foliage and cut back after flowering to maintain compact growth. What’s happening to me?

Note: In actuality, apologizing for that which you are not responsible is very effective with women, and more or less expected of you.

It’s almost as if the very fabric of me….every value, every experience, everything that has been a determining factor of who I have become over time, was slowly and stealthily being stripped away and rendered irrelevant with each encounter with a liberal. I was losing my identity. Not unlike our country.

I was almost positive that my behavioral changes were a result of these interactions, but I couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to pre-judge until I had all the facts. Plus, I had to take some personal responsibility. After all, this sociological experiment was my idea in the first place.

So I did what every member of my generation does when stuck in a deeply personal existential crisis: I blamed my parents. To provide you all with a brief family history, I grew up in an environment where I was groomed to question anything which might provide me even the smallest amount of self esteem and furthermore, to give significant consideration to anyone who might find fault with me. The adage: “If enough people tell you you’re drunk, sit down” was very popular in my family, except that one didn’t need multiple people to tell you you were drunk. One would suffice. The result was an ever present amount of self doubt, thus maximizing parental importance and influence.

I sat in the living room across from my parents. I hadn’t said a word and yet they were already judging. Nonetheless, I was excited to get to the bottom of this. I was ready and about to let it rain when I noticed outside the window that my mother’s night blooming jasmine was prematurely Deciduous for this early in June. I explained to her that if she had properly pruned in the spring, she would have increased the air flow such that she would have rejuvenated new growth and significantly increased flower production. Without a word, my father stood up and punched me in the face followed by repeated blows to my mid-section. As I lay writhing on the ground, he looked down at me and yelled “Are you dating Liberals?” I nodded, and managed to squeak out a “Yes, but…“ The pummeling continued. My mother even got in a few solid shots.

It was one of the more pleasant visits I’ve had with them in recent years.  When they were finished, I apologized to them for having to beat me so severely.

I had to respect the old man, though. He knew immediately what I had only suspected. He understood the dangers. I thought I had too.  Haunting questions arose in my mind: Why was I susceptible?  Was the task at hand too much for a single Republican man?  Was I failing all of you here at Big Hollywood?  Could I find my way back…to me? Why didn’t my mother prune in the spring?

To calm myself a bit, I did what I usually do when I need to relax; I strapped on a scuba tank and hopped in the Santa Monica Bay: one of the world’s top diving spots if you’re not concerned with visibility or seeing anything of interest whatsoever.

I sat pensively on the ocean floor, surrounded by bottom feeders I couldn’t see but could feel in the depths of my lost soul. It was dark, cold, and lonely. And then….it occurred to me…. this was the aquatic equivalent of dating a liberal. I followed the metaphor to its logical next step and things began to fall into place.

I, Jon David, was in fact a deep sea diver exploring the treacherous waters of the liberal dating pool in Los Angeles….and although the waters are shallow, the rules of diving still apply….and that means, if you resurface too quickly, and do not allow for the appropriate decompression time, serious mental and physical damage could result.

I was almost positive that this was the reason behind my recent behavioral changes, so I carefully surfaced through the 19 POC’s (pollutants of concern) which populate the Santa Monica waters and found a computer as quickly as possible.

The results of my research proved to be more accurate and terrifying than I had anticipated. I discovered that by dating liberals in such close temporal proximity, I was suffering from a scarcely known social version of The Bends…clinically known as Decompression Sickness, (DCS).  I was shocked to find that simply from dating liberals (some of which I have not reported) I was experiencing many, if not all of the symptoms of DCS.

After a little more research I discovered that to avoid the effects of DCS, the diver must rise slowly and/or make intermittent stops on the way up. These are called decompression stops. I call them dates with Republicans.

I hope this information will serve as a sufficient explanation as to why My Weekly Date with a Liberal is not exactly weekly. Onward.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Several weeks ago, an attractive liberal girlfriend of mine asked me to accompany her to a party for the sole purpose of making another man jealous.  Seemingly, the only traits she admired about this man were that he was Dominican and extremely well endowed.  Now a lot of men in my position might have felt threatened by these traits, but sometimes you have to be honest with yourself, know your limitations, not everyone is created equally…and if there was one thing I knew about me: I was not Dominican.

So I agreed. I asked her where the party was and she said Venice.  Now for those of you unfamiliar with Venice, California, it is a place where Liberals roam free.  Unattended. Unchecked. Unshowered. It was time to don my scuba suit. I was going down deep. I was fully pressurized and ready to secure my next date with a Liberal.

We arrived at the gate. My friend hesitated…and then looked at me. She knew I was a Republican. The look in her eye was a combination of gratitude and concern.

I said I’m cool. Now let’s go make that dude sorry he hasn’t paid you the proper attention.  She nodded. I liked her.

She opened the gate and what I saw made me less comfortable than if I had been running through the Swat valley screaming I’m a Jew.

They were everywhere. Liberals lounging around.  It looked like a front yard fully clothed no contact orgy. Patchouli wafted in the air battling body odor for the bragging rights to the air these liberals and one republican would be breathing this afternoon. I desperately searched for another person wearing a button down shirt, but there was none.

Just little groups of liberals scattered about, passing porn magazines back and forth to one another just a feet away from their little liberal children. At this point I gave a mental shout out to the makers of Purell and prayed that the half life of my last tetanus shot had not expired.

My friend appeared remorseful that she had brought me to such a bizarre scene. That remorse manifested itself by her abandoning me upon the first sight of the Dominican.

I was alone, but not for long. So, I hear you’re a Republican? I turned ironically to my left, and there she was: Caitlib. She was my friend’s roommate which is how I assumed she knew I was a Republican. I confirmed what she already knew. She smirked with all the smug she could muster. You must feel a little out of your element.

I said not really, sometimes I like to poke the bear in the zoo. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t get that….she didn’t. But she was perceptive enough to recognize sarcasm and that was enough to set her in motion. Not surprising. After all, she came over to me looking for a battle.

Her army consisted of a large metaphorical infantry of dunces, armed with so little knowledge that unknowingly their empty rifles were aimed at the very country they should have been defending. The only thing that made them dangerous was that there were a lot of them and they were angry and they were loud.

I want to say that again….there were a lot of them and they were angry and they were loud.

Angry and loud.

That doesn’t leave much room for another point of view.  And when I tried to politely make room, she interrupted me and said one of the most astounding things I’ve ever heard: Nothing anyone could ever say could change my position.

And then I realized something:  Beneath her pert 26-year-old exterior, she was hiding something…humility…and the priceless gift of her.  Because she was in fact the smartest individual in the history of mankind…and the smartest individual who ever will be. I say this because she was apparently equipped with every historical fact of every event that has ever taken place such that she had every possible piece of information necessary to formulate an opinion. Furthermore, she apparently was a master soothsayer who could see everything that could and would possibly ever happen in the future…forever. I’m convinced that if she had not ridiculed so blindly the concept of God, she probably would have embraced it, for she was in fact, God herself.

I decided it best to be quiet in the light of such brilliance. After all, better to be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt: she, being a prime example. Plus I could learn so much. So I listened and did in fact learn amazing things about our country’s history. For example, apparently despite our victory in World War II, our strategy was flawed and incompetent. Why? She couldn’t say. I figured it was classified.  And the lessons continued: apparently Reagan really bungled things up when he bankrupted the Soviets to end the Cold War, and his demand to tear down the wall was preposterous. Why? You guessed it…classified. I learned that the United States was essentially responsible for most, if not all of the world’s problems. And for the majority of these, she felt apologies were not only justified, but any other policy would be inexcusable. My amusement slowly dissolved into sadness because shot after shot, her army of dunces blew hole after hole in Old Glory until my pride forced me to interrupt.

I said can I ask you a question?

What?

Do you like this country?

She didn’t hesitate.  No.

I thought about this.

Is there a better country?

Her answer: No.

So….we’re the best country?

No.

At that moment, I discovered two more symptoms of Decompression Sickness: Bewilderment and Disappointment.

You don’t like this country? I asked again.

No. Said this time with a hint of a smile.

I studied her for a beat. It was time for me to go. So I left.

Note:  My friend seemed to have captured the affections of the well-hung Dominican, so I felt that my presence had served her well.

I got in my car, doused my hands with Purell, and headed home. I thought about how much I love this country. I thought of my relationship with America like a marriage. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. That’s how I feel about her.

When I got home, I wondered how I could accurately report this event to you all. How I could fully express how I felt after this encounter. Sometimes humor is the answer. It’s worked for me in the past as an effective diversion from painful truths. It wasn’t gonna be enough this time because there is one thing in this life for which I will not apologize: I love this country.

Don’t you?

“American Heart”

Written and performed by

Jon David

If you believe in the spirit of free enterprise, capitalism, and good old fashioned American entrepreneurship, please go to ITunes after you listen, download the song, and help spread the message that we live in the greatest country in the world. Not to mention, you will help finance my continued dating research which is currently being funded by the Chinese.

American Heart written by Jon David     c&p: J.David 2009

They say
Our reputation
Needs a new coat of paint and a delicate melody
But I say
I like the bruises
And a melody don’t mean a thing
If we don’t have the strength to sing

I won’t be made to ever feel ashamed…

…that I’m American made
I got American parts
Got American faith
In America’s heart

Go on raise the flag
I got stars in my eyes
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize

They say
That we need changin’
As if all the Founding Fathers seem to get it wrong
But I say
I still believe in
the greatest Liberator, Innovator, Cultivator
Freedom’s ever known

So I suggest you take a look inside
I think you changed already
You went and lost your pride

But I’m American made
I got American parts
Got American faith
In America’s heart

Go on raise the flag
I got stars in my eyes
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize

Dress her up so that you don’t recognize her
She’ll still be there if you wake up in the night
‘Cause a mother can always find her child
Even when that child don’t know he’s lost

I’m American made
I got American parts
Got American faith
In America’s heart

Go on raise the flag
I got stars in my eyes
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize

Buy “American Heart” on iTunes

Jon David on Facebook

Breitbart entered. The woman was there waiting, but this time she had a young lady friend with her. The woman could no longer keep this to herself. She needed to share it with someone. Not surprising, Breitbart had no objection.

Who was he to deny anyone an opportunity to see it, particularly this young beauty?

She looked on with a combination of curiosity, skepticism, and perhaps a hint of excitement which she tried to hide.

He slowly opened his “laptop”…her eyes landed on his Big Hollywood and then grew wide as if trying to make room for what she was seeing.  She had been prepped, but apparently not well enough. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted.

BREITBART
Looks like it’s just the two of us.

_______                                                                                                                _______

                                                                                                           
Note: The above scene is WGA registered. 

For those readers unfamiliar with my specific niche within the Big Hollywood community, I urge you to read my initial column before proceeding any further.

Consider it an army field manual of sorts. With a better understanding of my motivation and commitment to research, this manual will help you survive with me, side by side, and together, we will navigate the treacherous mine field which is the dating of a Liberal. 

Note: In the case of this field manual, torture is permissible and lawful as it is self inflicted.  

If you choose to continue without watching the Pilot so to speak, at least let me share with you one of the sharpest insights I’ve read on the subject. 

“The divide between the sexes is great and mysterious. The divide between the sexes with opposing political perspectives could prove to be dangerous enough to cause irreparable harm to anybody willing to explore it.”

 - Jon David

As a noble and anonymous crusader for Big Hollywood, I have decided to dive on the grenade for all conservatives and date One Liberal a week. The following self mandated criteria must be met weekly. 

• She has to be a confirmed liberal
• I can not tell her I’m a conservative until mid way through the date
• I shall report my findings honestly, and in excruciatingly painful detail. 

Date #2 “Angelib”  

There really is no such thing as a “blind” date anymore.  Google and Facebook are pretty much all you need to find out anything about anyone. It saddens me that in our quest for immediate gratification, we have abandoned our principles…out of narcissism, we keep no secrets kept, and out of laziness and convenience we have jettisoned all traditional notions of stalking. Nobody has the time or wherewithal to get in a car and properly stake out a woman’s house or place of work anymore. Nobody has the courage to defy a restraining order in the name of unrequited love. God forbid we actually put in some legwork or show some real initiative…or dare I say….pride. 

But why should we?  We need not put in any extra effort when all that is required of us is the click of a mouse to remove all mystery from a time honored tradition, while robbing ourselves of one of the few surprises left in the world. 

We have lost respect for the institution itself. We have given eyes to the blind date. 

Some of the more insightful readers may have already guessed that my second date started off blind. In fact, the date was procured by my brother as he lay in a hospital room recovering from a most embarrassing hemorrhoidectomy, of which I promised I would never speak. However, the magnitude of the gesture I’m about to describe trumps any promise of confidence I may have made. 

As he lay on his stomach, pain killers coursing through his veins, a new shift of nurses began, and in walked Angelib to check on my brother’s wounded posterior. How are you feeling Mr. Brother of Jon David? Now the good thing about having a brother who’s married is that every girl he’d like to have sex with, he sends my direction. Despite the medication and his compromising position, he was still able to see his vicarious forest through the trees. 

As she removed and replaced the gauze from his bottom, he slurred the words: Do you have a boyfriend? Why he felt this an auspicious time to pose such a question, I will never fully understand, but somehow it garnered a laugh from Angelib. So he continued. I’d like to introduce you to my brother.  

Like a soldier putting his company first, my brother ignored the throbbing pain in his backside and put me first. When I think of the valor, it brings tears to my eyes. 

Apparently I wasn’t the only one moved because I kid you not, she said okay. 

It was on: a blind date: one of the few surprises left in the world. I immediately logged on to Facebook to check her out. 

Note: in my defense, please refer back to the first of my self mandated criteria. She had to be a confirmed liberal. If there was another way, I would have pursued it.  

As I combed through her photos (only downloading the really hot ones) I came across a disturbing image: a photograph that truly upset me and had me thinking that I might not be able to go through with this.  Even more disturbing was what she had written beneath it…. 

“My favorite picture of the year” – Angelib

 To calm myself a bit, I did what I usually do when I need to relax, I began reading the Constitution.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

It’s her right. It’s her right. It’s her right.  I was hoping the mantra itself might make what was inherently her right, feel less wrong. But it didn’t. So I turned to my imagination for comfort, thinking of all the potential finger gestures our former President could have been making from within that helicopter as he flew off to a place where he might actually be appreciated.

But then I realized that President Bush was far too classy to indulge in that type of petty antics as evidenced by my favorite picture of the year.

My caption would have simply read……Class

If I had truly taken anything away from the latter image, then I too, would have to walk the high road. I could not blame Angelib for her stupidity and misguided patriotism as both are protected under the constitution. I had to embrace her and the greater cause: the commitment I made to all of you here at Big Hollywood to seek the truth. Not to mention, my brother’s hemorrhoidectomy was not as successful as initially thought and might require additional surgery. I owed my fallen comrade the courtesy to follow up on his shameless inquiry.

I would proceed but I have to be honest, I was hesitant to spend any money on this date.

I called my local Congressman: Henry Waxman. I explained to his office the purpose of my research in hopes of securing a handout. Unfortunately, the notion of Republicans understanding Democrats is of little or no importance to the current administration. I was also informed that the last of the monies for my district in the current Omnibus spending bill had already been allocated to study canine testicular elephantitis within short legged breeds. Seemed reasonable, so I moved on.

I stopped by the offices of Big Hollywood. Breitbart greeted me warmly. I explained that I was having a hard time justifying spending money on this particular date. I showed him the picture from her Facebook page and explained my adverse reaction. He listened intently, nodding his head. It was good to see a friendly face. He stood up from his desk, took a swig from a jar of moonshine, and said 2 words: “Personal Responsibility.” I thought about this.  He was right. I had abandoned one of the core principles of conservatism. I didn’t need any help. I had initiative. I’d figure something out on my own. I thanked him. Then he punched me in the face.

When I woke up, the answer was clear: the perfect date with a liberal…and it wouldn’t cost me anything…at least monetarily….the HIKE date.  Every liberal loves a good hike. Don’t get me wrong, conservatives enjoy a good climb as well. We just prefer more scenic environments…like melting glaciers.

Another benefit of the L.A Hike date is that for some reason, the hiking trail is the only place in the entire city where people let their guards down, greeting every passing stranger as if they’ve known them for years. It’s a place where people set aside their differences, re-evaluate their prejudices, and open their arms to the loving essence of every soul….all a result of some bizarre unity created by a common interest in walking uphill.

I knew of a hill. I also knew that once I got Angelib on the trail…in her element, she’d be singing like a little liberal canary in no time. …plus it wouldn’t cost me anything.

Note: there are no notes at this time.

I must say I was a little nervous as I waited for my not so blind date to arrive. To make matters worse, at the mouth of the trail there was posting of things to look out for while hiking: Poison Oak, Ticks, Rattlesnakes, Mountain Lions, Republicans.

“Jon?” I turned around and there she was…all smiley and liberal. “Angelib?”  I won’t bore you with the pleasantries, but we made a pact not to discuss anything related to my brother’s hemorrhoidectomy.

She suggested we hike up to the waterfall. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there had been a 3 year drought in California and there was most likely no waterfall and thus, we probably wouldn’t come across any unicorns either, as they tend not to show up when nature’s faucet runs dry.  I was in the business of finding truth. Not crushing dreams.

So off we went. It was a narrow trail, so I suggested she lead. That way I could evaluate the firmness of her booty, under the guise of being a gentleman. This was suggested by a friend of mine who had more hiking dates under his belt than I.

___

I’ve always been told to ask a lot of questions on a date….to take the focus off myself while showing an interest in the woman. Apparently she came from a different school, and spoke only of herself, saving me the trouble of asking or answering any questions whatsoever.

Her river of narcissism was diverted only for encounters with other hikers.  ”Good Morning.” “Hi, how are you?” “Good morning.” “Beautiful day.” “Hi, how are you?”  And then seamlessly flowed back to her dreams….her fears….her son.

Her what? Her son? What son? Nobody told me anything about a son.

There were no pictures of a child on Facebook nor did it list her as a “Proud Parent.” Why didn’t she have any pictures of him? Maybe she wasn’t proud. What kind of woman isn’t proud of her son?  I’ll tell you what kind: One with a really nice butt. Good tip from my friend.

I was worked up and couldn’t figure out why. I had dated single moms in the past. It was never an issue. I love kids. I was once a kid, and I think I’m fantastic.

And then it hit me: omission can be a lie. For me, a woman needs be up front about 3 things. 1) Does she have kids?  2) Does she have herpes? 3) Does she have herpes?

At this point I had to assume she had herpes. She left me no choice.

I was starting to feel bad about myself.  Maybe I needed to be more open. Give her the benefit of the doubt. Be One, with the…hill.  Maybe there was a reason she didn’t mention him, or have his picture up. Maybe there was something wrong with him. I had been working on becoming more sensitive. This was as good a time as any to put it into action. 

So I took an interest in her son by…..asking his name. Stuart, she said proudly. Stuart Libble, I thought.  According to Angelib, Stuart was far from wrong. In fact, not only was he was the cutest in his class, he was also the smartest, warmest, the most generous, best athlete, the most insightful, and the most sensitive…little did I know, her 5 year old was the best child ever made. 

Now this is a strange phenomenon I’ve noticed with parents. Every parent has the best child. I know this isn’t true. I have a niece and couple of nephews and I love ‘em dearly, but frankly, there nothing’s spectacular about any of them. They know this. I’ve told them. 

So how can there be so many great kids? If all these kids are so great and so smart, that would mean great genes were passed on by the parents who must also be great because they’re the ones who passed on the genes, not to mention, they were born to their parents who must’ve thought they had the greatest kids. So in essence, everyone who has parents is the greatest and the smartest. As cogent as I feel this theory to be, it must be flawed because upwards of 63 million people voted Barack Obama into the highest office in the world.  

We took a break to soak in the dry brush and waterless creek. From her backpack, she took out two re-usable plastic water containers and two bags of homemade trail mix she had prepared specifically for the hike.  I was starting to dig the whole maternal thing and started to think about how warm and safe I’d feel in her womb. I was getting distracted and losing focus. I had to pull myself together.  I had to remember her favorite picture of the year. I had to figure out an organic way to steer the conversation into the political arena. I couldn’t be looking for a fight….and then she asked Do you like kids?  

Then I saw it. My first move….and then the second…and then the whole board. I was Big Hollywood’s Bobby Fischer.  My transition would be stealth, organic, and inevitably lead to an unhealthy ideological debate. 

Note: If you can’t see the move, don’t be down on yourself. Feel good about You.   

I love kids. They just scare me a little these days.   

Why’s that? She asked.  

I thanked her for the water, placed the bottle in her backpack, and said because there’s no respect anymore.  Then I took the lead up the trail. She followed. I knew she would…..because….we were hiking together. 

I was setting up the Jerome Gambit, an opening move in chess described as extremely dubious, where White sacrifices two pieces in hopes of exposing Black’s king and obtaining a mating attack. 

Note: I have no idea what that means. 

What I did know was that this was a “Plug in and Play” situation: a pre-existing family with rules of interaction and engagement already in place. All I had to do was get her talking, which hadn’t proven difficult thus far, but more specifically, about those rules…about her parenting style…unfortunately that would entail hearing more about Stuart. 

If I could stomach this, the promise of ideological division would be great. After all, I’ve seen marriages fall apart as a result of differences in parenting styles. But these differences usually turn out to be symptoms of something else: an underlying resentment or hatred for the other person seems to be the most popular root cause in the institution these days. 

I had no doubt, that once the division was established regarding child rearing, I could skillfully guide her into the political arena and from there, the underlying resentment and/or hatred for one another would no longer be “underlying.” It would surface and then we could explore it, embrace it, and see if we could overcome it.                                                                                                   

So I chose the concept of “respect.” She was a liberal, so I knew it was likely she might find the notion antiquated, and thus elicit an adverse reaction. It did. 

You’re not one of those people who thinks it’s disrespectful for Obama to take his jacket off in the Oval Office, are you? 

Ah…the condescending negative question…a technique used by the arrogant by which any answer other than “no” labels you an idiot. So I applied the technique of answering a question with a question, often used by smart people. 

Why do you think people were so bothered by that? I asked. 

Her answer….wait for it…..here it comes…..: because Republicans are uptight a**holes who can’t handle the fact that we have a cool President. Taking off his jacket makes him one of the people as opposed to some King on a throne.  

She was apparently participating in a scarcely known cerebral cap and trade program, whereby she was rewarded for using the least amount of her brain possible….by limiting the amount of intelligent thought escaping into the atmosphere she was accumulating credits. I could only assume she’d be getting an unprecedented tax refund. 

As she continued, the ideological division between us grew as I suspected it would. When it came to parenting, she subscribed to the teachings of progressive behaviorist Alfie Kohn, who believes that respect comes from internal authority as opposed to external authority….Stuart was allowed to call his mom, teachers, and adults by their first names. This was so they were not viewed as authority figures to be feared, but rather as equals.   

I was interested in knowing more about how liberals were grown. 

Here are some other interesting tenets of Alfie Kohn which Angelib was applying. 

• No punishment
• No rewards
• No competition

I had hit the mother load.  This was a big game liberal. I half expected a helicopter to swoop down over the ridge, where I’d see Sarah Palin leaning out, aiming an assault rifle to put Angelib down like an Alaskan Bull Moose. 

But the Governor didn’t show so I was left with the only weapons I had: logic, reason, and the desire to see her face when she realized I was one of the uptight a**holes who can’t handle the fact that we have a cool President. 

I expressed a genuinely feigned interest in her methods which pleased her greatly. I did however, have some questions. I started off innocently: if there is no punishment, how does he learn not to do something? She explained that recently Stuart punched her in the stomach. Fortunately I was in the lead hiking position so she couldn’t see me fight the laughter. She continued. Instead of meeting aggression with punishment, she and Stuart talk it out. She sits him down and says that punching Mommy or Angelib in the stomach doesn’t “work for her.” It makes her sad. It was liberal foreign policy applied to a 5 year old.

–

Dear President Medvedev, Dmitry, 

We realize our missile defense system doesn’t work for you. We understand how you feel. So we hope you understand that a nuclear weapon in the hands of Iran, doesn’t work for us. Does it work for you?  If not, could you please sit down with Mahmoud and tell him what he’s doing doesn’t work for either of us? We’d really appreciate it. Look forward to talking and talking and talking and talking and talking.

See you later alligator, 

Barack 

P.S. I hope you don’t interpret this letter as a sign of weakness. And please don’t tell anybody I wrote you. That wouldn’t work for me and it would make me sad.

–

We moved on to no rewards and no competition. My question was simple: if you remove rewards and competition, aren’t you also doing away with initiative, incentive, and personal responsibility? She made it very clear that Alfie Kohn was a scientist and that there were many studies that show a child performs better when there is nothing at stake. 

This time laughter trumped courtesy.  

What’s funny? She asked aggressively. 

I’m sorry….I just don’t understand… When is there nothing at stake? In the real world, there are stakes.    

The real world? She gave me the forward head tilt combined with the eyebrow lift, which in my experience, usually means “bring it.” So I brought it. 

Yeah, the one I live in. Where competition drives innovation. Where hard work and good behavior should be rewarded. Where bad behavior should be punished. Where socialism doesn’t work. Where diplomacy is not a policy, it’s a tactic.  

Note: I borrowed that last part from former UN Ambassador John Bolton.  

For the first time on our hike, she was speechless, but only briefly. And then as if the possibility had just occurred to her… 

You’re not a Republican are you?  

It was as if Reagan himself hurled a lightning bolt from that Oval Office in the sky, where jackets are required….and it struck my heart such that I pulsed with strength and pride. She deserved the answer on behalf of uptight A**holes everywhere. 

And I said, Yes. I’m a Republican.  And then….. 

….shirtless hippies carrying djembes descended from the dried out shrubs which line the Santa Monica Mountains, formed a drum circle, and began beating Hail to the Chief. I thought of my favorite picture of the year. 

Actually there weren’t any hippies….just dead silence, save for the jolly couple passing by with a cheerful “Good Morning.” This time she didn’t respond. I did. “Hi, how are you?” 

Angelib looked confused, almost disoriented, while still managing a hint of disgust. I clarified my position, not aggressively, just truthfully. 

And I don’t think Obama’s cool. Taking his jacket off in the Oval doesn’t make him one of the People. It makes him pompous and disrespectful. He’s no more one of the People than I’m Tenzing Norgay. Obama seems like a guy who won the lead in the school play and he terrifies me. Not to mention he uses more adverbs than any orator since Cicero. Everything this guy does will be done “boldly” and “swiftly,” including the destruction of our country if we’re not careful. Is there any more trail mix? 

She shook her head “no.” The awkwardness was palpable. Neither of us quite knew what to do. 

Should we hike any further?  I asked. I think the waterfall is just a little further. We both understood the metaphor. And upon reflection, I think we both knew there was no waterfall. 

She considered it, briefly, and then once again, shook her head “no.” I understood and agreed. So with very few words, we hiked back down our cars…boldly and swiftly.

Breitbart slowly approached the woman. This was the second time they had been together in just 3 short weeks. But in that relative blink of an eye, something had changed.  Something she couldn’t put her finger on.  He was different somehow. 

And then he showed her.

Any questions she may have thought to ask would not have been heard above the pounding of her heart, even if she could have mustered a single breath to speak.

It was true: his Big Hollywood had grown monumentally since their first encounter…its potential size and scope immeasurable and undeniable.

BREITBART
It gets bigger.

_______                                                                                                                        _______

                                                                                                          
Note: The above scene is WGA registered. 

For those readers unfamiliar with my specific niche within the Big Hollywood community, I urge you to read my initial column before proceeding any further.

Consider it an army field manual of sorts. With a better understanding of my motivation and commitment to research, this manual will help you survive with me, side by side, and together, we will navigate the treacherous mine field which is the dating of a Liberal.

 Note: In the case of this field manual, torture is permissible and lawful as it is self inflicted.

If you choose to continue without watching the Pilot so to speak, at least let me share with you one of the sharpest insights I’ve read on the subject.

“The divide between the sexes is great and mysterious. The divide between the sexes with opposing political perspectives could prove to be dangerous enough to cause irreparable harm to anybody willing to explore it.”

- Jon David

—

As a noble and anonymous crusader for Big Hollywood, I have decided to dive on the grenade for all conservatives and date One Liberal a week. The following self mandated criteria must be met weekly. 

• She has to be a confirmed liberal
• I can not tell her I’m a conservative until mid way through the date
• I shall report my findings honestly, and in excruciatingly painful detail. 

—

Date #1 “Gwendolib”  

Picking my first liberal proved to be more of a dilemma than I had anticipated. After all, liberals come in many different forms with gradient shades of hypocrisy accompanied by various degrees of passion with which to loathe our great country. However, once I made my choice, I knew I would approach the date with an open mind.  

I recall meeting Gwendolib a few years ago at a dinner party. I was with my girlfriend at the time, who hadn’t yet found a dosage of Adderall that would keep her from regrouting an entire bathroom at 4 in the morning. Gwendolib was with her fiancé who carried a book about Falconry in his pocket at all times. Surprisingly enough, neither relationship lasted. But at that party, I recall a connection…a meeting of the eyes…an unspoken understanding between me and Gwendolib.  It wasn’t political. I was hoping it was sexual. But when you’re dating someone who’s trying to level out their Adderall, you don’t even toy with the idea of infidelity, not that I would….but a boy can dream. Alas, I think the connection was a silent acknowledgement of our respective relationships coming to their inevitable and timely demise.

Cut to: early last week. I called my ex-girlfriend to see if she was still in touch with Gwendolib. It had been several years. I was careful about my inquiry; sensitive to the fact that my ex still had feelings for me. We talked of the past…the mistakes we made…how hard we tried, and that she had subsequently found out that Adderall was not the appropriate drug for her and that she was now coasting comfortably on a moderate to heavy dose of Lithium. With this revelation, I felt exonerated from any mistakes I had made in the relationship and promptly attributed all of the blame to her, which she accepted calmly.  A girl once told me that if you want to make a girl like you, ask her to set you up with someone else. I was semi hoping this theory was correct and through my inquiry, our old passion would be re-ignited.  As it turns out, the theory is not true and my ex promptly set me up with Gwendolib without even blinking an eye. *

* Note: I attribute this to the Lithium.  

I put the past behind me.  My research was the future and my future was Gwendolib.

 GWENDOLIB – BASIC STATS  

• Hometown – New York City
• Education – Harvard University
• Occupation – Artist
• Facebook Political Views – Liberal
• Bosom – Ample  

It was time for my first date with a liberal. I had found her. 

Being a traditional guy, I offered to pick her up. She seemed uncomfortable with this notion which then made me feel uncomfortable for offering and then somehow, through this exchange, I ended up feeling like Joran Van Der Sloot.  This was not the vibe I was going for. We agreed to meet at the restaurant. 

Note: I attribute the death of chivalry solely to the success of Greta Van Susteren.   

I parked around the corner for fear she might see the “Wounded Warrior Project” sticker on the back window of my SUV. The last thing I needed her to know was that I was grateful to our troops. My cover would have been blown immediately. My research sample…soiled.  So I hoofed it.  

We arrived at the same time and promptly had the awkward hug moment, but being a professional journalist, I took the opportunity to confirm that my stats were correct: she did indeed have ample bosom. 

I guided her to the bar where we took a seat. Although the original plan was to meet for a drink, she mentioned that she was hungry. Being a fiscal conservative, I pointed out the merits of the extensive bar menu in hopes that she might select the cheese plate or perhaps the Sliders…those trendy mini burgers that have become so popular apparently because they are small.  I was hoping these options might create the illusion of an entire meal. However, being a liberal, she was big on entitlements, and opted to order off the pricier dinner menu. 

I intentionally chose the day after the inauguration for my first date, as every liberal I know was changing their shorts with every Obama event that week….including the “We are One” concert which was exclusively licensed to HBO.  Apparently “We” are “One” only if we have HBO. Bring us together baby. Bring us together. 

I figured by the time the actor returned with her Pinot, I would be nodding, agreeing, and voicing these words: Yes. The Inauguration brought tears to my eyes. Yes. I am glad Bush is gone forever. Yes. He is the change he told me that I am waiting for….We are the change he’s been waiting for….We should stop waiting and change….whatever…Yes. Yes. Yes.  

It was like fishing for Halibut…which incidentally I just learned that you don’t strike a halibut…you just sort of let it run with the bait. So I waited and waited. Waiting for the halibut to run so I could pick my moment at the height of hers and announce that I was a Republican. Watch her expression change from joy to disgust to anger and then I would fight. I’d fight that halibut to the bitter end, drag it up to the boat, Billy club it with facts and common sense, and then come home, gut it, cook it, and serve it up Al Mojo on Big Hollywood….on the pricier dinner menu. 

But here’s the thing.  The Halibut never ran. 

She never brought it up.  Not once.  She never mentioned Obama, the inauguration, change, hope, tax hikes, socialism….nada. Now let me recap real quickly…..this is a girl living as artist in LA, raised in New York, a Liberal from Harvard, ample bosom, and she never even uttered his name the day after the inauguration. Now there are a few ways to interpret this: 

1. She hadn’t heard about the election.
2. She was classy enough to not assume I was an Obama fan
3. She had ample bosom.
4. B and C 

I was pretty sure the answer was D.  Now this may be disappointing to some readers but I have to remind you all that I promised authentic reporting regardless of the outcome. The goal here is to learn. 

And what I learned was that Gwendolib was very charming. She was flattered that I remembered her from years back, and was “pleasantly surprised” that I contacted her.

She had a great sense of humor with a hint of vulnerability sprinkled with that certain I have showered today vibe which I had not anticipated. Bottom line was…I liked her. 

All of the sudden I was racked with guilt. I was a liar…a manipulator. Should I tell her the truth? That I used her? That I prejudged her?  That I think Falconry is pretty cool?  As I wrestled with this moral anaconda, I sensed something strange….a presence. I looked down the bar where I saw a phantom image of Breitbart, unshaven and very pissed off. He was staring at me. He whispered but I heard it: “Dig deeper Jon.” Then he swallowed 7 fingers of straight bourbon, punched the guy next to him in the face for no apparent reason, and sauntered out. He was right. I had to dig deeper. 

It was at that moment, the actor brought our meal: a strawberry pecan salad for her…Sliders for me. She looked down at my plate with a half smile. Although there were only 3 mini burgers, I felt as if she wanted one, so I offered 33% of my meal to her. She declined. Gwendolib was a vegetarian. I felt a tug at the line. Breitbart who had apparently come back in for another tumbler of bourbon, whispered from the end of the bar “Let out some line.” Then he punched another guy in the face. 

So I asked her a single question: Why are you a vegetarian? 

And then the Halibut ran…..As I raised the slider toward my mouth, she described to me in detail, the cruel and horrific process by which cows are raised…the inhumane conditions…and their ultimate violent slaughter.  I won’t bore you with the specifics, but it actually sounded kind of brutal…if you’re a cow. 

I considered what she was saying. Was this enough?  Was this enough for me to stand up right there and announce: 

I am a Republican. I am a Carnivore. Ted Nugent kicks ass. But again, I didn’t and I’ll tell you why. Because as my eyes went from her, to the mini burger then back to her again, she smiled, winked, and said “Dig in. I’ll still kiss you.”  I felt a stimulus in my package but maintained my composure. 

I said “I like your leather boots. Maybe I’ll kiss you back.” 

She smiled, acknowledging her own hypocrisy and my witty repartee.  I felt sufficiently vindicated and sunk my teeth into the 1^st of three Sliders. 

I know what you’re thinking. This guy’s changing the rules as he goes along. He’s not adhering to his own mandate. Sound like anyone else?  

But as I mentioned early on, liberals come in all different forms and I have the honor….the distinct privilege of writing a recurring column and such it is my responsibility to make tough choices. That being said, I felt that there was no need to declare myself a Republican, and that there was more be learned by revisiting Gwendolib in the future.  Let out some more line.

Already I had learned something: I could have chemistry with a liberal. It’s pretty obvious when you see us together. 

    Jon David (R – L.A.)                    Gwendolib (D – New York/ L.A.) 

Note: I walked her to the Valet. Being a liberal, she was big on entitlements. Of course, she drove a Prius, on which there was no Obama sticker to be found.

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

Breitbart slowly approached the woman and unveiled his Big Hollywood. She gasped, but created no words. He had seen this reaction before.

BREITBART
You don’t have to say anything. I already know.

—
Note: The above scene is WGA registered.

Let me talk about myself in the 3rd person for a moment. Jon David is a graduate of Stanford University, as well as the prestigious American Film Institute. He has written and directed commercials, music videos, and feature films. Moreover, he is an accomplished singer/songwriter, having placed songs in many televisions shows and movies. His band has played venues ranging from the Viper Room to the Staples Center. In other words, Jon David kicks ass.

Note: Everything in the above paragraph is true with exception of the name Jon David. However, there is particular veracity to the asskicking part.

When Breitbart asked me to participate in Big Hollywood, I was extremely flattered, bordering on emotional. I saw what he was doing. I saw the end game: a tinsel town where the conservative perspective could be represented without fear of prejudice. Alas, there’s about time we had the venue and the collective courage to say “We are conservatives,” without fear of occupational repercussions or ostracism.

I, unfortunately, do not have the aforementioned courage, but my cup runneth over with the aforementioned fear, which resulted in my decision to write under a pseudonym.

In all fairness, I wrestled intensely with my cowardice, before being pinned within seconds of the opening round. Laying flat on my back, having scarcely broken a sweat, I realized that my contribution to Big Hollywood would in fact, require my anonymity.

Note: a personal rationalization of embarrassing proportions.

Let me explain where I’m coming from…from whence I come…from where I come. Let me explain how I got here. It took me 2 years to raise my hand in a classroom at Stanford. I assumed that everyone there was smarter and was convinced that what I had to say, not only would not matter, but would invoke intense ridicule from other students. One day in my 18th century literature class, while discussing Alexander Pope’s The Rape of the Locke, my sexually ambiguous professor asked if anybody had something to add to the discussion. Well that day, that identity forming day, something happened: my hand went up, almost involuntarily, as if my body was screaming at my heart and mind to scream out with equal passion.

My sexually ambiguous professor called on me, clearly not by name, but rather by frustratingly pointing me out in the back, as if selecting a donut through the glass.

And then it happened: I spoke. The words traveled quickly as if they had known for years where they were heading and simply needed to be released in order to reach their destination.

What followed was one of the most incoherent pieces of oratory ever uttered in a class room. Not only was there no destination, the origin was in question is well.

The point of this story is twofold with maybe several folds not yet recognized. One: Sometimes anonymity is the right thing. Two: Some people are in fact smarter than others.

(Note: to this day, I don’t know if my professor was a man or a woman)

This being said, I have decided to look for a niche inside Big Hollywood…a niche where I can shine…where I can matter, by shedding light on a side of the Hollywood experience that is equally important, relevant, and in need of examination, and yet greater minds would most likely pass right over it….and that is Dating in Hollywood.

Recently a friend of mine wanted to set me up with a girl he knew. So he did what people do these days and he told me and the girl (let’s call her Dora) to look each other up on Facebook. We exchanged a few witty back and forth’s, albeit mine, a bit wittier, but she held her own, being a Romanian yoga instructor with aspirations of modeling and acting….all things were looking good. She saw my picture, so I cleared that bar by an ass whisker, and the notes I sent were received with much humor and good will…and then nothing. Dora vanished.

I asked my friend what happened. He told me that she couldn’t date me because I was a Republican. I asked him how she knew I was a Republican. He said I told her. Why would you tell her I’m a Republican? Because she’s a liberal. You’re an idiot. You don’t want to date her anyway. Then why did you set me up with her? I don’t know. I do: because you’re an idiot. Note: he too, was a Stanford English major.

My theory was that McCain had been gaining ground in the polls, and my friend (also a liberal,) committed either conscious or unconscious “PDS” political dating sabotage. He knew it would be the end of it, which is odd because I don’t think a Republican would not not date a girl because she was a liberal….particularly a Romanian yoga instructor with aspirations of modeling and acting.

This was a troubling interaction to say the least. Would I have to hide professionally and socially? If so, my chances of finding “the One” in this town would be less likely than finding a Prius without an Obama sticker. These are not good odds for me.

There has to be a way we can all co-exist. I refuse to believe that Dora is representative of most women in Hollywood.

Personal relationships are integral to the success of an artist in Hollywood. It is not a meritocracy. It is who you know. It is who you walk in with at a party. And if you can’t walk into a Hollywood party with a Romanian yoga instructor with aspirations of modeling and acting on your arm, simply because you’re a conservative….then your climb is even steeper my friend.

As a noble and anonymous crusader for Big Hollywood, I have decided to dive on the grenade for all conservatives and date One Liberal a week. The following self mandated criteria must be met weekly.

• She has to be a confirmed liberal
• I can not tell her I’m a conservative until mid way through the date
• I shall report in excruciatingly painful detail my ultimate demise on a weekly basis

As mentioned earlier, anonymity is required for this very important research project. In no way, can my liberal subjects know my true identity. They must respond honestly and organically if we are to learn anything from this experiment. The divide between the sexes is great and mysterious. The divide between the sexes with opposing political perspectives could prove to be dangerous enough to cause irreparable harm to anybody willing to explore it.

It’s time to raise my hand again. It’s time to matter.

Coming Soon:

My Weekly Date with a Liberal by Jon David

Note: by “coming soon,” I mean I have to get a date.