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

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