Front-runner status won't help Hillary - The end of the Clinton campaign

I’ve been watching Hillary Clinton’s campaign flailing in it’s death throes for about a month now, and with her lead in Iowa gone, it’s past being funny and is almost to the point of being cruel. Bill Clinton is letting his wife believe that she really can be President. I understand where he’s coming from; I was taught that the secret to a happy relationship is picking the hill you want to die on. If I had his appetites and I was married to that woman, I’d tell her whatever she wanted to hear, too. But this isn’t right. He should just tell her the truth: the country is ready for a woman to be President, it’s just not ready for her to be that woman. It’s not going to be easy and she’s not going to like hearing it, but someone has to prepare her for the post-Valentine’s Day reality of having lost the nomination. Since he’s the one who allowed her to delude herself into believing she can win, forcing us all to contemplate the horror of another Clinton presidency, it’s only natural that he be the one to bring her back to reality when it’s over.

It should make her feel better to know that she’s going to be needed in the Senate. By next January, Democrats will control both houses of Congress as well as the White House. The Republican party, having lost seats in consecutive elections, will be on the road to irrelevance if not extinction. Nothing will be able to stop the Democrats from doing whatever they want in Washington. I seriously doubt anyone would object to Hillary becoming Senate Majority Leader, making her and Nancy Pelosi the two most powerful women in the world for the foreseeable future. Think of the example it would set for women in general and, most importantly, for Chelsea. Her parents will have gone from Bubba and Hillary Clinton of Little Rock, Arkansas to President and Senator Clinton of Chappaqua, New York in one generation. That’s not just progress for women, it’s also unprecedented social climbing.

She’ll also be relieved to know that the family skeletons will stay deep in the closet where they belong. Had she won the nomination, however, their marriage would have become fair game in the general election campaign. The vast right-wing conspiracy that turned the name Clinton into a dirty word would fire back up and make the six years he spent under investigation seem like the good old days. All the work she’s done to repair the family name over the last seven years would be systematically undone by non-stop “where are they now” stories about Paula Jones, Jennifer Flowers, and Monica Lewinsky on talk radio and Fox News.

She’ll be able to take comfort from the fact that her husband ran in a time of peace and unprecedented prosperity, but she had to run in the middle of a disastrous military operation with a weak dollar and a housing crisis. Bill ran against Bob Dole, a man with a permanent grimace who people deliberately turned their gaze away from. Hillary had to run against the handsome, smiling face of the political movement of a generation, broadcast live and free of charge to 100% of the media markets in the U.S. by Ms. Oprah Winfrey. It’s almost not fair.

Bill Clinton has about a month to figure out what he’s going to say. If I was him, I’d blame her campaign advisors, who have been wrong at every turn. They tried to sell her as the inevitable nominee; apparently not realizing that her closest opponent only has to stay within shouting distance to claim victory and anything other than a landslide win for an “inevitable” candidate is a loss. They tried to portray her as having experience being President by virtue of the fact that she lived in the White House for eight years Don’t pitch the dog. Hillary was the dog. Maybe she wasn’t the dog, but she certainly wasn’t the decision maker. He knows better than anyone that she can’t handle the truth (that she’s not ever going to be President) and that’s all the more reason why he should be the one to tell her.

Being thankful in greedy times - Appreciation for soldiers and blue collar workers

This is the week when we all make our “thankful” lists. Family, friends, and rent-controlled apartments near the beach are always close to the top. Next week, we get to make our wish lists (topping mine is a rent-controlled apartment near the beach), but this week is all about giving thanks. In addition to the usual, I’m always thankful I was born in the 70’s. This year, I’m adding peace and prosperity to my list because I’m thankful for the million-and-a-half volunteers serving in the U.S. military who provide the peace and the millions of undocumented workers who support the economy that delivers the prosperity.

I’m thankful I was born in the 70’s because it means my life is, by definition, better than my dad’s. For example, by the time I was eighteen, I could vote, use any men’s room I wanted anywhere in America, and have sex with white women without it being a capital crime. And I never had to worry about being drafted to go fight and die in a jungle in Southeast Asia.

This year, I’m also thankful that my President is so smart that he’s found a way to take a country to war and, for the first time in history, not raised tax money to pay for it. In fact, he’s actually cut taxes. He’s so smart that he’s made it possible for all of us to live, work, play, and enjoy our lives uninterrupted despite the fact that we’re in the middle of what he calls the definitive struggle of our generation. How did he do it? Simple. He just made it the duty of the .5% of the population serving in the military to bear the entire burden so that those of us in the other 99.5% can keep shopping, going to movies, and eating out.

Before the draft was ended in 1973, any family could become a military family, so the sacrifice was shared when the military went to fight. Elvis Presley, Ted Williams, and all four of FDR’s sons served in World War II. Can you imagine how fast we’d be out of Iraq if Justin Timberlake, Russell Martin, and the Bush twins had to enlist in the Army? Military families are special people who bear this burden because they consider service their duty to their country, and they pass that belief down to their kids. I’m thankful for those moms and dads and husbands and wives who stay up worrying about someone who chose to put themselves in harm’s way so that I can sleep through the night.

I’m thankful Republicans in Congress decided that their corporate sponsors need a low-cost workforce that has no rights at the same time Democrats in Congress decided they need Latino votes more than they need to enforce the law, so neither side will make a deal to reform immigration law. Meanwhile, undocumented workers do back-breaking work in agriculture and meat packing so I can get fruit, vegetables, and boneless skinless chicken breasts at reasonable prices. They also work long hours in out-of-the-way hotels and convention centers so that business travelers can find an affordable room near the airport. Not to mention the work they do in our favorite restaurants so that the house special doesn’t have to cost a day’s pay.

It wouldn’t be so tough for the Democrats to agree to construct a barrier so coyotes couldn’t smuggle truckloads of people across the border; or for Republicans to agree that the petty crime of crossing the border doesn’t have to be punishable by deportation. But Democrats won’t tell their Latino base that a flood of illegal immigration is not acceptable, and Republicans won’t tell their “this is our country” base that a trickle of illegal immigration is.

I’m thankful for that first-generation American mentality that says suck it up, bust your butt, and work hard so your kids won’t have to. What if these jobs had to be done by American-born workers? Can you imagine what it would cost for a box of spring mix salad at Whole Foods? Or to get Thai food delivered? If a room at the airport Hilton suddenly costs $400 per night, what would a Saturday night at the Standard run me? I don’t even want to think about it. Because of these hard-working people, prices for things I use every day can remain artificially low and I can keep living beyond my means.

In this week of thanks before the upcoming month of greed, I’ll be thankful for peace and prosperity. Peace by overburdening one half of one percent of Americans and prosperity through the exploitation of millions of third-world workers.

These American women have some crazy ideas - The Promise Ring Party Girl

I don’t date American women because I do things they find unforgivable like making plans, calling when I say I will, and saying what I really mean. American women think of boyfriends like handbags: completely interchangeable objects that only exist to hold their stuff and make their girlfriends jealous. I avoid them because American women suffer from a special kind of crazy. I’m not saying foreign women are immune to crazy, but crazy in Danish or Italian is a lot easier to handle. Years of trial-and-error have taught me that no matter how many different kinds of crazy I screen out, some new strain of crazy emerges. I happened again a few weeks ago when I met my first Promise Ring Party Girl.

It was at the back bar at Wilshire restaurant. Some of her friends overheard some of my friends talking about my column on Britney Spears and ended up debating who would be a better mother, Britney or Nicole Richie. Eventually, we were standing next to each other and she asked, “so you’re a columnist, huh? Like Carrie Bradshaw?”

I should add that I used to hate “Sex and the City” when I lived in New York; mainly because it made my girlfriend at the time envious of the unrealistic, unattainable lifestyle of the main character (despite the fact that she woke up every morning in the arms of the world’s best boyfriend: me). But since every woman over the age of 21 grew up watching it and believing that casual sex is empowering (and it glamorized the noble columnist in the process), I now love that show. When a woman says the words “Carrie Bradshaw” to me, that’s code for “you’ve got a shot if you play your cards right.” So I ask if she’s a Carrie, a Samantha, or a Charlotte (Mirandas don’t do it for me), but I’m really just listening for her to say she’s either part Carrie or part Samantha (code for “I’m not opposed to hooking up with you tonight”).

Miss Wilshire gave the perfect answer: part Charlotte, part Samantha. After that, it was on (even though she’s American). Some of her friends wanted to dance, so we left the restaurant and walked across the parking lot to Holly’s. I should also add that I’m attracted to women I consider to be exotic (different from my mother & sisters), so that usually means white women. And though I shouldn’t be, I’m always surprised when they can dance. This one moved so well that I couldn’t wait to get her alone.

A few of us went back to my apartment for more drinks. After the ten-cent tour, Miss Wilshire and I were in my room fooling around and I’m waiting for her to turn into Samantha - but it’s not happening. In fact, we do this strange sexual regression thing where the more turned on she gets, the less she let me touch her. I figure this was classic “anti-slut defense”, so I reassure her that I’m not just attracted to her sexually and that I’d like to see her again, and will definitely call her.

Apparently, that’s what she was waiting for, because that’s when she told me about her promise ring. I’d heard of them, but I thought they were things that teenage couples in Kansas gave to each other so their parents would let them go out without chaperones. I didn’t know a promise ring was something that a fully-grown party girl living in L.A. would wear. Then I made the mistake of asking what her promise was. “I’ve promised to save myself for my husband or, if I never get married, for Jesus.” With that, the party was over and I knew I’d never see her again.

I’ve been the victim of the “L.A. break-up” a few times since I moved here (that’s when someone just stops returning your calls and acts like you never existed), but I never appreciated it before the Promise Ring Party Girl. She called and left voice mails, texted a few times, then presumably took the hint. I bumped into one of her girlfriends who was nice enough to try to absolve my guilt. She told me that Miss Wilshire is a “serial smoocher” and that I’m not the first guy who couldn’t handle the Promise Ring thing.

I wanted to ask if Miss Wilshire really thinks she’ll meet the man she’s going to marry while she’s out drinking with her girlfriends on a Friday night? If she really thinks that a man who has known the joy of sex will voluntarily give it up for a shot at marrying her? Basically, I wanted to ask, “is she crazy?” But, of course, I already knew the answer.

Striking out - Writers don't hold the cards in strike negotiations

I want the WGA to know that despite my disgust with the majority of its product, the irrelevance of most of its members, and my seething hatred for its arcane rules, I’m with them. I hope this strike brings the TV and movie studios to their knees and forces them to break the writers off another three cents per DVD and makes the studios give up a taste of what they’re getting from those commercials I have to sit through when I watch “Heroes” on my computer. As the brothers say it, “I ain’t mad at’cha - get that money.”

But the writers are in over their heads trying to play hardball with the studios. Contract negotiation is all about leverage and timing. At this point, movie production is on schedule through next spring and TV production is on schedule through Valentine’s Day. Sure, Jay and Dave and Conan will have to write their own monologues, but that shouldn’t be too tough (they’re comedians, right?). If it continues into January or February, the strike could effectively cancel the new network TV season midway through. But for the studios, a do-over for this disaster of a TV season might not be so terrible; nobody’s watching this season’s new shows anyway. It’s sadly ironic for the writers that they’ve authored such crap shows this fall that they can’t use the loss of this season as leverage. It wouldn’t be the first time they screwed themselves.

I understand screenwriters thinking they’re special. After all, screens are everywhere. Cell phones, Blackberrys, I-pods, Sidekicks, PDA’s, laptop computers, desktop computers, living rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms, the center console of the car, the back seat of the minivan/SUV, the back of the front seat headrests, even “hater-vision” in the back of the rear seat headrests (so people in the car behind you can watch and hate). If I was a writer on “Lost” and people were downloading or buying my show by the millions, I’d probably think I was special, too. Until I realized these people don’t care about my show as much as they care about escaping from their own lives for a few minutes while they’re taking the bus or the train to work; that they don’t care about Hugo’s shaky back-story as much as they care about keeping their kids from ripping each other’s heads off on the drive to the grandparents’.

Hollywood needed this strike; if for no other reason than to restore the balance of power. Right now, there are far too many people who are famous for being famous. But a long strike would give a lot of people more free time to enjoy their fame and wealth in a town that worships them for it. The Ivy will be so packed that the Kim Kardashians won’t be able to get tables because the Scarlett Johanssons will be taking meetings. TMZ will show A-Listers stumbling out of clubs and write stories about how Spencer and Heidi couldn’t get into the VIP room because Reese was throwing Jake a birthday party.

I want the writers to get what they deserve, but we’re in a bubble here in L.A. In flyover country, nobody cares about them or their strike. If you walk off the job out there, you could get shot at, run over, and have to walk the picket in the freezing cold outside a coal mine where nobody brings you coffee and Krispy Kremes. A writer making $150,000 a year makes more than 95% of the working people who watch their TV shows and go to their movies. If this drags out, the viewers aren’t going to cry for the writers, they’ll just find some other distraction to put on their screens until they have to go back to work.

The bottom line here is the bottom line. For the most part, these studios are corporations motivated by profit. If WGA scripts (and the writers who create them) become too expensive, they’ll find an unscripted alternative. Who wants to be a millionaire? Everybody. There are strip clubs and car shows chock full of Tila Tequilas ready to bare it all on their own reality show. Millions of people think they can dance, want to be the next American Idol, great American band, chef, fashion designer, or superhero. Why deal with union writers demanding a bigger share when you can get ordinary people for free?

You have to pick your battles. The last time the writers went on strike, Fox put “COPS” on the air (it’s now in its 20th season), and the reality show was born. It was the beginning of the end of network TV and, if the WGA isn’t careful, this strike could finally put network TV (and those who watch it) out of its misery.