America, You Sexy Bitch

by Meghan McCain, Michael Black

  To quote the patron saint of the modern Republican Party, Ronald Reagan: “Government is not the solution to our problems. Government is the problem.” To wit: government should stay out of people’s lives except when a woman accidentally gets pregnant. Or when banks or oil companies need money. Republicans believe in free speech unless the language being spoken is Spanish. Also, I think they want to give guns to fetuses. If my understanding of the Republican Party is incomplete, then so be it. But that’s exactly why I’m doing this road trip; my job, as I see it, is to confirm all the worst stereotypes about Republicans I hold so dear.

  Meghan: The Republican Party has a long history of being for the “little guy”; it’s just in the fast pace of the modern news cycle, hungry for red meat, that the message has been twisted and exaggerated to the point where the most extreme voices get the most attention. A lot of negative repercussions have occurred as a result of the twenty-four-hour news cycle. I think the biggest problem is that for anyone to get any real attention it feels like the message has to be an extreme one. The choice has come down to Glenn Beck or Keith Olbermann. If in any way you are seen as compromising on either side, automatically the echo chamber considers you a turncoat and not “pure” enough of a liberal or a conservative. The news cycle makes people afraid to compromise, lest they be crucified for finding a middle ground. It’s a really scary and dangerous political climate that the media and politicians have produced for the American public, and more often than not I myself have been caught in the crosshairs. Unfortunately, if you want to get any message across, it must be done in talking points and sound bites.

  That being said, the American public seems to have an insatiable appetite for extreme talking heads. Part of the problem, in my opinion, is that Republicans feel belittled and stereotyped by many members of the “liberal media elite.” As a result, it makes Republicans automatically overly defensive and extreme in their reactions to criticism from liberals. I mean, at times I have felt belittled and stereotyped in the media and I’m clearly not the most extreme conservative in the news cycle. Anyone who does not think that the majority of the media is in the bag with Obama and the Democratic Party has no experience dealing with the media. As a result, you get more radical conservative opinions that serve as a pushback, with the pendulum of opinions swinging severely from one side to another. Listen, I am part of that news cycle and a member of the media; I am an employee of a news network. I am not saying there are not good people who are trying to change things in the media but, for whatever reason, they never seem to get as much attention as the more radical voices. It’s this horrific, vicious cycle that just seems to be getting more and more polarized with each passing year.

  What scares me more than anything is the idea that the world of politics will stop evolving. What if there really can’t be such a thing as a more socially moderate Republican? I believe that if this party doesn’t evolve it will die, and I don’t want to watch it die, because Democrats are damaging this country and we should stop letting them. We have to start showcasing different kinds of opinions within the larger Republican tent. There cannot be just extreme voices being heard because all it does is make a lot of people tuned out and turned off from the world of politics. I believe all Americans need to start taking more responsibility for the kind of extreme rhetoric that is permeating our political culture; otherwise, quite frankly, as a country we’re screwed.

  Michael: Democrats are supposed to be the party of the little guy. They’re supposed to be interested in workers’ rights, minorities, helping those with less achieve more. Pro-union, pro-choice, anti–machine gun. But over the last thirty years or so, it has started to feel more like the party of small, special interests. It feels old and faded and kind of crusty, like a pair of Walter Mondale’s boxers. All the great causes feel played out. There just doesn’t seem like anything for us Democrats to rally around. Honestly, who’s going to burn their bra over the Glass-Steagall Act?

  As much as I want to be a committed Democrat, I can’t quite justify it to myself. I don’t know what I’m fighting for except opposing what Republicans are fighting for, which more or less boils down to Jesus and putting more money in the pockets of rich white guys.

  Yes, I understand these are all stereotypes, but stereotypes are fun because they allow me to feel intellectually superior. Liberals love nothing more than to feel intellectually superior. It’s what we do best. We sit around and say pretentious things while listening to pretentious bands like Radiohead and feeling smug about everything. It’s a great way to be, if only because we get to eat so much imported cheese. Liberals love imported cheese. In fact, it’s pretty much all we eat. Well, that and quinoa, which is a grain whose main appeal is that it’s difficult to pronounce, thus making us feel even more intellectually superior when we get the name right. We read books we hate and watch artsy movies we loathe. We get off on it. A typical dinner table lib conversation:

  “Have you read the latest Franzen?”

  “I looooved it.”

  “I thought it was pedantic.”

  “Well of course it was pedantic. That’s what I loved about it.”

  Meghan: Republican stereotypes sometimes hit the nail square on. We love to read, as long as it is either the Bible or a nonfiction account of a prominent party favorite, especially if it is a book about President Reagan (especially if it’s about President and Mrs. Reagan). Over a dinner of perfectly grilled steak from a cow we knew by name and shot ourselves, and a potato that has been baked in the skin that God gave it, we love to dissect the latest entry to the Republican canon:

  “Have you read Bill O’Reilly’s recent book on Lincoln?”

  “I loved it. Read it in three days. Hands down the best book ever written about President Lincoln.”

  “Bill O’Reilly is a man who truly loves America.”

  “O’Reilly loves Lincoln because he is a true God-fearing American in a world gone to hell.”

  How’s that for stereotypes about Republicans?

  The sound of tireless voices is the price we pay for the right to hear the music of our own opinions.

  —ADLAI STEVENSON

  Prelude: San Diego, California

  A Hot Mess

  Michael: My own view heading into this trip is that America is at a particularly crappy time in its history. We feel like a nation adrift. To use the worst kind of corporate lingo, it seems like we have lost sight of our “mission statement.” What is it we do now? Who are we? What is our purpose? The answers feel foggy these days. Something about freedom, I guess, and democracy, whatever that is, and helping people, I suppose, unless it’s too expensive, in which case we all have to tighten our belts a little, unless we’re rich, in which case we actually need to pay less taxes, and something about the huddled masses, except for Mexicans. Underneath it all there’s this thing called the American Dream, and I’m not sure I know what that is either.

  Growing up, I guess I believed the American Dream had something to do with having the opportunity to be anything you wanted to be, to get ahead in this country despite the circumstances of your birth, to be rewarded for your brains and skill, not your parentage. The American Dream felt tangible and achievable. It felt fair. In fact, I am a product of that dream. My own upbringing was humble. I attended public schools, got decent grades, went to a good college, and began pursuing my life as a comedian. What a ridiculous, useless career, and yet this country allowed me to follow a vision I had for myself without encumbrance. That’s pretty amazing. Of the 196 countries in the world today, how many of them allow their citizens to devote their lives to telling fart jokes on basic cable television? Probably not that many. But America does. And for that I (and my fart jokes) am grateful.

  But does that American Dream still exist? Will my kids have the same broad opportunities I had? I like to think they will. I like to believe that America is still a place where dreams, even stupid ones, are achievable, not just for the lucky few, but for anybody willing to put in
the necessary hard work and take a chance. The problem is, I’m not sure I believe it. And I have a sense a lot of people out there don’t believe it either. So that’s also part of my journey with Meghan.

  Meghan and I are meeting in San Diego, California, where my mom and her lesbian partner, Sandy, are staying for the month. Sandy is not my mother’s wife, at least in the legal sense, because although they have been together almost twenty years, they cannot legally marry in Florida, the state in which they reside most of the year. I probably don’t need to point out that twenty years is a lot longer than many straight marriages last.

  Sandy has seen my mother through some terrible health issues. Nursed her through cancer, radiation, and dozens of operations. She’s been there for my mom in a way that my brother and I have not. Except for some financial aid from my brother and me, Sandy has been my mother’s sole support for all these years, the person who has given her everything she’s needed to survive. Sandy is, in every sense of the word except the government-sanctioned one, my mother’s spouse, and that the government has the ability to deny their relationship is beyond wrong. It’s immoral. Marriage is not about which partner has which genitalia, it’s about upholding all those vows politicians are so fond of breaking. Why would Republicans, the party of individual liberty, have a problem with two people marrying who are committed to each other? Why would anybody?

  Meghan is driving down from Los Angeles to meet me at Mom and Sandy’s rental, and I am a little nervous. It’s weird bringing a new woman to meet your mother when you are already married. Especially when you are going to be travelling in an RV with said woman for a month. It’s also weird trying to explain it to your wife.

  Martha was surprisingly cool about the idea right from the get-go. It didn’t really occur to me to think that she wouldn’t be, but if the situation were reversed, and she were hitting the road with some cute, younger guy for a month, I might not have been so accommodating.

  Part of me wonders whether I should be insulted that Martha is so relaxed about all this. I mean, why isn’t she worried that something might happen between Meghan and me? Yes, I’m getting a little pudgy, yes, my hair is thinning, yes, I have bad feet. But any single woman in her twenties would be lucky to have me. Why? Because I have panache. And Crocs.

  The Crocs were a last-minute purchase made right before I left. My kids, ten and eight years old, are into Crocs and they wanted me to get a pair too. And because I am the world’s best father, I agreed, selecting a green-and-black pair. If you are unfamiliar with Crocs, they are rubbery sandals that all self-respecting adults tend to avoid because they look stupid. But I figured they would be a good footwear choice for the trip since they are comfortable, durable, and do not require socks. Socks are a traveler’s bane because they create lots of dirty laundry. Any footwear that saves on the number of socks I have to pack is good footwear. Plus, they look cute on me. So cute, in fact, that I think Meghan will probably have an even harder time keeping her hands off me when she sees me in them.

  Which means Martha should be doubly concerned about me going on this road trip. I introduced her to Meghan a week or so before we left. Meghan was in New York for meetings, so we arranged a lunch—just the three of us—at a café on the West Side. The lunch was the least amount of awkward that such a lunch can be.

  “So, honey, this is the woman I’m going to be living with for a month.”

  “Whatever.”

  Why does she trust me so much? Men should not be trusted in these situations! Does she think I am somehow not man enough to cheat on her during this road trip? She probably does think that. And she is probably right. Damn her.

  Meghan arrives at Mom and Sandy’s a few hours after I do. She is late, caught in traffic. Over a text message she apologizes and warns me that she is a “hot mess,” which is a term she uses to describe anybody or anything that is unkempt, bedraggled, or drunk. When she finally shows up, she does kind of look like a hot mess. She’s wearing an outfit I can only describe as “nouveau Flashdance” : an off-the-shoulder gray sweatshirt, black headband, and black leggings.

  The conversation is kind of stilted at first. We talk about politics a little, and my mom’s sexual history a little—this is not a conversation I initiate, by the way, because that would be weird—my mom’s health (poor), Sandy’s grandson (a genius), the problem with Florida (everything), and all manner of topics large and small. Mom thinks judges are legislating from the bench. Sandy thinks there’s too much religion in politics. I make a joke about them being elitist liberals for serving sparkling water, which goes over very well, and also a joke about how I used to get a lot of ass before I was married, which does not. Everybody is lovely to everybody else, but the whole thing is odd, neatly summarized by my mother, who says after about an hour of small talk, “So I still don’t understand exactly what it is you’re doing.”

  I don’t either, Mom. I don’t either.

  Yet here I am, three thousand miles away from home, about to embark on a cannonball run across the United States in an effort to figure out what the hell is up with Lady Liberty. It is a noble endeavor, I think, albeit a half-baked one. What do we possibly think we can accomplish doing this other than having a helluva good time? I tell Meghan the trip will only be a success to me if one of us gets arrested.

  “It’ll be you,” she says.

  “I don’t think so.”

  After the tension in the room has dissipated a bit, I make the choice to do something I almost never do, which is to allow myself to go barefoot. The reason I almost never do this is because I really do have bad feet. My toenails have that gross foot fungus that makes them thick like Ruffles potato chips, and the bottoms of my feet are all dry and crinkled. But I figure if we’re going to be traveling together for a month, I might as well just throw caution to the wind. My Crocs are not off my feet for a minute before Meghan looks down and says, “You have the gnarliest feet I have ever seen.”

  Well, excuse me, Miss Perfect! If I wanted criticism about my appearance from a female, I could have stayed home with my wife. Maybe I’m making a terrible mistake here. Maybe I’m about to hit the road with somebody I can’t stand. My mom is right: What are we doing here? Needless to say, I never allow Meghan to see my bare feet again. This whole idea is a hot mess.

  Prescott and Sedona, Arizona

  Tarantulas and Scorpions

  Meghan: I never imagined that the first man I would officially bring home to meet my family over a Fourth of July weekend would be Michael Ian Black. My family has met my boyfriends before, in a sort of roundabout way, but I have never brought a man home to meet them and spend the weekend at our cabin in Sedona. Before we started off on this adventure, I only had a vague knowledge of who Michael Ian Black even was—in college the VH1 show I Love the ’80s was particularly popular, and I remembered seeing him do commentary on it during the weekly group viewings in my dorm lounge area at Columbia University. Now here I am, sitting next to a virtual stranger with his tour manager friend, Stephie, in the backseat, driving along the same dusty highway to Sedona that I have driven thousands of times before.

  I spent what feels like every weekend of my childhood trekking up on Friday afternoons and coming home on Sunday evenings to our cabin. I am trying to concentrate on how wonderful and tranquil our place in Sedona is, to calm my nerves instead of focusing on the fact that I am bringing complete strangers who not only my family doesn’t know, but I don’t know, to our cabin. After spending time with Michael and his family in San Diego, I still wasn’t feeling exactly comfortable, and I think they were just as skeptical about me as I was about them. Neither Michael nor I were exactly letting loose and being ourselves yet, and on top of everything else we were having a complicated time explaining to everyone just what the hell we were doing together this summer. If I were Michael’s mom, I would have given me the third degree too. I mean, what exactly was I doing with her happily married son on a road trip for the summer? By the end of that visit it was pret
ty apparent to everyone in the room that Michael and I really only had a #twitterelationship.

  Even by my impulsive standards, starting at my family retreat, was up there with weirdness. I spent much of my formative years hiking, fishing, watching scary movies, and making forts with my siblings at our cabin in Sedona. Our cabin is tucked away in a canyon and is especially private and secluded, something I used to hate, but now relish. After the election, it was where we all hid out, recovering in the aftermath of Obamamania. If I ever decide to get married, it would be on the banks of the creek where I used to catch crawfish, the hundred-year-old willows shading the ceremony and my dad walking me down the sage-covered aisle.

  I’ll admit, though, it was a bit of an odd childhood spent in Sedona, with the likes of Henry Kissinger, Don Imus, and Warren Beatty passing through my memory like famous ghosts, gnawing on my father’s unsurpassed grilled dry ribs on the deck. But mostly Sedona was a safe haven where, no matter the good times or bad, we could reconnect as a nuclear family and keep the prying eyes of the media world at bay.

  I glance over at Michael. He’s wearing two-tone Crocs and linen pants. He looks ridiculous; he should really be wearing jeans and cowboy boots, or at least just jeans. A cool chill passes over me as I imagine Michael getting out of the car and meeting my mom. Famous families in America are notoriously guarded with their privacy, political families are borderline militant with their privacy, and my family is no different. Everything about this scenario goes against the grain of how I was raised to protect the inner circle and our privacy, and at the last minute I am overcome with anxiety about the ridiculousness of this scenario. A scenario that I am completely complicit in creating.