you don’t have an ID, you should probably get one. If you don’t want to get one—because you’re a criminal or here illegally—that’s not our problem, that’s yours. You can still rip us off left and right, and we know you probably will. Or you may work your ass off for wages that should be significantly higher. Those are other issues. But either way, tough noogies. You can’t vote. And if you’re scared of getting an ID, then that says something about your motives, and not mine. Although, on the whole, I wish I never had to use an ID. It’s from six years ago, and, in retrospect, the braids I got at Club Med seem like a bad idea.
WORKING AT THE DEATH STAR
“YOU SHOULD PROBABLY TAKE THAT DOWN.”
Those were the words of my adorable Realtor, in my bedroom, after I gestured toward a framed newspaper featuring yours truly on the cover. The article inside
The Observer
covered my new, highly improbable career as a talk show host on a network reviled by the basic lefty Manhattanite. The headline was something like “Watch Out, Jon Stewart,” and it featured a delightful drawing of my sweaty face.
It had to go. Quickly.
It was like a swastika, a Confederate flag, or a corpse nailed to the wall—offensive, smelly, and a threat to property values.
See, the Mrs. and I were selling our apartment, in New York, and it had occurred to all of us that there were more than a few things on the walls, coffee tables, and bookshelves that might upset a potential buyer. That newspaper was one, but there were other things, too.
Books, mainly. Books by Ann Coulter. Books by Mark Steyn. Books on unicorn dressage. A few books by me. (I keep them around as gifts, because I’m cheap.) Essentially, all of these things had to go, because they expressed one scary idea: a right-winger lives here. He sleeps on that bed, where he probably does horrible things. To kids, to puppies, to kids with puppies.
Yep. A conservative. Not a liberal. An evil, baby-eating fascist Bu$$$Hitler fanatic who probably is secretly gay while bullying gay teens on the way to school. Better fumigate this place before we sell it. It’s got KKKooties.
Although it’s an almost accurate description of me (minus the secretly-gay-bullying-gay-teen thing), this fact might hinder our goal of selling our Hell’s Kitchen pad and moving to some place quieter—a neighborhood not littered with people I propositioned at four a.m.
Normally, I don’t care if anyone sees what I read, or what I’ve written (which is a great benefit to me when I receive my royalty check). Over time, as I worked among libs for most of my life, my skin has become thicker than a high school yearbook.
But when you parade New Yorkers into your house, and you want them to shell out a pile of dough on a tiny plot of land in a grimy block surrounded by methadone-heads, you will do whatever it takes to close the deal. Even if that means removing every offending book, magazine, or three-headed vibrator with my name on it. God forbid one of these potential buyers, in their $800 Oliver Peoples glasses, should spy something that isn’t in lockstep with their worldview (which is why the vibrators stayed).
The hallucinating “street poet” on our corner who feels his nuclear spittle is universally accepted currency? No effect on property values. One issue of
Reason
on an end table? Could be a problem!
Now, since it is New York, it’s not that I expect people to know who I am. It’s not like I’m Rachel Maddow, the patron saint of the smirking left. But we couldn’t take that chance. Because it really isn’t “me” anyway that upsets people. It’s who I work for. Yep, I work at the Death Star, the fair and balanced joint that’s beating the crap out of its competitors. For a liberal, my networksymbolizes everything they hate, even if they couldn’t find it on their channel guide to save their life. It’s a handy reference point whenever they get angry but can’t think of anything to
WORKING AT THE DEATH STAR
“YOU SHOULD PROBABLY TAKE THAT DOWN.”
Those were the words of my adorable Realtor, in my bedroom, after I gestured toward a framed newspaper featuring yours truly on the cover. The article inside
The Observer
covered my new, highly improbable career as a talk show host on a network reviled by the basic lefty Manhattanite. The headline was something like “Watch Out, Jon Stewart,” and it featured a delightful drawing of my sweaty face.
It had to go. Quickly.
It was like a swastika, a Confederate flag, or a corpse nailed to the wall—offensive, smelly, and a threat to property values.
See, the Mrs. and I were selling our apartment, in New York, and it had occurred to all of us that there were more than a few things on the walls, coffee tables, and bookshelves that might upset a potential buyer. That newspaper was one, but there were other things, too.
Books, mainly. Books by Ann Coulter. Books by Mark Steyn. Books on unicorn dressage. A few books by me. (I keep them around as gifts, because I’m cheap.) Essentially, all of these things had to go, because they expressed one scary idea: a right-winger lives here. He sleeps on that bed, where he probably does horrible things. To kids, to puppies, to kids with puppies.
Yep. A conservative. Not a liberal. An evil, baby-eating fascist Bu$$$Hitler fanatic who probably is secretly gay while bullying gay teens on the way to school. Better fumigate this place before we sell it. It’s got KKKooties.
Although it’s an almost accurate description of me (minus the secretly-gay-bullying-gay-teen thing), this fact might hinder our goal of selling our Hell’s Kitchen pad and moving to some place quieter—a neighborhood not littered with people I propositioned at four a.m.
Normally, I don’t care if anyone sees what I read, or what I’ve written (which is a great benefit to me when I receive my royalty check). Over time, as I worked among libs for most of my life, my skin has become thicker than a high school yearbook.
But when you parade New Yorkers into your house, and you want them to shell out a pile of dough on a tiny plot of land in a grimy block surrounded by methadone-heads, you will do whatever it takes to close the deal. Even if that means removing every offending book, magazine, or three-headed vibrator with my name on it. God forbid one of these potential buyers, in their $800 Oliver Peoples glasses, should spy something that isn’t in lockstep with their worldview (which is why the vibrators stayed).
The hallucinating “street poet” on our corner who feels his nuclear spittle is universally accepted currency? No effect on property values. One issue of
Reason
on an end table? Could be a problem!
Now, since it is New York, it’s not that I expect people to know who I am. It’s not like I’m Rachel Maddow, the patron saint of the smirking left. But we couldn’t take that chance. Because it really isn’t “me” anyway that upsets people. It’s who I work for. Yep, I work at the Death Star, the fair and balanced joint that’s beating the crap out of its competitors. For a liberal, my networksymbolizes everything they hate, even if they couldn’t find it on their channel guide to save their life. It’s a handy reference point whenever they get angry but can’t think of anything to
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