Fishy

I’m doing standup in Denver. Shelley is driving me from radio to radio to TV as I do the monkey dance at each station promoting the show, selling tickets. I don’t like this part of the job. I must answer the same 10 questions about Saturday Night Live and try to explain where I’ve been for the last fifteen years. All the DJ’s want are some juicy stories about celebrities. I don’t really have that many. I’m booked at two political talk stations, a rock station, a country station, and two local TV shows. I guess that’s my demographic! Everyone! I ask Shelley why I’m booked on the political stations. She shrugs, “Well, we didn’t really know…isn’t that what you are doing now?” The first stop I’m told is a “just right of center” show, so I feel free to share my newest shocking information that the White House is asking us to “snitch'” on our friends and family. To report anything “fishy.” This news is so abhorrent to me that I could barely sleep the night before. I immediately emailed Andrew Breitbart to see if it was true. He said yes. I searched the hotel computer web to see if the big shots, the smart people have gotten on this. They were just starting to fight back. The news was so new. Well, at least this administration is entertaining…in a bad way. I’m watching a horror movie every day.

As I share the shocking information that our Freedom of Speech is being attacked, the radio host across from me, his face, it looks like he just ate a lemon. It’s all scrunched up like…he hates me. He abruptly cuts me off and ends my interview. I’m stupefied at the reaction of people who “just can’t handle the truth.” My driver Shelley is a liberal. She doesn’t say anything. As we get in the car I try to apologize, “Well, he asked me why I was a new political activist. I guess I should just tell jokes.” I mean I have been hired basically to sell tickets to a bar where people will spend lots of money on alcohol. And, I do need to make some money. My husband is a cop.

And don’t get me started on the Obama Gates Crowley Beer Summit. I wrote 15 articles about racism and tore them up. My husband kept chiding me, “White people can’t discuss race.”

But, I must say. Sgt. Crowley is a first class act. A shout out to you, Sgt. I love cops, as you can see by the above photo.

Anyway, my next stop is the rock station. It’s ironic for me to be there since I have never owned a stereo or a rock n’ roll record and went to a Baptist high school where in the late 70’s we were actually told to burn/break our rock records–I didn’t have any to burn/break. I am telling my Kurt Cobain story about how I hooked up Weird Al with Kurt so he could get permission to write the parody “Smells Like Teen Sweat,” when I am pleasantly surprised by a cell phone call from Jessica Hahn. Yes, the Jessica Hahn. What great radio, right? I ask her if she’ll be in my “on-air” interview and she agrees. She understands “the business.” Jessica and I have recently struck up a friendship finding we live in the same LA area. I had met her briefly fifteen years ago on the set of “Unhappily Ever After.” I had apologized for parody-ing her with my “I Am Not a Bimbo” song on SNL. She was gracious and sweet. We share a background in the church and we both still study the Bible! Anyway, I knock out the rock station interview thanks to Jessica Hahn and go back to my hotel.

I scour the internet and find that the conservative big shots are now fully engaged in this battle against our government. I send in two emails to flag@whitehouse.gov. I figure I’m already on their “list.” One of my emails says, “Is this a joke?” One says, “How dare you attack our Freedom of Speech! Stop the Snitch Program! It’s illegal!” So, you see, I’m really, really on their “list.” I’m wondering what will happen to the people on “the list.” Audit? Jail? Death? I’m starting to feel exactly the same as the Soviets and the Cubans. I now understand perfectly why they risked their lives heading to Miami on rafts. The fear is palpable. The invisible oppression of being watched. The White House is trying to intimidate my fellow Americans from speaking out, from asking questions about this Socialized Medicine. Nancy Pelosi is on TV saying we wear swastikas! What planet is she from? It’s all a jumble of anger and fear and lies. My country.

My hope rises as I read Cornyn and Sekulow’s letters to the President. They know the legal lingo. They are representing me. Whew. And of course, there is God. And, I pray.

My next radio interview is a “phoner.” I gaze out the window at the beautiful Denver mountains as I sink luxuriously into this interview with a fellow conservative. He gets it. He is surprised that I am in the fight along with him, to save our country. My next few interviews are frivolous. I try to accentuate the ditz in me, to sell tickets, to make Wende, the club owner like me and have me back.

Onstage, I try out a new song, “White Men,” dedicated to Sonja Sotomayer. One audience loves it. One is completely silent. I decide to skip the song for the rest of the shows. After the show, one lady comes up to me and grasps my hand in both of hers. She whispers, “Thank you so much for speaking up, about our country.” Her eyes look deep into mine. I feel like we have both scratched the fish symbol into the sand, during the Roman Empire times. The fall of the Roman Empire.