No doubt you’ve all been wondering where I’ve been these past few months and what I’m up to, because this one thing I know is true: You wingnuts find the liberal, leftist, ecologically correct lives we progressives live out here in La-La Land to be infinitely fascinating, almost as fascinating as we find them ourselves. So I’m here, reporting for duty once more.
You’ll forgive me if there are a few typos in this story. I’m writing it on my secure BlackBerry, typing with my thumbs as I sit in traffic. That’s because, believe it or not, I’ve been trying to get from Santa Monica back downtown to my palatial pad in Echo Park for the past couple of weeks now, and, as you read this, I’m just inching my way east of Western Avenue. With any luck, I’ll be home before Festivus.
First there was the big fundraiser for my president and yours, His Excellency Barack Hussein Obama II, Lord of the Flies, Keeper of the Hoops, Vacationer-in-Chief, and Protector of the Holy Cities of Chicago and Honolulu. You can’t believe how flattered I was to be able to join my close friends Barbra Streisand and Jeffrey Katzenberg, as one of the $30,000-a-pop no-shows at the big do in Hancock Park, no-shows on account of we literally couldn’t get there from here, BO2 having commandeered every available freeway, surface street, and SUV in Los Angeles County in order to motor in the style to which he’s become more than accustomed from Air Force One to the La Brea Tar Pits, where he might have paused for a moment to contemplate the statue of the woolly mammoth, slowing sinking into the nonrenewable resource that somehow lies like an ocean beneath Wilshire Boulevard but which we shouldn’t drill, baby, drill for because we don’t need that oil.
And the evening had started so wonderfully, too . . .
You see, there I was, tooling down Sunset Boulevard in my late-model Prius, figuring I’d zip over to Dukes on the Strip for a little nosh before reversing course and heading back east, having long ago lost my appetite for rubber chicken, even expensive Hancock Park rubber chicken. I cannot tell you how my heart swelled with pride as I encountered what would later prove to be an ominous portent of things to come: a standstill, caused by the heroic proletariat as they labored away resurfacing the Sunset Strip. And while I was impatient to blow past Sunset Plaza and get to my chow, I couldn’t help thrilling to the sign on the north side of Sunset, which proclaimed that this most-needed project was brought to me by the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009, B. Hussein Obama Jr., POTUS for now.
Yes, if there’s one place in the country that needs to be stimulated by the Stimulus, it’s Sunset Boulevard, repository of the nation’s hopes, dreams and aspirations, the place where a thousand dreams come daily to die, where nubile young beauties from Minnesota — okay, Somalia, if you want to go all the way back — come to . . . Anyway, there I was cheering your tax dollars at work when I became aware that not only was the Strip not moving, nothing was moving. I mean, it was like some weird scene out of Roland Emmerich’s 2012, minus the earthquakes, volcanoes, general mayhem, and John Cusack, which we tolerant Angelenos try to keep confined south of Jefferson, except for Cusack.