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Overview
"Sarah Palin, Ann Coulter, and Monica Crowley may think they're pretty bold. But when it comes to baring the secret ardor of a conservative woman, nobody undresses like Lisa Baron." -New York Daily News
"Hysterical." -Hollis Gillespie, author of Trailer Trashed
"Everything you wanted to know about what goes on behind the Christian GOP curtain but were afraid to ask. Funny, frank, hilarious. " -Michael Murphy, guest columnist for Time magazine
"Sex, drugs, interns-rock stars have nothing on Bible-thumping politicos when it comes to sin and raunch." -Suzi Parker, author of Sex in the South
"Primary Colors meets Coyote Ugly." -Gawker
"Sex, scandal. . .this book has everything." -A. J. Jacobs
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780806535173 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 01/28/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 776 KB |
Read an Excerpt
LIFE OF THE PARTY
A Political Press Tart Bares AllBy Lisa Baron
CITADEL PRESS
Copyright © 2011 Lisa BaronAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8065-3415-2
Chapter One
Holy Fuck
When people find out that I worked for Ralph Reed during the 2000 Republican presidential primary in South Carolina, they always ask the same thing: Was it true Ralph told voters that Senator John McCain fathered a black child? And my answer is always the same, "How would I know? I was in a Greenville hotel room giving Ari Fleischer a blow job."
Now oral sex, with anyone, particularly the aforementioned former George W. Bush White House press secretary, is typically not the sort of physical activity one brags about or broadcasts, or for that matter, inserts into the opening pages of her first book. In fact, some girls are loath to admit to hovering over a man's shaft for any extended period of time—an activity that, from an aerial view, looks like you're bobbing for apples, and losing.
So why then would I accept a one-eyed flesh monster during a road trip through the 2000 South Carolina presidential primary with the former director of the Christian Coalition, Ralph Reed? Because back in those days I was a fearless, frisky, and tenacious twenty-six-year-old press tart with starry eyes, a short skirt, and a passion for civics. To be able to say, "I'm with the such-and-such campaign" or I work for "Senator So-and-So" is to us political junkies what "I'm with the band" is to Pamela Des Barres. My remarkable encounter with Ari in that unremarkable hotel room perfectly summed up my groupie-like relationship to politics at that time—I wanted it, I worshipped it, and I went for it.
If you're not a news geek, you may not know about Ralph Reed. Ralph was the former executive director of the Christian Coalition, turned political presidential power broker. Under the tutelage of televangelist turned presidential candidate Pat Robertson, Ralph organized legions of religious conservative voters and formed a mega-Christian voting block that became an essential piece of any Republican candidate's trajectory for public office. At one point in history, Ralph was so powerful and ubiquitous that Time magazine devoted an entire edition to him. The cover of the magazine, dated May 15, 1995, featured a menacing picture of him under the banner headline, "The Right Hand of God."
Ralph's public persona is well documented: he is a Christian caped crusader ridding the world of profanity and porn. Smooth and charismatic, he could work a bank of cameras like George Clooney could work a small town waitress. When I started working for him, Ralph was a thirtysomething über-zealot with a hard drinking past, a taste for the good life, and a hunger for power. His movie-star good looks (Ralph, you're welcome) and uncanny ability to articulate conservative thoughts and policies into easily digestible sound bites made him a force to contend with. His baby face was the mug for a movement that cried out for decency, prayer, and moments of God in everyday life. It was Ralph Reed who, along with Dick Armey, Tom DeLay, and Newt Gingrich, wrested Congress from the party of Bill Clinton.
In 1998, Ralph left Washington, DC, and the Christian Coalition to move to Duluth, a northern suburb in Georgia, where he opened up Century Strategies, a private grassroots-lobbying firm. This is where I come in—he hired me, a twentysomething socially moderate Jew (yes, some Jewish girls do give blowjobs) to be his personal publicist. An unlikely partnership? Not as much as you'd think. I was the perfect mouthpiece for Ralph—an impeccably dressed sinner who could work the dirty but delicate business of press, while Ralph focused his Evangelical might on building a corporate empire.
In Ralph, I found the man who I thought could make my own political dreams come true, and in me, Ralph found the perfect minion. As long as we both held up each side of the bargain, it was a partnership made in heaven—no matter which Bible you thump. For six years, I accompanied Ralph on his various political missions, starting, stoking, and putting out fires wherever the need required. Some trips were more interesting than others.
Ari, whom you may also be unfamiliar with, was President George W. Bush's White House press secretary from 2000 to 2003. Notoriously tight-lipped and hostile to the press, he was at the helm during the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center. I knew him before he had become the stoic and unflappable mouthpiece for the leader of the free world, the voice of the president (did someone say WMDs?) during one of the most controversial moments in modern political history. I had met him on the job a few years prior, in the romantic state of Iowa. It was caucus time, I was unemployed, and the head of the Iowa Republican Party had called me and invited me to help out with press. Of course, I agreed—I was trying to set myself up for the next presidential campaign, and this represented a good networking opportunity.
All the Republicans in town were hanging out at a particular steak house—me included—and unbeknownst to me, a pre-Bush era Ari Fleischer had singled me out in the crowd. He asked a mutual friend of ours, a pollster called Tony, who I was. A couple of days later, Tony and I were talking and he casually recounted the conversation to me.
"Who's Ari?" I asked nonchalantly.
"Can I give him your number?" asked Tony, who was known in some circles as Tony the Rat.
I thought about it for a second. At the time, Ari was very important in political circles. He was working for Elizabeth Dole, and it was clear he was headed for great things.
"Okay. Give him my number."
Ari called and invited me to have dinner with him next time I was in DC. At the time, I was screwing around with the very dapper David Israelite, political director for the Republican National Committee. I really liked David, but he wasn't so into the whole girlfriend/boyfriend thing. So, what's a girl to do but move on to the next? It was not long after being told by David for the twentieth time that he didn't want a relationship that I announced "Okay, well, I'm going out with Ari." I found myself dining at the George Hotel restaurant with Mr. Fleischer soon after.
It would be marvelous if I could recall the details of what we ate, what I wore, the ambience, our wonderful conversation—but I can't. I was waist deep in martinis (extra olives). And as such, my memories are on the fuzzy side. You will notice that this is typical of my entire twenties. I do recall, however, that we went back to his town house apartment and got down and dirty like my martini. I think there might have been a porno involved, but I can't be sure. The next day, he drove me back to my hotel, and I wondered if he still wanted to date me. I mean, who would want to be with a bad girl like me? I thought, giggling to myself, and realizing—I didn't care one way or the other.
My next tryst with Ari took place in Atlanta, at my apartment. I had no chairs, no kitchen table, no couch—my monthly paycheck was always devoted to expanding my magnificent, some would say comprehensive, collection of Diane von Furstenberg cocktail dresses and Stuart Weitzman shoes. So, when Ari asked if he could come and stay with me (he had tickets to a baseball game in town), there really wasn't anywhere for him to sleep—except in my bed; I mean my mattress on the floor, with me. "Sure, why not?" I said. At the time, I was already working for Ralph Reed, and clearly, Ralph's saintly morals had yet to penetrate my press tart's armor. I went to the baseball game with Ari; we came home. At the time, I had no idea that that he was in negotiations to become George W. Bush's press secretary. Had I known, I probably would have screamed louder during the money shot.
He left town the next day, and soon after, got the job with George W. Bush, who had, coincidentally, tapped my boss, Ralph Reed, to rally the support of the religious right in his bid to become the Republican presidential nominee. The 2000 South Carolina primary would provide the backdrop for my third meeting with Ari. Tensions were running high in the two-horse race, between Bush and United States Senator John McCain (R-AZ). The primary war in the South had become civil, and when you pit brother against brother, things can get downright ugly. Rumors had begun to circulate about McCain's adopted child, suggesting that the kid was conceived Strom Thurmond–style: with a black woman. No one is sure where the rumors came from, and more than once, I've had to remind people that no, I don't know if it was Ralph who had planted the seed, because at the time I was busy helping Ari Fleischer spread his seed.
I'll just call Ari and see what he is doing, I thought, as soon as I arrived in Greenville, upstate South Carolina, for the primary. I was in my twenties and I thought it was pretty cool that I had George W. Bush's press secretary's number on my speed dial. (I'm not proud, just honest.) I had driven down there with Ralph, and Big Les, Ralph's fortysomething, ever loyal menopausal executive assistant. During the day, Ralph and I passed out George Bush literature and made friends with the locals at pancake-flipping contests. When he wasn't smiling and shaking hands, Ralph would be taking e-mails and calls from Karl Rove. And I'd be taking calls from Ari. Turns out, we were all staying in the same hotel. By further coincidence, Ari's room was right next to Ralph's.
"Come knock on my door when you get back," said Ari. As soon as I was sure that Ralph and his wife were in their room for the night, I tapped on Ari's door. I had had a cocktail or three—sometimes it's the only way to wind down after a long day on the campaign trail. Ari and I started kissing, and I felt giddy, giddy about the primary race, and high on the inappropriateness of the moment. I will say this—I was not keen on getting that room a-rocking, as I did not want Ralph or his wife to come a-knocking. As much as I knew politics could be a rough-and-tumble business, Ralph and his wife were right next door, and, well, Ralph had always been so good to me. Even though I didn't share his beliefs, I respected him, as an upholder of family values, as a brilliant speaker and academic, and as a boss I trusted to take my career where it needed to go.
Since audible sex was out of the question, I immediately headed south and took care of business. With each bob of my head, I considered my options.
"I won't sleep over," I said to myself as my head descended.
"Okay, I will sleep over, but I'll leave before Ari wakes up," I said on the ascend.
"But I will leave while Ari is asleep," I promised on a more rapid decline.
When it was clear that my job was done (if you know what I mean and I think you know what I mean), I fell asleep and awoke as early as I had ever gotten up, around 5:30 A.M. only to find Ari already out of bed, scanning the day's newspapers to prepare himself and his candidate, the future president of the United States, for the day.
I was twenty seven, and Ari was forty. He was just one in a string of casual lovers of mine, the big difference being he also had the job I had dreamed of for so long—he was the White House press secretary. Après hummer, I tiptoed out into the hallway and made a dash for the room I was sharing with Big Les. I really hoped that Ralph didn't decide this would be a good time to take a stroll and catch me stumbling out of Ari's room, all red cheeks, bed head, and vodka breath. Even through my alcohol fog, I didn't want to let Ralph down.
Chapter Two
Tart, Interrupted
I was born Lisa Beth Schwartz in Los Angeles, California, second of three children to happily married Jewish parents. My mother, Marilyn, was a blond, petite, preschool teacher from the Midwest, a powerhouse whose diminutive stature belied her iron will. My father, Michael—tall, dark, and dashing—was my Superman. Funny, charismatic, and loved by all, if there had been Eskimos in LA, he would have been the one selling them ice.
We lived in the San Fernando Valley in a comfortable home in the suburban neighborhood of Canoga Park, neighbored by film producers, young families, and the occasional porn star. This being Los Angeles, showbiz regularly infiltrated everyday life—my older sister, Robyn, used to roller-skate with the late Dana Plato, the tragic child star who played Kimberly in Diff'rent Strokes, for example. I could have grown up a typical Jewish Valley Girl, saying things like "rad," convinced that Dweezil and Moonbeam were entirely appropriate names for offspring, but when I was six, my parents declared they had had enough of California, and moved us all—me, my sister Robyn and my baby brother, Scott—to our brand-new home in Arizona. My mom explained that the move was based on health issues, her really bad "allergies"—allergies, I learned, was another word for "mother-in-law." So we waved good-bye to the palm trees, the smog, and Dana Plato, and headed for the dry desert city of Phoenix.
We had been in Phoenix for just about a year when my father went on a business trip to Tennessee. My dad traveled often, and usually when he returned he would take us to Toys "R" Us where we each could pick out a toy. He would hold my mom's hand as we kids charged through the automatic sliding doors, I headed straight to the Barbie aisle, where I would have my new BFF picked out in under ten minutes. My big sister, on the other hand, lolly-gagged around the toy super store sometimes for two hours racking her brain, and my nerves, trying to pick her poison. But this time, he never came back from his business trip. There were three of them in the car when a drunk driver, being chased by the police after fleeing another accident, lost control of his vehicle, swerved over the median, and hit them head-on. I was seven years old.
Because I couldn't comprehend the notion of death, I conjured my own version of events—my dad was on an extended business trip, I told myself. Even after his funeral, I made myself believe that he was, in actual fact, traveling, as he so often did, and the reason he couldn't come home was because he had another family someplace else that he had to look after. He had chosen them over us. Meanwhile, my mother, newly widowed and a single parent to three children, did her best to shield us from the trauma of losing our father. She didn't skip a beat—even in the direct aftermath of my dad's death, it was business as usual. I didn't miss a ballet lesson, a horseback-riding lesson, or (unfortunately) a Hebrew class. I rarely saw her mourn—just once, I sat outside her bedroom door on the cold marble floor, listening to her reckon with God. Deep down, I knew that one day, I would have to accept that my dad, Michael, wasn't going to come back. But for most of my childhood, it was easier to believe that we were all playing a game of hide-and-seek, and that soon enough my dad would pop out from behind the sofa and yell, "Surprise!" and we'd be mad for a couple of days. Then life would go back to normal.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from LIFE OF THE PARTY by Lisa Baron Copyright © 2011 by Lisa Baron. Excerpted by permission of CITADEL PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Author's Note....................xiPrologue Red, White, and Booze....................1
Chapter 1 Holy Fuck....................5
Chapter 2 Tart, Interrupted....................12
Chapter 3 Pre Press Tart....................21
Chapter 4 Road Dirt and Fish Squirt....................33
Chapter 5 The Right Hand to God Knows What....................47
Chapter 6 Are You There, Godaphile? It's Me, Lisa....................52
Chapter 7 Holy Shit....................58
Chapter 8 Out of the Closet....................68
Chapter 9 Forgive Me, Mother, For I Have Sinned....................74
Chapter 10 I Suck....................80
Chapter 11 900-Foot Jesus....................88
Chapter 12 I Am That Kind of Girl....................97
Chapter 13 Pantily Clad....................105
Chapter 14 Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another?....................111
Chapter 15 Death by a Thousand Douchebags....................120
Chapter 16 Super Tramp....................128
Chapter 17 Running for Office with Scissors....................144
Chapter 18 "Ralph Loves Jews"....................155
Chapter 19 Game On....................161
Chapter 20 Meet the Press....................168
Chapter 21 Call Off the Dogma....................178
Chapter 22 The Vagina Monolog....................190
Chapter 23 My Burning Bush....................196
Chapter 24 Still Crazy After All These Years....................202
Chapter 25 Good Night and Good Luck....................210
Epilogue....................217
Acknowledgments....................219