Fitting that it begins in Hawaii where my wife and I spent our honeymoon island hopping, slurping pineapples thousands of miles away from the hustle and bustle of New York City in a land where whales run and the day is driven by the sun.
After two healthy weeks, we took the red-eye from Kauai to L.A. where our friend Amber picked us up and drove us to her beautiful home where we were able to sleep in her guest room. We woke up and had a casual breakfast with her husband Jess and our mutual friends Allison and Tobin before going to the California Democratic Presidential Debate where Amber's father, the producer of the event, was able to get us past the security and the Hollywood Boulevard shouts of
Go Tell Ya Mama/Vote For Obama. Tobin and Allison had made up their mind for Obama, but it was still early -- Hillary was out in front and John Edwards had just dropped out due to his extramarital affair with his hundred-dollar haircut.
Lucky for us the row of seats reserved for the Edward's family became available and we were seated directly behind Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw, a few rows ahead of Brandy and Quentin Tarantino. Across the isle sat Pierce Brosnan, who my wife couldn't stop gawking at until Leonardo DiCaprio showed up and I found myself gawking, too.
Hillary owned the first half, espousing on healthcare and really coming off strong. Obama seemed tenative, but gentlemanly. I recall Wolf Blitzer asking him if Hillary would be on his short-list for potential V.P. candidates and Obama said coolly that Hillary would be on any one's short-list. I recall Wolf saying that would be a dream ticket and while the crowd sent forth its approval, Stevie Wonder got out of his chair and jumped up and down.
In the second half, the question on Iraq came up and this eloquent man put words to the feelings in my heart that I could not. He reminded me of the time when I saw Eric Clapton play at Madison Square Garden. I remember saying something to the effect of
he's no God just when he hit a note that sent a shock up my spine and caused me to spill my beer all over my lap. I was transported far beyond the earthly boundaries I've come to know. Barack Obama caused the same reaction and when the debate was over, my mind was made up.
We went across the street to the after party at the Roosevelt Hotel. I had been there a few years before on a random weekday in October and there was only a handful of people by the poolside bar. I imagined what the place must have been like in the days of Gable and Grant. Now I knew. The patio was swarming with people and Topher Grace and Fran Drescher bumped into me while Tobin, Jess and I ordered mixed drinks of Grey Goose and Red Bull. There were passed hors d'oeuvres, but in true L.A. fashion no one ate them.
Toward the end of the event I made a bet with Jess that Obama would win the election. There was no doubt in my mind even though the early returns showed Hillary had won the debate and held a comfortable lead in the polls, but I felt it in my bones, just like I felt the Giants were going to upset the Patriots in Sunday's Super Bowl.
Once the bartenders made last call, Tobin and I ordered a final round and I declared that I was going to dive in the pool. Then I realized the D.J. was playing
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow and I went over to him and said, "Yo, man, you've gotta play an Obama song -- this is a Clinton song!" The D.J. looked at me and said, "What's an Obama song?" I thought for a second and said, "
Changes by David Bowie." He switched the record immediately and I slid out of my shoes and handed my blazer to Tobin. I got some good amplitude off the brick patio before plunging below the CNN balloons and out the other side where security was gathering around holding their ear-pieces and pistols and motioning for me to get out of the pool. They thought I was some jackass, but the dive was premeditated upon arrival and fueled by memories of Kauai.
In fact after I made my bet with Jess, I told Dave Chappelle's publicist that I would jump in the pool if Dave Chappelle told me to. I offered to plunge into the big CNN balloon with a butter knife and slide down into the water as an homage to Errol Flynn in
The Sea Hawk. She asked me to hold the thought while she checked with Dave. She came back and said, "Dave Chappelle can't officially tell you to jump in the pool, but he did tell me, off the record, he wouldn't mind seeing it happen."
The water was warm and because it was Hollywood, I hammed it up for the crowd with a leisurely backstroke before climbing out of the pool. The lead security guard realized I was no threat and in an unspoken nod he let me address the crowd, so I threw my arms in the air as high I could in a soaked dress shirt and shouted "Obama" in a scratchy voice before being led out to the parking lot.
My wife said she had her back turned when she heard the splash, but knew instinctively that it was me and was able to track me down by my soggy footprints. When she saw me in the parking lot, she belted out, "There's my shame!".
I had asked the guards for towels and they said there weren't any available. I found that odd as we were standing by a pool outside a hotel. Then I dropped the name of the party's host and was instantly given a stack of plush towels. Ah, L.A. Tobin appeared shortly thereafter with my shoes and blazer and we all piled in a cab that was waiting for us with its heat cranked up.
The next morning we went for brunch at Barney's Beanery and there was a valley girl at the table behind us recounting a fabulous party she had been to at the Roosevelt the night before. I was ready to cringe at the mention of someone going in the pool, but luckily it didn't come up.
Jackie and I returned home late Saturday and, of course, the very next day the Giants pulled off the impossible by beating the Patriots. When the last second ticked off the clock, I ran out on 14th Street in Brooklyn and took off my shirt as if I was still in Hawaii running into the surf at Kaanapali before kissing the ground. Much like Obama, I bet heavy on the Giants, too.
