Friday night, it was zydeco and cajun at Glen Echo, then salsa in Adams Morgan until the clubs closed. Saturday night it was Yong Hi Moon and Dai Uk Lee at Ionarts. So Sunday, Cerise and I just hung around the house – my house, of course, which can be just as entertaining as any nightclub or concert hall, if I dare say so myself. And, after a light lunch of free-range, grass fed lamb shanks braised in grape seed oil, Hawaiian elephant garlic, Breton gray sea salt and organic shallots, with a roasted pignoli, heirloom tomato, arugula, endive and radicchio salad featuring twenty-four year old Italian balsamic vinegar and high-country Abbruzzo olive oil infused with white truffles; my own, homemade Peruvian purple fingerling potato basil rosemary gnocchi in goat butter, accompanied by a mellow 1994 Bertrand Ambroise Nuits Saint Georges Les Vaucrains Premier Cru; and finished off with chilled, baked Blue Ridge white peaches in sauterne custard and frosty flutes of Dom Pérignon, we retired to the den to watch my high-definition director’s cut of Bernardo Bertolucci’s “Sheltering Sky.”
Released in 1992, “Sheltering Sky” continued, enriched and enhanced Bertolucci’s already titanic career as an auteur of cinematic art. The director’s cut Cerise and I were viewing was a personal gift from a former French Minister of Culture, and, well, let’s just say it contains all the French parts of a magnificent French motion picture which most Americans, even the ardent art house movie types, have never seen; and right where the beautiful, tragic, existentialist artiste is experiencing the soul-wrenching epiphany that will drive her in to the arms of her enigmatic, drop-dead handsome and maddeningly mysterious Tuareg rescuer-cum-captor, Cerise’s exquisite leg crept from her silk robe onto my thigh, her velvet hands sought surcease in the curve of by biceps and her angelic face turned toward mine, lips slightly parted, her huge cerulean eyes gazing at me, twin pools of passion, infinite in depth.
Then the phone rang. I ignored it. Who wouldn’t?
She froze, waiting. It rang again.
Cerise gave me a big long, lingering kiss, unashamedly adorning my cheek with the blood red mark of her lusty, fragrant lipstick. “If that [expletive] telephone rings again,” she whispered, “you either have to answer it or turn it off.”
Then it rang again. What could I do? I got up to check my caller ID. I have my land line configured to ring six times before rolling over, so I appreciated Cerise’s point, no doubt about it – but on the fourth ring, I saw the caller ID and realize that, despite the circumstances, I had to pick up. To ensure, however, that Cerise would realize I had not forsaken her sincere affection for something trivial, I put the den on speaker phone:
Tom: All right, go ahead.
Paisley: Tom? Are you there?
Tom: Me and Cerise. You interrupted us while we were right at that crucial scene in Bertolucci’s “Sheltering Sky.”
Paisley: Oh, you mean the part where the beautiful, tragic, existentialist artiste is experiencing the soul-wrenching epiphany that will drive her in to the arms of her enigmatic, drop-dead handsome and maddeningly mysterious Tuareg rescuer-cum-captor?
Cerise: Yeah, that one.
Paisley: Oh my God, Cerise, I am so sorry.
Cerise: That’s all right, you didn’t know, how could you?
Paisley: Thanks for being so understanding.
Cerise: You’re welcome, but, on the other hand, this had better be pretty God-damned important, or the next time I see you, girl, I swear I’m going to slap you right in the face.
Paisley: Oh, oh, Cerise, I am so, so, so, sorry, but oh, my God, yes, this is terribly important. As a matter of fact, it’s an awful lot like that scene in “Sheltering Sky,” because here I am, lost in a wilderness, and I’ve been rescued and/or taken captive by a savage presence with whom I have experienced an intense existential epiphany about which I am now engaged in a soul-shattering philosophical and moral maelstrom worthy of Ingmar Bergman!
Tom: Excuse me, but aren’t you in Denver, Colorado attending the Democratic National Convention as part of the grass-roots Obama team?
Paisley: Uh, yeah, why sure, of course.
Tom: That’s what I thought.
Paisley: Right. I’m here, in Denver, with the grass-roots Obama team, diligently preparing for the opening night of the Democratic National Convention; and your point is?
Tom: My point? You called me!
Paisley: Oh, [expletive]! I get it, Tom, I’m sorry, yes, okay, you don’t understand how anybody in a place like Denver could undergo what I just described, no matter what the [expletive] they were doing, much less making coffee, sending text messages, and monitoring blog traffic for Democratic wonks before some big stupid weenie-whacking party convention.
Tom: Essentially.
Paisley: Well Tom, you know, I’m very, very serious about your nephew.
Tom: And Jason’s crazy about you, Paisley, and, based on my experience with Jason, I’d say you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
Paisley: Really? Like what?
Cerise: Like before you two hooked up, Jason was a slacking, derelict loser on his way to life of either pulling lattes for people too dumb and lazy to make their own espresso or writing PHP for third-rate Web sites that sell male enhancement products. Now, we’re hoping he might go to college.
Tom: Furthermore, my brother Rob Roy, Jason’s mom Katje, and I are all sincerely grateful for the positive influence you have exerted on him. And, I might add, we also know you two haven’t seen each other in almost two weeks.
Paisley: And that matters?
Cerise: At your age, hell yes, it does. What happened, anyway? Did you get a crush on somebody out there in Denver? Is that what this is all about? Did you fall for some tall, rangy, sun-baked cowboy in hand-tooled rattlesnake boots who smells like sweat-soaked saddle leather?
Paisley: Oh, Jeez… now that you mentioned it, that does sound pretty yummy, but no, this guy’s not even from Colorado.
Tom: Oh – so it’s like you’re hanging around the convention crowd in Denver then?
Paisley: Absolutely. I haven’t seen a native Colorado person, whatever you call them – what is it, Coloradan?
Cerise: Coloradan.
Tom: Yeah, that’s it – Coloradan.
Paisley: Well, of course, I’ve seen them, but really, I haven’t actually had a conversation with one of them yet. But this guy, he’s sure no cowboy. Not even from the West.
Tom: The East, then?
Paisley: Very much so.
Cerise: East… coast?
Paisley: Ah… yes.
Tom: Member of the Obama grass-roots team staff?
Paisley: Uh… no.
Cerise: Listen, young lady, I know for a fact that Michelle Obama will scratch your eyes out if..
Paisley: No, no, it’s not that! I mean, Barack’s kind of cute, I know… but that goofy grin… and those ears… I’m so sure I could never get them out of my mind while we were… I mean… it would be like [expletive] Dumbo or something!
Tom: Christ Almighty on a crutch, Paisley, tell us you haven’t developed a crush on Joe Biden!
Paisley: Oh! No, no, no! Ah… uh… how… how could you have…
Cerise: Quit crying and answer Tom’s question!
Paisley: Yes! Yes! He’s so handsome! So eloquent! Urbane, suave, and sophisticated, yet earthy, humane and passionate! And his command of legislative process, his astounding insights on foreign policy – his incisive macroeconomic genius, his mastery of diplomacy and global tactics, and his encyclopedic knowledge of the Senate Rules! I swear, I never knew, I never even suspected, how incredibly magnetic, how charismatic, how fatally attractive Joe Biden could be, until I met him in person! When that happened, I was helpless! I… just got this feeling… starting at the base of my spine, rising up through my lower chakras, into an intense, overpowering, bright, glowing and totally ecstatic sensation in my womb! Tom, I can’t tell you why, but I want to have Joe Biden’s baby!
Cerise: You mean, you want a toddler who’s so in love with the sound of their own voice, not only will they refuse to stop talking, no matter what the situation; they will also say one ridiculous thing after another, causing you nothing but utter, irredeemable embarrassment, no matter what the circumstances?
Paisley: Huh?
Tom: I think what Cerise is trying to say, Paisley, is that if you did, in fact, have Joe Biden’s baby, that kid would totally drive you nuts and probably ruin your life.
Paisley: Really? How come?
Tom: Because the child would have FIMD.
Paisley: FIMD?
Tom: Foot-in-mouth disease. It’s hereditary, progressive and incurable, and Joe Biden is an FIMD gene carrier. It’s DNA is completely dominant, and gets that way in a very insidious manner.
Paisley: What’s that?
Tom: It bores the other the genes to death, replicates, then takes over their places in the phenotype.
Paisley: Is is rare?
Tom: In the general population, yes, but, on the other hand, over half the current members of the United States Senate are carriers.
Paisley: John McCain?
Tom: Sadly, yes.
Paisley: And Barack Obama?
Tom: Sure. Can’t you tell?
Paisley: Then Hillary Clinton has it, too?
Cerise: If you don’t believe it, girl, wait until she gives her speech to the convention.
Tom: But you have to understand, Paisley, that McCain, Obama and Clinton, they know and understand their disability, and, consequently, they can control it – most of the time, anyway. Biden, however, has been in denial about his condition from the very beginning, and the result, unfortunately, has been an unending, increasing, uncontrolled spiral of FIMD incidents throughout his political career.
Paisley: Really? How bad has it been?
Cerise: Well, for instance, during the 2006 confirmation hearings for Supreme Court Justice Samuel Alito, Biden prattled away for over ten minutes before he managed ask Alito one single question. Then he spent thirty minutes regaling everyone with tales of his Grandfather Finnegan, his son’s application to Princeton and what he thought about Dianne Feinstein’s new eyeglasses.
Tom: And then there was that time he told an African American audience that he knew Obama had gotten tested for AIDS.
Cerise: Or the time when he told an overwhelmingly white audience in Iowa the reason that Iowa children score higher on scholastic achievement tests is “Here’s less than one percent of the population of Iowa that is African American. There is probably less than four or five percent that are minorities. What is it in Washington, DC? So look, it goes back to what you start off with, what you’re dealing with.”
Tom: Then there’s the huge vault of Biden quotes knocking Obama, all accumulated within the last three years.
Paisley: What did he say about Obama?
Cerise: He said he doubts whether American voters are going to elect “a one-term guy who has served for four years in the Senate.”
Tom: He said that the more people learn about Obama, the more their support for him will evaporate.
Cerise: He told voters in Iowa that Obama’s empty slogans are no match for action like his.
Tom: And he said all kinds of stuff about Iraq, too, and every statement shows that he swallowed the Bush Administration’s deceptions – hook, line and sinker.
Cerise: Paisley, you’re smart enough to realize that the Republicans can’t wait to pull every one those statements out and put them in McCain campaign advertisements. Did you know that the Los Angeles Times called Biden a “gaffe machine?” Did you know that, right now, there’s a clip of Biden on YouTube where he insults Indian-Americans, saying “In Delaware, the largest growth in population is Indian-Americans moving from India. You cannot go to a 7-Eleven or a Dunkin’ Donuts unless you have a slight Indian accent.” Oh, sure, it’s obvious he’s trying to pay the Indian-American community a compliment, but it comes off sounding like a moronic racial slur. There’s another one, where he’s trying to explain his position on racial relations to the South Carolina electorate, where he literally brags that Delaware was a slave state, too, and should have fought on the Confederate side, but “we couldn’t figure out how to get to the South, because there were a couple of other states in the way.” Then there’s the one where he accuses Rudolph Giuliani and Dennis Kucinich of believing in flying saucers; the one where he calls gun owners mentally unbalanced; and the one where he insults African-Americans by saying that Obama is the first black presidential candidate who is “articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.”
Tom: And then there’s that gem from back in 2000, when he told a bunch of laid-off airline workers. “I hope you will support my work on Amtrak as much as I have supported you; if not, I will screw you badly.”
Paisley: And all these things, they’re symptoms of FIMD?
Cerise: Damn straight, girlfriend. Consider this – when asked to describe, in twenty-five words or less, why Democrats should nominate him, Biden took forty-one words to answer. And what’s more, you have to realize, Paisley, that Biden’s been exhibiting frank and fulminating FIMD for at least twenty years. As long ago as 1987, during his presidential campaign back then, in a C-SPAN interview, he insulted his interviewer by claiming that he, Joe Biden, obviously had a higher IQ than his interlocutor, and then proceeded to make up a pack of ridiculous lies about his academic record to “prove” that his absurd rant was “true.” What’s more, just yesterday, the RNC launched a “Biden gaffe clock” to document the exact time and place of every Biden FIMD incident between now and Election Day.
Tom: And he’s already managed one – he called Obama “Barack America!” Like he’d totally drawn a blank on his running mate’s last name!
Cerise: And on top of all that, the guy steals other people’s speeches.
Paisley: Plagiarism?
Cerise: He stole a British politician’s life story speech, changed the details to fit himself, and presented it as his own life story.
Paisley: So, is committing plagiarism a symptom of FIMD?
Tom: No, committing plagiarism is a symptom of a sociopathic personality. But there are other things to consider, Paisley. If you do have Biden’s baby, you’ll have to appear on Larry King Live, The View, Good Morning America, and The Oprah Winfrey Show, after which, you will never, ever be able to get a serious job on Capitol Hill.
Paisley: Hey, wait a minute! They can’t make me…
Cerise: Listen, honey, if you’re having Joe Biden’s baby and you don’t go on those shows and tell all… and I do mean everything, then the National Enquirer will come after you, and you’ll end up on the cover, sandwiched in between reports of the Loch Ness Monster kidnapping nuns and accounts of how Britney trashed her latest rehab center, right there in the checkout line at Food Lion, which, by the way, you will have absolutely no trouble finding – because that will be the only place left in America that will hire you!
Paisley: Uh, Tom?
Tom: Yes?
Paisley: Does Jason have any, like, hereditary problems?
Tom: Unless you count being descended from an eccentric bartender who named all his children after his favorite cocktails, no.
Paisley: Okay, then, I guess… when I see Joe Biden coming, I’ll just look the other way.
Cerise: Good strategy.
Tom: Yeah – it’s just too damn bad Barack Obama didn’t think of it.