by Stacey Dash
“Yeah, leave us alone,” Kristen laughed. “We’re sitting here talking girl stuff in our mutual adoration society.”
I had a great time with Kristen, until we departed to head out to another venue. When our driver pulled onto 11th Avenue in Chelsea, I realized we were heading to the legendary Bungalow 8. This exclusive club—a frequent hangout for celebrities—was marked outside the door only with a neon sign flashing, “No Vacancy.” The sign was meant to camouflage the club. This was not a place you happen to walk by and decide to pop in. This was for people in the know, and just a subset of those people. The line outside the door indicated that the club was hard to get into, so the sign took on a different meaning.
The guy at the door held people in the line back, judging their clothes and appearance with a tilted head. You could tell it was more than a job for him. Supposedly, he knew every person who walked through that door, and could tell you what everyone was wearing the last time they dared to enter . . . no matter how long it had been.
“Sorry folks,” I overheard him say to a couple of well-dressed women as we cruised by. “No more room tonight.”
This place was popular because lots of stuff went down here. You may have heard the rumors about Bungalow 8. This is where you might see Lindsay Lohan get too frisky on the dance floor or Paris Hilton bursting into tears on her cell phone. If a celeb had too much to drink, Bungalow 8 wouldn’t necessarily call a cab. Instead, they might arrange for him or her to leave via helicopter from the helipad they had on top of the roof.
I know this was supposed to impress me, but seriously . . . who gives a shit?
We were whisked past the ropes and the lines of perfumed people. Russell smiled at the guy at the door without stopping. The club was decorated with potted palm trees, zebra-striped couches, and sparkly disco balls. The walls were painted yellow, patterned after the Beverly Hills Hotel. Apparently photography was forbidden—what happened at Bungalow 8 was supposed to stay at Bungalow 8. The club owners treated their celebrities with the ultimate discretion, so that it felt like old Hollywood.
The stars were out that night. At the first table full of people, George Clooney was holding court—telling stories and making everyone laugh. We joined them, including several other celebrities, and chatted and danced to Donna Summer songs.
“Anyone seen anything good on Twitter lately?” George said. Everyone started giggling behind their hands and then laughing outright.
I shot him a glance, but I realized he was just joking with me. The New York Times reporter who happened to be there didn’t understand gentle trash-talking.
“So you’re not willing to explain why you support Mitt?” the writer followed up, after I didn’t take the bait.
“Yeah, I tweeted my support of Romney,” I said, “And then I went on to Piers Morgan and backed it up. If you’d like to Google it you can see for yourself.”
“But why?” he asked again.
“No, no, no,” I said. “I’m not having this conversation here.”
“She’d rather be having it out in a deer stand,” Russell said. “She’s a big hunter, you know.”
“Did you kill that thing you’re wearing right now?” the reporter asked.
“If you’re asking if I believe in hunting and the Second Amendment,” I said. “Then, yes, I do.” I noticed the DJ had finally stopped playing 70s music and switched to top 40. I would’ve rather gone out on the dance floor at that moment, but I was being grilled.
“Like, in the same way the NRA does?”
I scrolled through the photos on my iPhone. I found one of me at my ex’s ranch out west, holding up a pheasant. “Does this answer your question?”
“That literally makes me want to puke,” Russell said, which made me laugh.
“I like to hunt, I wear fur, I don’t believe in welfare, I don’t believe in the NAACP, and I don’t believe in the Muslim Brotherhood,” I said, my voice rising. “What else do you think is wrong with me? Let’s get it all out.”
“I just don’t get it,” Russell said, pouring me more champagne.
“What’s not to get?” I said, beginning to feel exasperated. Up until this point, I had managed to answer the questions easily without getting too offended. But by this time, it was feeling personal, like they had cornered me. Russell was saying, “How could you support a guy who wants to turn the cabinet room into a board room and sell America off to his rich friends? All the while, he’s stashing their money in offshore bank accounts.”
If this were in church, you would’ve heard some amens. But since it was in a bar in Chelsea, people just looked baffled as Russell continued.
“He’s a guy who hasn’t told the truth to the American people about where he stands on the important issues and will turn back equality for women, blacks, Latinos, and gays. I could certainly go on and on.”
“You actually have been going on and on,” I said. “Ever since I got in your fucking car.”
“All I want to say is that Money Mitt works for the corporations.”
“Your arguments are all bullshit . . . and half of America agrees with me,” I said. “Tax breaks will entice the rich to invest in this economy and privatizing the social services like healthcare, education, and even social security will make it competitive, making them more responsible.”
At this everyone just laughed, as if I’d made a joke. We’d had too many drinks to have a serious discussion.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “Aren’t you worth over $300 million? Suddenly, you’re angry at other people who have made it?”
“Because I’m rich, I can’t have opinions?”
“You can’t try to discredit Mitt, when you might actually be richer than he is,” I said. “At least before you started bankrolling Obama’s campaign?”
“She’s got you there,” George said. At this, the table erupted with laughter. Everyone knew “Uncle Russ” was rich as hell, and I think George loved seeing me put Russell in his place.
“I’m not having a political conversation with a bunch of drunks,” I said, as I tipped back my flute. “Me included.”
It was a challenging night—filled with arguing and accusations. But I was used to it. In Clueless, I had a line that always caused laughter in the theaters. My character Dionne is waiting to play tennis, when a classmate complains about having to participate in the athletic activities in phys ed.
“My plastic surgeon says to avoid activities where balls fly at your face,” she complains.
“There goes your social life,” I quip. I’ve always loved the script of that movie, and that was my favorite line by far. To this day, fans come up to me, say that line, and it cracks me up.
In a way, as I sat there with my friends, I felt that sentiment.
Dare to speak out about a hotly contested presidential election? When you’re black? When you’re an actress? When you’re a woman?
There goes your social life.
My evening was a perfect demonstration of how hard it is for one side to really understand the other. I think Hollywood feels more comfortable welcoming directors who are accused pedophiles, famous actresses who are also thieves, boxers who are convicted rapists, directors who push cocaine, rappers who sell heroin, singers who solicit prostitutes, and actors who beat up their women than a Republican into their midst. In fact, people who fit into those categories still enjoy the professional adoration of their peers in Hollywood, even amidst the suspicion and guilt. It’s like the only thing that can really ruin your reputation as a celebrity is to come out as a Republican.
Why does liberalism have such a stranglehold on Hollywood?
Because literally everyone they know is just like them. For all their talk of “diversity,” the people in Hollywood only like diversity if it’s skin-deep. They love to create friend groups that include blacks, whites, different ethnicities, and gays. But if the “diversity” extends to anything more than sexual preferences and skin color, they don’t know what to do. The “diversity” in Hollywood i
s the easy kind—getting along with people who think and act exactly like you. That’s why they didn’t know how to categorize me when I spoke out against their deeply held beliefs. They like easy-to-digest “diversity,” and I was making them think.
Yes, there are exceptions. But you can name secret—or in a few cases, not-so-secret—conservatives on two hands. Republicans have a few Hollywood stars—Clint Eastwood, Dwayne Johnson, Donald Trump, Adam Sandler, Jon Voight, Gene Simmons, Vince Vaughn, Patricia Heaton, Bruce Willis, and Stephen fucking Baldwin. Democrats have just about everyone else.
Like, everyone.
Democratic donors include Sting, Madonna, Alec Baldwin, Cameron Diaz, Matt Damon, Tom Hanks, and Bruce Springsteen. In 2011, celebs including Will Smith, Jack Black, Eva Longoria, Magic Johnson, Quincy Jones, and Danny DeVito attended a $35,800-per-plate fundraiser for Obama. At the Soul Train Awards, Jamie Foxx got so drunk on Obama’s Kool-Aid that he called the president “our lord and savior.”
Not to be outdone, comedian Chris Rock came out and said, “I am just here to support the President of the United States. President of the United States is, you know, our boss. He’s also, you know, the president and the first lady are kinda like the mom and the dad of the country and when your dad says something, you listen.”
I think Chris may have skipped a few civics lessons. In a self-governing society, the people are the “boss” of the so-called political leadership. There’s a reason why the office is one of “president” and not “king.” Or “dad,” I suppose.
Russell, of course, was all in for Obama too. He designed a shirt for Obama’s campaign in 2008 and another in 2012. He hosted fundraising events, tweeted out support, and advocated for the campaign. Right before the election, he hosted a mixtape called Yes We Can (you can’t make this shit up) featuring Talib Kweli, Kanye West, Wale, Busta Rhymes, and others. Hollywood’s richest director, Steven Spielberg, donated $100,000 to the Obama campaign. Sarah Jessica Parker and Anna Wintour co-hosted a fundraiser for him in the West Village. DreamWorks Animation CEO Jeffrey Katzenberg donated $2 million to an Obama Super PAC; Bill Maher donated $1 million; Harvey Weinstein was one of Obama’s biggest bundlers.
I have no idea how they can actually criticize Mitt for being wealthy, but they somehow managed to do it with a straight face.
In fact, I’d say the “Hollywood elite” like the people sitting at Bungalow 8 that night were Obama’s main weapon in 2012. But their mindless devotion to him contradicts the way they actually live.
For example, Russell got physically ill over my dead pheasant photo, but do you think for one second he got sick at the ultra violent movies his best friends make? After all, there’s more gun violence in an hour on American movie, television, and computer screens than in the entire United States in a year. I think these movies are awesome because they’re just one big gun ad for the NRA after another. You’d think these stars would be the most pro-gun, pro-NRA people in the nation. Instead, they hate the NRA with more fervor than they hate al Qaeda—and frequently compare the two. They advocate for tighter gun restrictions, demand terrorists get out of Gitmo, and walk around with armed bodyguards.
And it never occurs to them that what they’re doing on screen might actually contribute to the gun violence they claim to hate. (Oh yeah, I should add that Jamie Foxx’s movie Django Unchained debuted a month after he called Obama his savior. It somehow managed to have sixty-four grisly deaths in a mere 165 minutes.)
And don’t get me started on this “green” trend.
The Hollywood elite have gigantic homes, luxury SUVs, exotic sports cars, and live in thirty-thousand-square-foot mansions with infinity pools. They fly in private jets across the globe—sometimes just for lunch. (Oh, and at Bungalow 8, of course, they might have avoided the paparazzi by taking the helicopter home.) In other words, their carbon footprint is bigger than Sasquatch’s, but they get on social media and try to shame average Americans for doing basic things like heating their homes.
Please.
Have you ever noticed how environmentally disrespectful a typical action movie is? When Will Smith is filmed in car chases and explosions that create pillars of black smoke damaging the ozone layer, do you think he is lecturing the producers about their lack of environmentalism?
Of course he isn’t.
What’s okay for Obama super-bundler Will is not okay for normal Americans. He can do whatever he wants—and earn tens of millions of dollars doing it—but he’s supporting politicians who will shame us into so-called “high efficiency” toilets, driving Priuses, and installing solar panels . . . which, by the way, no one can afford.
And here’s the most hypocritical thing of all. No one even really films in Hollywood anymore. Sure, sitcoms that can be easily made in studios are still produced in California. But dramas—which sometimes cost $3 million per episode—are being filmed anywhere but California.
Why?
Because the taxes are too damn high.
Everything used to be shot there—the enormous state of California offers so many different types of terrain that almost any type of geography could be mimicked well enough to work on screen. But now only 8 percent of filming is done in California, and even the shows set in California are being filmed in Florida. Why? States have gotten smart and offered tax exemptions and incentive programs to production companies. The production companies have gotten smart and moved their shows to these low-tax states.
As director Michael Corrente said, “Hey, you know what? Studio executives? They’d shoot a movie on Mars if they could get a 25 percent tax break.” USA Today writer Sharon Silke Carty wrote, “The gypsy-like movie industry . . . roams from place to place to find the best locations—and best deals.”
But wait just a minute. I thought the Hollywood elites don’t mind high taxes? Well, they certainly hire the best tax attorneys in the world to make sure they pay as little to the government as possible. And then, when the rubber meets the road, they know what everyday Americans already know: it’s better to put money into business than into the bloated federal government’s pocket. The bottom line is that they don’t mind if you pay high taxes. They just don’t want to pay them themselves.
But here’s the problem. The people I was hanging with at Bungalow 8 are what the culture deems “cool.” In fact, they even determine “cool” for the rest of America. No one better epitomizes this than Russell, the godfather of hip-hop. As Jason Mattera pointed out, “the only group powerful enough publicly to resuscitate and resurrect Obama’s 2008 mass popularity is the mob of Hollywood Leftists who got him elected the first time.”
At Bungalow 8, amongst the “cool” mob of liberal Hollywood elites hell-bent on supporting the Democratic Party, I realized that our nation was in trouble and vowed to do what it takes to fight back.
But not that night. I drained my glass and went back out onto the dance floor. The election was still a month away, and I wanted to have fun during my one night in New York.
THREE
WHY BLACK PEOPLE SHOULD VOTE REPUBLICAN EVERY TIME
An error does not become a mistake until you refuse to correct it.
—John F. Kennedy Jr., quoting Orlando Battista in the Montreal Gazette
The hallway was decorated for fall.
Artwork tacked on the walls included scarecrows made from corn, lopsided grins on autumn leaves, and turkeys made out of handprints . . . little, sweet prints of hands that won’t stay small for long. As I meandered to pick up Lola, I realized my night in New York had been just that—a great television appearance, a night with friends that lasted until the wee hours, and way too much Grey Goose vodka and soda with lime. Now, as I walked through the hallways of my daughter’s school back in California, I was back in “mommy mode.” Normal life.
A black woman came up behind me and grabbed my arm, startling me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” she laughed. “You’re safe here. We have a secret handsha
ke.”
“Okaaaay,” I said, though I had no idea what she was talking about.
When she saw the puzzled look on my face, she leaned closer and whispered, “I’m a Republican, too.”
If I wanted my party affiliation to be secret, I wouldn’t have gone on national television, I thought. I smiled through gritted teeth and yanked free of her grasp.
A secret handshake? Ridiculous.
I went to pick up Lola from class, and she flashed me that bright smile when she saw me. I love that girl. I’d rather spend a lifetime holding her hand and chatting about her days than listening to celebrities self-righteously talk about how they’re saving the world by their choice of lightbulbs—before they take off in their helicopters. She grabbed her backpack and ran into my arms.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“I’m going to be in a choir!” she gushed. But before I could hear the whole story, another mom—also black—came up to me.
“I just wanted to congratulate you for speaking out,” she said. “I saw you on television, and you did a great job. We Republicans need to stick together.”
She said the word “Republicans” as if she were coming out of the closet, but only to me. I had no idea she was a conservative, though I’d seen her around the school for months. I got the impression that she didn’t want any of her uppity California friends to find out either.
But here’s the thing. Our black brothers and sisters fought too hard for equal rights for us to sit back and hide. Or worse, to let white people like Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi, and Bill Clinton tell us how to think. And certainly our black brothers and sisters fought too hard for equal rights for us to sit back and let black people like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson tell us how to vote.
No.
It’s time for all black people to get out of the political shackles that have kept us down and to rethink our blind political allegiance to the Democratic Party. In fact, black people should vote Republican every single time. ESPN commentator Stephen A. Smith—who was raised in Queens—spoke about the detriment of the black vote belonging to the Democratic Party:
