America, You Sexy Bitch (14 page)

Then, six hours later . . .

 

Omar the Anarchist:
Hows your night

 

The anarchist could meet up with us but doesn’t want to get up off his ass to do so. This conversation is probably the best example of why anarchy has never really worked. They apparently cannot organize themselves enough to even explain why they don’t want a government, let alone overthrow it.
Dictionary.com
’s definition of anarchy reads: “A theory that regards the absence of all direct or coercive government as a political ideal and that proposes the cooperative and voluntary association of individuals and groups as the principal mode of organized society.” Omar pretty much
summed up what I would expect from a so-called anarchist in Salt Lake City. I assume he just calls himself an anarchist because it sounds cool and is a way of rebelling against the straightlaced ways of his surroundings.

 

Michael:
I don’t know if Meghan is at all insulted that “the blonde” is not his type. Not that Omar is
her
type, but still it’s nice to feel pursued even when the pursuer is a dolt. Whatever the reason, she is kind of dour during dinner. This is the first time I’ve seen Meghan shut down, and it worries me a bit.

She really is a hot mess. One minute, she is the life of the party: tossing twenties at strippers, knocking back shots, whooping and hollering. But the next she can be quiet, demure, and a little sullen. When we walk into the restaurant where we’re meeting our hosts, I notice that she immediately clams up. It’s one of those nouveau American joints where specials are written on chalkboards and liberals come to swirl wine around in long-stemmed glasses. In fact, our hosts are good Dems one and all. We are dining with—stay with me here because this gets a little complicated—Stephie’s dad’s sister’s husband’s cousin and the cousin’s friends. In other words, I don’t know who the hell these people are, but they are gracious hosts and good conversationalists.

Most interesting are the friends: Patrice Arent is a Democratic Utah state legislator and her husband, Dave, is some sort of investment guy who is also former LDS. Patrice is Jewish and I think Dave converted to Judaism when they married. Needless to say, there aren’t a lot of Utah Jews, but Patrice’s family moved here a century ago, back when it was still rough and tumble and didn’t have nearly as many nouveau American wine bars, so she considers herself as much a native as anybody.

There’s a lot of small talk about our trip, but Meghan remains strangely subdued. She excuses herself to go to the bathroom and is away for about ten minutes. It occurs to me that, after almost a week together, I am learning for the first time that Meghan McCain
is
shy.
Especially, I will learn, around Democrats. When she returns to the table, she gives one-word answers to questions about the trip.

“How’s it going so far?”

“Fine.”

“Are you learning anything interesting?”

“Yes.”

She mumbles and spends a lot of time studying the menu. What happened to the old Meghan? Party Meghan? I miss Meggy Mac, a nickname bestowed upon her by her friends, which she
hates.
This new, nervous-as-a-fawn Meghan is just kind of wigging me out.

Eventually she gets a Bud Light or two into her and relaxes into the conversation a bit, but I am struck by how the tough blond chick I believed myself to be traveling with is a lot more sensitive than I had assumed.

“You okay?” I ask her at one point.

“Fine.” She smiles at me, but I find myself worrying about her throughout the meal. Shit: did I just adopt a little sister?

 

Meghan
: During dinner I don’t have much to say. Before you jump to any conclusions about Omar the Anarchist, the short answer is that I can be shy. The weirdest part about Michael is the fact that I get the impression he has never been around a woman like me before. I do not know the kind of women he surrounds himself with other than his lovely wife, but he seems perplexed when I start turning into a three-dimensional person.

Stephie’s family friends are more than lovely and I have a nice time at dinner. It is awkward for me, however, to meet new people who within the first few minutes of conversation start talking about how in the last election cycle “they were inspired for the first time in their lives to volunteer and get involved in a meaningful way.” Listen, everyone is entitled to their opinions and political beliefs. I never understand, however, when people seem to want to go out of their way to tell me how inspired they were by Obama,
or how much they hated Sarah Palin, or really anything of that matter.

It’s not that I didn’t like our hosts; I always just feel less inclined to be conversational when someone opens a new conversation after we meet by talking about how President Obama is the messiah. My last name is McCain, my father is one of the most famous politicians in America, and I should be used to people being insensitive without meaning to be, but a lot of times it just makes me introverted.

Also, I was exhausted and still a little hung over. Like I said, they were perfectly nice people who were extremely welcoming to Michael and me; it just wasn’t the most “on” I have been over dinner, which apparently came to Michael as quite a surprise. Lots of things throughout the trip would come as a surprise to Michael. Like the fact that I don’t like to leave the house (even to get on an RV) without makeup on. Things like that, that honestly I think are pretty normal for a lot of women, would shock Michael. I freely admit I am not the most low-maintenance woman, but it was like Michael had never met a woman in her twenties who was on television from time to time.

 

Michael:
After dinner, we go to Patrice and Dave’s house for some more conversation about Utah politics. Patrice is circumspect when the subject of the Mormon church comes up. She has to work with them in the legislature, after all, and does not want to accidentally say anything that could come back to bite her in the derriere. Dave has no such constraints, and expresses his opinions about church leadership a little more freely than she might like. Being former LDS himself, he’s got a lot of opinions.

Patrice is the first politician we meet on the road (Meghan’s mom doesn’t count because she’s not technically a politician), and I have to say I am struck by Patrice’s decency and sense of purpose. She is somebody who practices politics because she believes she can make a positive difference in her community. She’s not sleazy or
condescending or self-important. She just kind of seems like a mom.

I sit out on the porch with Dave listening to him talk about LDS member Glenn Beck and the White Horse Prophecies, which Joseph Smith preached and which state that “the Constitution will be hanging by a thread, and they [elders of the LDS] will be the ones who save it.” I ask him what that means. What does it mean to “save the Constitution?” He doesn’t have a good answer for me, but it sounds uncomfortably like the X-Men swooping in to save the world.

Meghan is more at ease now, and she joins us out there along with everybody else. We stay up late talking about the things every American—Mormon, Jew, atheist, anarchist—talks about: baseball, music, family, and friends. It’s a good night, all of us enjoying the warm air and the big Rocky Mountains off in the distance.

We are up early the next morning to catch a flight to Austin, where we will spend a day with more of Meghan’s friends and finally meet up with Cousin John.

“I can’t wait,” says Meghan. She has been looking forward to meeting Cousin John for weeks now, ever since Stephie interviewed him by phone for the driver job. He’s Meghan’s cousin’s cousin, a former rafting guide from Tennessee who now lives in Aspen, Colorado. None of us has met him in person, but as far as we are concerned, he has three qualifications for the job:

I will not name the comedian, but as soon as he tells Stephie this nugget during their phone interview (unprompted, by the way, and certainly not in response to that standard interview question, “Have you ever had an orgy with a famous comedian?”), Stephie responds with the only two-word phrase she can possibly say: “You’re hired.”

Meghan has been talking about Cousin John ever since Stephie relayed the interview story to her. She is buzzing to meet him. I worry. Cousin John could either be an amazing addition to our little group or an incredible mistake.

 

 

 

Meghan:
I love Texas. I know, it seems like I love it everywhere, which is kind of true. I really love America, especially red states, and I really love everything about Texas. I don’t mean this to come off like a cliché; you know, American girl loves America, but it’s true. I spent so much time on the road during my father’s campaign that I came to fall in love with America and Americans in a big way.

Texas is still very much the Wild West and not a hugely different culture from Arizona, so it’s second nature for me to like the independent, God-fearing, freedom-loving stereotypes that abound here. In particular, I love people who “cling to their guns and religion,” as President Obama so famously said (and then backtracked from) while campaigning for president. I love unapologetic attitudes, unabashed patriotism, long-neck beers, longhorn beef, big hair, big makeup, giant Ford trucks with THESE COLORS DON’T RUN bumper stickers, Second Amendment rights supporters, and pretty much every Texas stereotype that exists. It’s a culture I’m familiar with and understand. I also think it’s a culture that is gravely misunderstood and poorly portrayed by many in the media.

Michael hates Texas, and I had suggested going to some cities other than Austin, but because of scheduling issues, it wasn’t possible. Also, Michael is much more comfortable in hipster-friendly cities and Austin is one of the best. Don’t get me wrong; I love Austin as well, but it isn’t exactly representative of the culture within the majority of the state.

 

Michael:
My generosity as an American citizen is probably at its lowest when discussing Texas. I have been known, on occasion, to refer to the entire state as a shithole. Not because I actually believe that, but because Texans are so inordinately proud of being Texans that I sometimes feel the desire—more like a
need,
actually—to do my part to deflate those Texas-sized egos, even if it’s just the teeniest bit.

The Lone Star State has an attitude unlike any other in the union because Texans have never really, truly believed themselves to be part of the union at all. In fact, from 1836 to 1845, Texas was actually the Republic of Texas, a freestanding country. Sure they joined the union, but I’ve always had the feeling that Texans sort of consider themselves to be slumming as Americans. For proof, you don’t need to look any further than the Texas state flag. One star, one red stripe, and one white stripe. In other words, it is exactly like the American flag minus the rest of America.

Most state capitals are bores: Sacramento, Albany, Tallahassee. Has anybody ever actually
been
to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania? Not Austin. Austin is a freak show. It is the only state capital I can think of where tattoo artists come to live. And local butchers, organic bakers, and hippie candlestick makers, plus the whole panoply of Texas weirdoes who have no other place to go. It is, as they say, a blue dot in a sea of red.

I can’t wait to get there because it will be our first truly “blue” destination. Even Las Vegas, for all its hedonism, is conservative in its way. It is the corporatized vision of decadence, not decadence itself. Austin is the opposite, with its sweet-tea-steeped grassroots weirdness. And after a day of the chipper but dreary Salt Lake City, I am ready for some grunge, grime, and barbecued pork.

 

Meghan:
The morning that we leave Salt Lake City, I start singing “God Blessed Texas” by the band Little Texas on the car ride to the airport. The lyrics to the song cover a lot of Texas-loving ground, to an infectious country-swing backbeat. Possibly my favorite line says, “If you wanna see heaven, brother, here’s your chance.” Texas
is so expansive, so freewheeling, so full of its own greatness, that, yeah, it’s definitely a certain kind of heaven.

That’s exactly how the majority of Texans feel about their state. The lyrics go on in a sort of line-dance-friendly anthem to all things Texas, amounting to a pride-felt battle cry. Also, it’s just a catchy, fun song that I always find myself singing whenever I visit Texas. My little brother Jimmy attends Texas A&M in College Station. When he first got to school, we had a conversation about how he had met some people who felt like Texas should secede from the Union because the rest of America is such a mess. When they drink, instead of “cheers,” in some places they say “secede.” I don’t think anyone really believes that Texas will actually secede from the union, but just the fact that this is a warning of sorts is simultaneously absurd and amazing. This kind of posturing is inherently, fabulously American. It is something that I used to think was just sort of ridiculous patriotism from Texans, but it is easy to understand how people can fall back on ideas that let them feel as though they have options. It’s like anything else, just another option to try and make life possibly better or easier.