November 7th delivered the joyous news that among other immeasurable gains borne out of the mid-term elections, Britney Spears was kicking that hanging appendage of a husband of hers to the curb. Spearsís proclamation wormed its way on to National Public Radio during the election returns hullabaloo and trumped Rosie OíDonnellís post-election day rant on The View. And nailed shut the coffin on an election that most closely mirrored pop culture sensibility. For me, the midterm elections were momentous not just for landing Nancy Pelosi smack in line to become the first female speaker of the House of Representatives but because politics and pop culture metamorphosized kind of like the premise for Freaky Fridayóboth the original starring a mini-butch Jodie Foster and the remake with a precocious Lindsay Lohan displaying a few of the signs of the maelstrom she would becomeóin which the over-protective immobile parent became the wild-child and visa-versa.
Take failing policies along with outright lies predicated by the Bush White House, a misbegotten war, lobbyists on the take, a sex scandal involving a closeted legislator and several young boys and a hypocritical Evangelical preacher friendly with the administration and youíve got the recipe to kick the Republicans out of power. But like the Freaky Friday movies, election day felt a bit like there was magic in the air when the Democrats--typified by Fosterís or Lohanís precocious but powerless child characteróawoke as the sensible party in power. Meanwhile, the unyieldingly ideological Republicans fell from the parental position of power to the helpless child wondering - duh? whatíd I do?
When George W. Bush interrupted The View that Wednesday morning to discuss his partyís painful obliteration, he blamed the stupid American voters for handing power to the reckless, left-leaning Dems. After all, taxes donít matter to those Democratic, abortion-mongering, gay-sex supporting Democrats.
Bush didnít concede so much as blame the lame, who didnít vote to uphold his tunnel-visioned ideology. But this is about politics and pop culture, so allow me to elaborate. What could be more pop culture than a sex scandal thrust into the limelight via text messaging? This Bud's for you, Mr. Foley!
Despite the scandals and missteps, it was Republican talking head and B.S.-artist Rush Limbaugh who really married politics and popular media. Who dared attack Alexander P. Keaton? While Rush and the character portrayed by the beloved Michael J. Fox are both Republicans, Foxís Keaton was lovable and the actor battling Parkinsonís Disease--which afflicted the icon Katherine Hepburn--is a proponent of stem-cell research. Limbaugh--or the great-pumpkinhead, as Howard Stern refers to him, had the audacity to accuse Fox of faking the symptoms of his disease to further stem-cell research.
If you were old enough to know when Family Ties came out, or you caught it in re-runs, you fell into three camps. Those who didnít know you were into women yet and crushed out on Foxís character, young girls who had a thing for older women and crushed out on the mom Meredith Baxter-Birney or those who liked girls their own age and lusted after the elder Keaton daughter Mallory, played by Justine Bateman.
Returns for the midterm elections were like the 72nd Academy Awards when Angelina Jolie and Hilary Swank nabbed Best-Supporting and Best Actress respectively. I shouted and jumped up and down for hours in sheer glee, as if the gay and gay-friendly had broken through the white, heterosexual male mode that dominated Hollywood. Bumber to bumper in my beat-up but lovable Toyota Corolla listening to NPR I reenacted that year. With each announcement of a Democratic stronghold and with every eager text message my girlfriend sent to me hailing the Dems. My excitement brimmed over.
But while it all seemed to be turning around, anti-gay marriage amendments throughout the country abounded. As a recent transplant to Los Angeles from Connecticut, I sent my voter registration in on the cusp, and although I never received validation from voter registration here, I trucked my tired 90-minutes in traffic ass down to the voting station and cast my vote. Iím in California, so did my vote really count? Likely not, but I rousted myself from my jammies, put on a bra and hiked it down to the polling station, lest I be the one who lost the election.
Yeah, I know, Iím not the center of anyoneís universe but my own, but unlike my apathetic roomies who chose to remain indifferent to the Democratic process and refrain from registering and eventually voting in favor of hanging out in West Hollywood clubs, I can pontificate. I cast my ballot. Iíve got free-reign to bitch and moan about the state of politics until the next election. Halleluiah.
