OLIVIA: Did you just set me up with that whole thing?
ME: I sure did.
I guess what I’m saying is that I was living the dream. Not just because I was paying my rent by acting, but because I had artistic contentment too. I had broken out of the Brown Catch-22. Roles would still be tougher to get to be sure, but I had built enough of a résumé to truly know that this was something I could make a career out of. I felt perfectly content living an entirely apolitical life doing an Emmy-winning medical drama while very stupidly dodging imaginary dicks at both ends.
* * *
Then one day in the fall of 2007, Olivia knocked on the door of my trailer. “Kal, do you want to come to an event for Barack Obama’s presidential campaign next week? I have a plus-one! You’d love it.” The primary season was kicking off in an especially crowded field: Since Vice President Cheney wasn’t running for the presidency, there were more than a dozen viable candidates between both major parties.
“Nah, I like public service. Not politics.”
“But you protested against the Iraq War!” she said.
“That’s not politics; that’s just being a decent human before both parties voted to kill innocent people for no reason,” I opined in my kinda irritating soapboxy way.
Olivia saw her opening: “Exactly. Obama was against the Iraq War too!”
I had read Obama’s book Dreams from My Father, and like most people, loved his 2004 DNC speech. But I detested politicians, and the idea of going to an event in support of someone running for president just wasn’t on my radar, even if my friend was saying he was different from the rest.
Not one to take no for an answer, Olivia pleaded with me. “Obama is a real underdog candidate! He’s the only major candidate to refuse federal lobbyist donations, and he’s been trailing way behind Hillary Clinton and John Edwards—we’re talking thirty points behind—all summer long in Iowa.”
Iowa is the first state to vote in the primary process, so every candidate goes there early and often. It turned out that Obama was looking for bumps leading up to the Iowa caucuses; he was coming to LA for a two-day fundraising stint and was tacking on a special reception for artists.
“It’ll be mostly actors and musicians,” Olivia explained. “The senator wants to meet us, and he’ll probably ask us to be surrogates for him—to do events on his behalf and help him campaign in Iowa. It’s a small, intimate thing that Pantera Sarah6 is putting together for him—it’ll be fun!”
I was dubious: Lots of politicians make swings through New York and LA to ask for money, and I wasn’t really interested in seeing one give a canned speech at a Hollywood recruiting event. Olivia was getting tired of my stubbornness. “You’re coming with me! It’ll be fun. We’ll have a drink and see what it’s like.” The passion of my trusted friend was contagious enough—I accepted her invitation.
* * *
A few of the House writers caught wind of the event. Eli Attie （previously one of Vice President Al Gore’s speechwriters） was excited for us and wanted a full report back. Peter Blake （active in Democratic donor circles） suggested we also attend a high-dollar breakfast fundraiser that Obama was doing the morning of our artists’ reception. “It can be eye-opening to see what a candidate is like in front of his donors. Tickets are like $2,500 a plate.”
Jesus! While Olivia had tried so passionately to convince me that Obama was different, Blake’s invitation was exactly what the cynical side of my brain had expected—that Barack Obama was the same as all those other politicians, holding fancy fundraisers for rich people where he’d probably say whatever it takes to get more and more of their money until he gets elected and represents their interests. Also, what the hell kind of breakfast is served for $2,500?! I was confused but curious, like a college student who clicked on the wrong Pornhub link.
Blake continued, “If you want to see what that world is like, I can get you in for twenty-five bucks. You just have to stand in the back, and you can’t eat any of the food.”
Wait, I could get a $2,500 ticket for only 25 bucks? My parents had raised me better than to pass up a $2,475 net value. “I’m in!” That morning, I drove my Prius up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu. I passed the valet parking line full of fancy Land Rovers, giant Hummers, and shiny BMW sedans, and spent twenty frustrating minutes searching for a spot on the street.
Once I finally parked, I paid my $25 and stepped onto one of the nicest properties I’d ever seen. It belonged to Ron Meyer, who ran Universal Studios. The view was insane. You couldn’t tell from the main gate,7 but the mansion sat on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was easily the most beautiful backyard and most impressive view from anyone’s home I had seen in my life.
What a party! The sun had just come up over the house and was reflecting off the water, casting a beautiful yellow light over every affluent, manicured face. Each table was draped in a white cloth that seemed to have been painstakingly ironed. And there were utensils. Lots and lots of utensils. Why did rich people need multiple forks at each place setting for breakfast? Just like the time I watched wealthy metrosexual Jason Gross to see which fork he was using for which course at Deah Fishman’s bat mitzvah, I scanned the whole place, bursting with next-level curiosity.
There was fruit—but, like, nice fruit. Papaya and pomegranate and stuff, not just plebeian oranges and bananas. There were a variety of eggs （maybe from a variety of birds? I dunno） prepared in different ways, a fancy spread of smoked salmon, a nicely laid-out bread bask— Oh shit, there’s Eddie Murphy! Okay this was already worth the twenty-five bucks.
I was directed away from the tables and onto the outskirts of the backyard with a handful of other thrifty twenty-five-dollar donors. We exchanged the “game recognize game” nod and continued to observe how wealthy people lived.
As I continued to stare creepily at Eddie Murphy, a few people in suits and earpieces emerged by the sliding glass door to the house. Senator Obama was here, ready to kick off this bougie breakfast affair. Someone made brief introductions, and Obama hopped up in front of the crowd in slacks and a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up. He grabbed a microphone.
As he started in on his speech, it was clear that Obama could read a room and land a joke, even if he’d told it a dozen times before. He spent most of the speech laying out his plan for universal health coverage, talking about pressing challenges in national security, and outlining a vision for the economy. Then he got to talking about clean energy and the environment. That’s when everything changed for me.
Midway through a riff on climate change, he stopped midsentence and seemed to take in the vast space. As the $2,500-a-ticket crowd used dainty miniature spoons to stuff their faces with passion fruit–infused Greek yogurt, the senator went off-script. “I’m really curious about something,” he said. “When my motorcade pulled up, I noticed there were a bunch of huge Hummers parked outside by the valet. Who drove a Hummer to a Barack Obama breakfast?”
The crowd knew what he was getting at—the Hummer is basically a rebranded war vehicle for rich people that gets terrible gas mileage. They laughed in that good-natured way in which people getting made fun of by a close friend laugh at themselves. Wow, that’s a fun burn, I thought.