I had considered myself to be a fairly guarded person, protected from love’s piercing arrow and exempt from the lessons so bountifully offered through mountains of film, literature, and FM Country radio. I was naďve, and my naivety, like so many other luxuries, bore a substantial cost that I would one day have to pay. With my tears.
She was my first celebrity crush, our worlds joined by happenstance. I had accidentally turned on Fox News when I first saw her. Her eyes were fixated on her opponent, mouth rapidly shouting out fact after fact. She was the most gorgeous reactionary, hate-mongering, conspiracy-theorist, anti-intellectual, attention-starved pundit I had ever seen. It was then that I knew Michelle Malkin and I were meant to be.
It took me forever to make the first call. What should I say? What if she doesn’t pick up? I knew I’d fuck up the message, per usual. The Bouncing Souls’ “Say Anything” played on repeat that day as I paced my room in a nervous sweat.
But I of course called; I mean how could I not? We talked for over an hour. “Sure, I know a Greek restaurant.” “No Michelle, I don’t think Iraq is a beaming success story.” “Of course I’ll ask them not to have any illegal immigrants prepare our meal.” We made plans for Saturday night.
I had never been so excited for a first date. A neoconservative celebrity was going to spend the evening with me! But what if we have nothing to talk about? I guess we could talk politics. I didn’t want to argue over a romantic dinner, though. I decided to keep the conversation superficial, to only mention benign current events. I listened to Teenage Fanclub’s “What You Do To Me” as I scrolled through the news looking for a story Michelle wouldn’t get worked up over, but eventually gave up after familiarizing myself with her blog. I guess I’d have to rely on small talk.
We met outside the restaurant in Chicago’s Greek Town around 8. I was wearing a polo and chinos while she sported a skirt and a smart sweater with no less than three American Flag pins. We ate and talked and laughed, our worldviews never once sparking any tension. We were human beings enjoying each other’s company, relating on the most basic level. After dinner, I suggested a lounge, but she preferred a walk, and so it was decided. As we strolled down Halsted, she began to open up a bit, telling me how hard it was for her to get her start in the world of political journalism. Here she was, a young Filipino-American woman trying to get the attention of the old, white, male money that controlled virtually all major-media outlets. There are far more applicants than jobs in the broadcasting industry and sometimes the pressure to succeed drives one to do and say some pretty crazy stuff. Knowing my political leanings, she asked me to understand that she just wanted to be happy, successful, and able to afford time with her family, much like anybody else. She looked at me for acceptance, approval, and then we kissed under the full moon beside a homeless man selling copies of Streetwise (I later gave him a dollar, but Michelle informed me she gave him a more valuable donation: tough love).
That evening found us back at my humble apartment and eventually asleep in each other’s arms, but I woke up alone. I quickly looked around the room for her; I called out her name; I frantically threw aside my second pillow to check for the gun she had placed beneath it the night before. Nothing. Not even a note. And so our great love ended, without even an acknowledgement of its existence.
Do I still think of her? Of course. I still think of how we sat on my couch and listened to music, how I heard Tilly and the Wall’s “Fell Down the Stairs,” and hoped she’d notice and mention it. We were too beautiful to last in this impossibly cruel world. But to this day, whenever I hear someone decry gay marriage or rant about abortion, it takes all I have to force the tears from my eyes and thoughts of Michelle from my mind.