America, You Sexy Bitch (34 page)

“Your grandmother doesn’t know you’re coming?”

“No. This is a total freaking surprise.”

He’s excited to be here, excited to show us where he grew up. He points out a bridge he fell off when he was a kid and the scar on his arm from the accident. Cousin John maneuvers the RV beside the Caddy and jumps out. The rest of us hang back, giving him time to go into the house and surprise his grandma.

After a respectful interval, we circle to the front of the house, where his aunt invites us in. Grandma is sitting on a La-Z-Boy watching
Dr. Oz.
She looks to be in her late eighties. Cousin John beams as he makes the introductions to “Nana.”

Nana offers us lunch, which we decline. We make small talk for a bit before the subject turns to her husband, long deceased.

“He was in politics,” she says.

“What did he do?” I ask.

“Everything!” she exclaims. Her family is all Democrats “from Bedford County!” she says with pride. We talk about her family and
what all of the various members are doing. She gets a little befuddled as we talk.

“They tell me stuff, but I can’t remember everything.”

“Nobody can,” I say. “I can’t.”

“Well, you’re a lot younger than I am.”

“I know. And I can’t remember anything.”

Meghan and Nana talk about Dr. Oz for a few minutes, agreeing that he’s a smart man and it’s a good show.

On the way out, Cousin John points out a picture of the uncle he said I reminded him of, the one with the glass eye. Meghan and Stephie start laughing hysterically. I look at the picture. He looks like a guy who would have gotten rejected as an extra from
Deliverance
for looking
too
inbred.

“
That’s
who I remind you of?” I scream.

“Minus the glasses,” Cousin John says.

Nana has allowed us to take the Caddy into town. We pile into the big old car and head out. A few miles down the road, we pass a small house. About fifty small wooden structures are scattered across the front yard. A mean-looking wiry old guy is just getting out of his pickup as we pass. Cousin John doesn’t have to say a word.

“CHICKEN WILLY!” we all yell.

Cousin John is smiling from ear to ear.

 

Meghan:
Eventually we leave Nana’s and head into downtown Nashville, but not before finally seeing a picture of Cousin John’s cousin that apparently is Michael’s doppelgänger. There is a faded family picture hanging on the wall and Cousin John points and says, “See, aren’t they the spitting image of each other.” I can’t stop laughing. The man looks nothing like Michael except for the fact that they both have black hair. The guy in the picture looks a little rough to put it mildly, has a glass eye, and is wearing overalls.

“He is the spitting goddamn image of Black, Cousin John!” I squeal, and Stephie and I proceed to take pictures of the picture of
Michael’s twin with our camera phones. Michael looks pretty annoyed, which just makes me laugh even more.

We head outside into the climate-changed oppressive heat and drive to another glamorous motel. Like every other time we check in, it takes about an hour for me to shower, get cleaned up, change clothes, and attempt to put on mascara, and for Michael to go to his room and tweet.

We meet in the lobby an hour later and head to “Cascades, an American Eatery” in the Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center, which is kind of like the Atlantis Resort without the casino or waterslides. All I really care about is that we are about to eat a real dinner, at a restaurant, sushi and everything. We each order a ton of food and start to feast. We also order more than a few drinks. I can’t tell if we’re punch-drunk from the long drive, or actually drunk from the alcohol, but we soon realize that we are running late on time and rush out to find the Grand Ole Opry.

You know how this is like
National Lampoon’s Vacation
? Well, this is the part where we are wandering around Wally World’s parking lot, except we’re not running to “Chariots of Fire,” and we’re all tipsy and overheated. Michael is really irritated. We are wandering around, completely incapable of finding the giant theater. It sounds like it should be easy, but in actuality it is not. I can’t stop laughing and there is nothing else to do except to make fun of Michael.

“We should just stay here forever. Actually we should go get more beer. Actually I really want to see Steel Magnolia perform.” It’s a little bit of a shit show. I can’t stop giggling, making light of the situation, and teasing Michael, who only gets more annoyed. Stephie looks concerned and proceeds to try and figure out the directions.

I am giddy. There is something about country music that feels like home. It’s a whole genre of music that celebrates brassy women who don’t put up with crap. When a man cheats on you in a country song, you take a “Louisville slugger to both headlights” of the guy’s car. I like male country singers who loudly cry out in giant
sold-out arenas anthems about how much they like women who pray, wear cowboy boots, and are “hell raising sugars when the sun goes down.” It’s an industry where women are never too blond, allowed to be curvy and have extra meat on their bones, drink long-neck beers, and wear cowboy hats. If men screw them over, they’re gonna fight back.

I have always felt like there are two types of people in the world: country music fans and country music haters. I have a friend in the music industry who once asked me about my love of country music; he told me that he didn’t get it but he was obviously missing something, because the only areas of music that continue to really grow in a faltering industry are country music and Christian rock. If that doesn’t say something about America, I do not know what does.

Country music has always celebrated individualism, rebellion, freedom, our military, and being an American. I know there are other genres of music and musicians that also celebrate these themes, but it’s all front and center in the country music world. As much as I think the Dixie Chicks are entitled to have their opinion and exercise their right to free speech, there’s something I find liberating about the fact that speaking ill of America in a foreign country is something neither the country music industry nor their fans would stand for.

Country music is also traditionally an industry where being a Republican and conservative is celebrated and it won’t hurt someone’s career if they choose to be publicly vocal about their love for Jesus, America, or Republican politicians. It is actually probably the only area in the entertainment industry where you can get away with being so open. Throughout the years I have met many closeted Republicans. People who are in the entertainment industry in some way, some more famous than others, who are too scared to be open about their politics, fearing that the stigma attached to being a Republican might be detrimental to their life or careers.

My good friend Barret Swatek is an actress with a long Hollywood career. She was on the show
Seventh Heaven
and was “outed” as being a Republican when an entertainment reporter asked her a
question on a red carpet about the last book she read. She answered without thinking that it was Sean Hannity’s recent book. Now, I won’t speak for my friend, but being outed as a Republican in Hollywood can become a thing. There is fear that people will not represent you or cast you because of your political beliefs. My friend Barret has felt the repercussions of her politics, but ironically that is how we originally met, because we were both loud, proud, young Republican women.

I guess Hollywood and entertainment people are liberal and open-minded as long as it means thinking exactly the same way as they do. When I first moved to Los Angeles, I was randomly invited to a very swanky Oscar party celebrating the director of a movie that had been nominated that year. I knew no one and felt extremely out of place and stupid for even going. However, I spotted a well-known television actor I had met at one of my father’s fundraisers two years before, where he had been very engaging. I had been impressed that he would even show up and give money to a Republican, and told him so. He answered, “Of course, your father’s an American hero.” After spotting him across the room at this party, I walked over to him and his wife. He seemed really uncomfortable, and before I could barely get five words out of my mouth, he literally turned his back and walked away from me, saying, “You take care, Meghan.” It caught me off guard and pretty much brought me right back to middle school again. This actor was clearly worried about having some kind of political conversation with me around all of his Hollywood friends.

I admire anyone who is open and honest about what they believe. I’m not an actor, I don’t live in Hollywood, I don’t know what it’s like but I cannot imagine what it is like to believe one thing privately and be scared to address it publicly. I simply can’t fathom reconciling that kind of life.

On the contrary, the country singers I met during the campaign were always out, loud, proud, and publicly playing songs for the cause. They didn’t elect to hide out at fancy fundraisers, shielded by the privacy of a closed-press event. Of course, not all country
music artists are Republicans, but the ones who are will tell you proudly to your face that they are.

When we get in to sit down, we have trouble finding our seats and I am informed that Steel Magnolia have just finished their set. Now I’m annoyed.

“For fuck’s sake, Black!” It’s Michael’s fault; we’re just making it all Michael’s fault.

 

Michael:
A few hours later, we’re stumbling around the parking lot of the immense Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center, drunk, trying to find the goddamned Grand Ole Opry. I’m lit off of two “John Dalys,” which is vodka and peach, garnished with mint. It seemed like a southern summertime drink at the time; now it feels like an assassination attempt.

We wander through the parking lot, Meghan tottering on heels, Stephie in her jazzy “on the town” skirt, me in my linen pants and Crocs. Maybe John Dalys and sushi weren’t a good idea. I don’t know. I just need to go sit down somewhere before I puke.

Even though the parking lot is full, there’s not even anybody around to ask where to go because the show has already started. Finally, we flag down a security guy in a golf cart, who gives us a lift to the Grand Ole Opry House. We weren’t anywhere near it. It’s not
our
fault we couldn’t find the stupid theater. Honestly, I don’t know how they expect drunk people to find their giant forty-five-hundred-seat theater, which is located exactly where the signs say it is. If the signs had been written in blurry letters, I would have been able to read them better.

After some confusion with the ticket takers, any of whom made Grandma Cousin John look like a sprightly colt, we finally take our seats well into the show. We sit down just as Steel Magnolia is finishing their set.

Ha-ha.

First impression of the Opry: this place is incredible. I don’t know what I was expecting, but my memory of the Opry is way
different from
this.
In my memory, we sat on apple crates and hay bales. It was like the barn from
Charlotte’s Web.
But this place is nothing like that. It’s modern, huge, and
packed.
Every one of the four and a half thousand seats is filled. On a Wednesday night. Not a bushel or a peck in sight.

The crowd is warm and polite and soon I am awash in steel guitar and fiddle. I don’t even know who’s performing. Some good-looking band in tight jeans and pressed Western shirts. Whoever it is, they’re fantastic. I’m just waiting for Meghan to hurl her bra at the stage.

One thing I particularly like is the obvious reverence all the performers have for the stage on which they are standing. The Grand Ole Opry’s been around since 1925, so the place is soaked in history and, very recently, forty-six inches of water. During the flood, a particular concern was rescuing a six-foot circle of oak flooring taken from the stage of the Ryman Auditorium, the sometimes home of the Opry since 1974. I can only imagine all the cowboy boots that have scuffed that floor.

The highlight for me is the end of the show when Little Jimmy Dickens comes out. He’s ninety years old, a Grand Ole Opry staple for sixty years. Although he lacks the name recognition of a Minnie Pearl, he does have one thing she does not: he is alive. I know Little Jimmy from a novelty song he had in the sixties called “May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose.” Knowing this says more about my childhood than it does his choice of music.

He moves well for ninety, walking unaccompanied to the center of the stage, guitar slung around his neck, bedazzled in his old-timey Western dress outfit. A white cowboy hat probably adds half a foot to his four-foot-eleven-inch frame. Jimmy tells a few corny jokes and plays a couple of songs on that guitar. He sounds confident and full of life, and every eye in the house is rooted to him. When he’s done, the whole crowd rises to give him a standing ovation. With a wave of his hat and an “aw shucks” grin, Little Jimmy exits stage right.

It’s a great show. Meghan asks me what I thought. I tell her it was pretty good because I’ll be damned if I’m going to admit to her how much I loved it.

“You loved it,” she says. “Admit it, Black.”

“I admit nothing.”

As we wait for our cab outside the Opry, I realize I may have to revise my opinion about country music. After all, I had a great time, the musicians were unbelievable, the music itself felt authentic and heartfelt. But as we pile into the cab for the drive back to the hotel, I remember something important: country music sucks.

 

Meghan:
The Grand Ole Opry, for those who don’t know, is Mecca in Nashville. It is the stage where anyone who is anyone in country music performs and has performed. Pretty much every country legend in the history of country music has played there. What’s legendary about it is that the stage is wooden, so it makes the acoustics that much warmer. When I have a car, or when I have access to satellite radio, I can listen to live radio broadcasts throughout the week from the Opry, and my favorite is the one on
Willie’s Roadhouse
on SiriusXM.