I want an electric car for the awesome torque, but am worried that my friends will think I’m trying to make some kind of lame, self-aggrandizing “green” statement about myself. What should I do? — Jake
I’ve been there, Jake. When I went through my ethical eating phase, back in early 2010, I put up with a lot of grief from the Cro-Magnon types that I call friends. They didn’t cotton to my new conscientious lifestyle. But I ignored them, because I knew in my heart that right is right. If I don’t eat veal, then how are those poor, cramped baby calves ever supposed to escape those hideous crates? Yes, there were plenty of times when I felt like eating pork, or maybe a steak, and didn’t need the pasta carb-load that comes with the scaloppini. But sometimes we have to deny our appetites, to ignore the taunts of others, and to listen to that still, small voice that says, “It’s time to do better.”
Then again, you don’t seem to care about doing your part to halt global cooling by driving a gas guzzler. Ethics clearly aren’t your motivator, as they are mine. So let me just lay it out plainly: electric cars are goofy. Sure, I like the idea of bankrupting OPEC. And it would be really refreshing to hear cries of “blood for sand” instead of “blood for oil,” during our next Middle Eastern adventure. But let me run three terrifying words by you: Ed Begley Jr. He drives an electric car. Do you want to be thought of as an EBJ? Or do you ever want to get laid again? True fact: in blind taste tests, women will choose men who smell of fossil fuels over a guy who uses an electricity-generating bicycle to make toast, ten out of ten times. If you enjoy making sweet love to a special lady, stick with your Honda.
How can I party with Roger Stone? Loved your story on him a while back. — Michael E.
Thanks, Michael. I have, on numerous occasions, written about the dirty trickster/diabolical genius Roger Stone. There was the time he served as Donald Trump’s consigliere for a possible presidential bid, dutifully putting out hand-sanitizer for reporters since Mr. Trump doesn’t like shaking hands with people who are less classy than he is. Then there was the time I watched Stone start an anti-Hillary Clinton 527 group, under the moniker, Citizens United Not Timid. Mrs. Clinton’s fans were not amused by the acronym.
Along with the Trump story, my longest Stone saga is included in the collection that I have already over-publicized in this space, and which I will do so again now, being a shameless slut for vulgar commerce: “Fly Fishing With Darth Vader: And Other Adventures with Evangelical Wrestlers, Political Hitmen, and Jewish Cowboys.” Stone is, in fact, the political hit man of the subtitle. (Gratuitous sales pitch: buy two copies, and Daily Caller publisher Neil Patel, who supplements his income as an Ashiatsu massage therapist, will come to your house and walk on your back while singing “Walking On Sunshine” by his favorite band, Katrina and the Waves). Needless to say, I have repeatedly interviewed, drank with, been threatened by, and corresponded with Roger Stone. But I have never “partied” with him in the traditional sense, even if, as legend has it, his partying tends toward the untraditional.