There Goes My Social Life (2 page)

“They shouldn't have to ‘understand.' Hell, look at the state of this nation. Voting for the other guy is not the most unimaginable thing. It's only because I'm black.”

“We've established that, Stacey.”

“But we haven't
established
that this is absurd,” I said.

The phone was silent for a moment, and I was too mad to apologize. “What do you think I should do?”

“Pick one show, go on there and explain yourself, and be done with it,” she said. “You'll get your opinion out there even more and you'll insulate yourself from the criticism of being a media whore.”

“I think you're the only one who called me a whore.”

“You apparently haven't read all of your Twitter feed.”

I couldn't help myself. I laughed at that one.

“You can lead a whore to culture,” I laughed, quoting Dorothy Parker. “But you can't make her think.”

My Twitter feed continued to light up the entire week. The next day, Sandra Fluke—a Georgetown law student (now an attorney and women's rights activist) whom Rush Limbaugh had made famous when he called her a “slut” for demanding free contraception—tweeted out support for me.

         
So disappointed to see people attacking
@REALStaceyDash
for voicing her opinion. Disagree politically, but #racist attacks are unacceptable.

I was criticized by people I didn't think would criticize me—including my former co-star Vivica A. Fox, who said my endorsement wasn't done “with class.” But on the other hand, I got support from places I never imagined. On
The View
—not known for being hospitable to conservatives—Whoopi Goldberg defended me.

“She's entitled—and she's a nice girl . . . this isn't someone who went out and killed somebody. What the hell you people sending her crap like this for?!”

That's when the matriarch of
The View
, Barbara Walters, spoke up to try to explain the backlash.

“The reason she is being attacked is because she is black and the feeling is black people should not be voting for Romney,” she said.

But Whoopi, God love her, wouldn't have it.

“Barbara,” she said softly.

“Whoopi,” Barbara replied.

“She is being attacked because she has a different view from other people,” Whoopi said. “And I think you don't like somebody's views, that's okay, but to hand somebody death threats because . . . what the hell! What's wrong with us that this is what we do?”

I'll love Whoopi forever because of her strong, true words.

The excitement continued. One afternoon, I was sitting in my home, trying to deal with all of the Internet backlash. I decided to fight back on Twitter. It's not like me to sit back and let people talk shit.

         
It's my humble opinion. . . . EVERYONE is entitled to one

I tweeted. Then, I selectively responded to some of the snarky comments in my feed.

Later, I got a phone call from a number that wasn't already put in my phone. Thankfully, Darcy had given me a heads up.

“Hello?”

“Stacey, this is Paul Ryan.”

My heart raced. I was talking to—hopefully—the next vice president of the United States. Ryan, of course, was the young—and I have to add hot—running mate on the Republican ticket.

“I just wanted to call and thank you so much for your support,” he said.

“It's caused a lot of excitement,” I said.

“Yes, I'm really sorry about the backlash,” he said. “I actually can't believe the hate you are getting.”

“Oh, it's okay,” I said. “I'm used to it. Mainly, I want people to know I believe in what you're doing. I love your plan.”

“Well, we just want you to know that we believe you're brave, and we support you,” he told me.

“I just want our country back,” I said. “And I hope you are able to do that.”

When I put down the phone, I couldn't have felt better about my choice. The Romney/Ryan ticket was classy, kind, and lovely. Plus, they knew a thing or two about creating jobs. I decided to sit down and write out my thoughts more completely for my blog:

         
I am an American citizen, who exercised her first Amendment right.

               
I am self realized and believe that hard work and faith will allow me to achieve my American dream.

               
I believe that Governor Mitt Romney believes in the American people. That we can be self evident, that we are capable of achieving the American dream. That there is enough for everyone. I believe that because he has proven his ability to lead, and his ability to be excellent as a CEO and as the Governor of Massachusetts. Governor Romney is the best choice to be our next President. He has achieved the American dream, he knows how to lead us the American people to realize our potential. By creating 12 million jobs, giving equal work for equal pay, by giving incentives and cutting loopholes, by keeping us safe and strong as a country of Super Power. Yes, it is true, he is rich. So what better person to lead us to economic prosperity than someone who has attained it.

               
I believe that his faith and strong moral character will serve him very well as he Leads us to being the great United States of America we can be.

And so the saga continued. Online, on television, and around kitchen tables across America. I wanted to settle it once and for all. I didn't want my life dominated by politics or racial tweets. I wanted to have a normal life.

I believed one step toward normalizing my life again was to do one definitive television show. I chose Piers Morgan's show, because I'd always thought he was charming. (I guess I—like most Americans—have a thing for British accents.) As I packed my bags, I knew I wanted to take Gina. But the simple fact of the matter was that I couldn't afford her airfare.

Some of the tweets were saying I was “washed up” and irrelevant. I had to face facts. They weren't far from the truth. I'd had a great career. Most notably, I was in the now classic Alicia Silverstone film
Clueless
as Dionne, a character, like her friend Cher, “named after great singers of the past who now do infomercials.”

But since that great role, I had made a few bad decisions. Actually, a lot of bad decisions, almost all because of men. My career had suffered, and my life had suffered. Actually, I'd just gone through a pretty terrible breakup when I sent that tweet.

It was okay. I was used to doing things alone.

I gave Gina a hug good-bye and headed to New York by myself. I might not have known a ton about politics, but I was sick of people saying that black people have to act in a certain way. I considered this more of an all-encompassing issue. This was about life.

As I walked onto the set of the Piers Morgan show, I was excited to finally be able to speak out.

“Joining me now, possibly the most controversial woman in America right now. She had the audacity as a black actress to vote for Mitt Romney,” Piers said. “Can you believe that?”

I smiled at his obvious tongue-in-cheek introduction.

“She's never been known particularly for her politics but she is now. And it's all because of one tweet. . . . When I read about this, I felt offended for you,” he said, “. . . . the idea that you as a black actress would come under such venomous attack . . . is extremely objectionable.”

Piers asked me a series of questions—whether I was offended by the tweets, whether I thought the outrage was due to my color or my occupation, and—most important—why I had changed from supporting Barack Obama to Mitt Romney.

“I would say because of the state of the country and I want the next four years to be different. And I believe him. . . . I watched him, the governor and his wife on
Meet the Press
. . . they spoke to me and they seemed authentic and genuine.”

“I really don't understand the fury,” I said. “I don't understand it. I don't get it.”

“Were you shocked? Were you saddened?” he asked.

“I am. I am shocked. Sad, not angry. Saddened and shocked . . .” I said. “But you know what, you can't expect everyone to agree with you.”

The interview was fun, light, and I got across all of the points I'd hoped to convey. Plus, my Twitter followers skyrocketed, an added bonus. All in all, I was glad to put that chapter of my life behind me and get on with life.

Life, as it would have it, was about to get interesting.

Since I was in New York, I called my friend, hip-hop magnate Russell Simmons.

“Want to hang out?”

Within minutes, he rolled up in his jet black Maybach.

“Get in,” he said.

TWO

THE PRETENTIOUS UNPRETENTIOUS

If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am for myself, then what am “I”? And if not now, when?

—Hillel the Elder

I
'd never been in a Maybach before and was amazed at how much room was in the back.

“This is bigger than some Manhattan apartments,” I said as I settled in. There was a cooler in the console, brimming with drinks.

Russell was a co-founder of Def Jam Recordings—and a founding father of hip-hop. He helped power the Beastie Boys, Run DMC, Public Enemy, and LL Cool J to stardom. But as successful as Def Jam was, it was just the beginning of his hip-hop empire. He also started a clothing company, produced television shows, had a management company, ran a magazine, and even began an advertising agency.

He offered me a drink, which I readily took. It had been one hell of a day, but he wasn't ready for small talk.

“So, you've been shilling for Money Mitt?”

“I was on
Piers Morgan Tonight
, if that's what you mean, but I'm hardly ‘shilling.'”

“What do you call it?”

“Free speech?” I said.

“I guess technically you're free to support someone who couldn't care less about 47 percent of our country?”

“That 47 percent would be better off with a President Romney,” I said. “Plus, you know Obama's full of shit.”

“You can't say that,” he said. “You're black.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“And why'd you bring that fur coat in my car?”

“It's New York in October,” I said, looking out the window at the well-heeled women walking on the streets of Manhattan. “I'm hardly the only one.”

“You know I was PETA's person of the year, don't you?”

“I'm not going to be cold,” I said, “because you want to pretend to give a fuck about a fox. You don't give a shit!”

I could faintly hear Russell's driver stifle a snicker. I bet he doesn't often hear anyone talk to Russell in this way. I didn't care if he was rich as hell. I'd known him for years, since back when he lived in Queens . . . before he was a yoga master, a vegan, or a mogul. I'd known him my whole life, and I wasn't going to put up with his shit.

“I guess you're gonna tell me you're still hunting?”

“Only pheasants,” I said.

“Stacey, you know it's not right to kill those animals.”

“And what are these seats made of?” I said, running my hand over the cool leather.

He threw his head back and laughed heartily. “You always have a way of turning things around.”

The driver pulled up to the front of a beautiful bar that was reminiscent of a 1920s speakeasy. The ceilings were high, and the lights from the chandelier twinkled off the worn bar's mirror and bounced off the cocktail glasses in the hands of well-manicured patrons.

I walked in ahead of Russell, who stopped to give his driver instructions. Immediately, I heard, “Oh my God! Stacey Dash!”

There, seated with a friend, was Kristen Wiig—the talented and funny actress made famous by
Saturday Night Live
.

“I love you,” she said, standing up to greet me.

“No, no, no,” I said. “I love you!”

Before I could tell her how much I enjoyed her work on television and film, she was literally bowing down to me.

“You're the best,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You are.”

“What kind of love fest am I interrupting?” Russell said as he walked in and saw us chatting. “Kristen, you'll have to join us.”

After she sat down next to Russell and two of his girlfriends, he steered the conversation to politics. “Did your new friend Stacey tell you she was in town to promote Mitt Romney?”

Russell couldn't help himself. “Yeah, she's been busy on Twitter telling everyone that Obama needs to be fired.”

“Wait,” Kristen said, putting her hand up. “I love Stacey Dash, I don't want to hear you making fun of her.”

Russell's two friends laughed.

“Why are you bringing this up,” I demanded, “in front of people I just met?”

“Yeah, leave us alone,” Kristen laughed. “We're sitting here talking girl stuff in our mutual adoration society.”

I had a great time with Kristen, until we departed to head out to another venue. When our driver pulled onto 11th Avenue in Chelsea, I realized we were heading to the legendary Bungalow 8. This exclusive club—a frequent hangout for celebrities—was marked outside the door only with a neon sign flashing, “No Vacancy.” The sign was meant to camouflage the club. This was not a place you happen to walk by and decide to pop in. This was for people in the know, and just a subset of those people. The line outside the door indicated that the club was hard to get into, so the sign took on a different meaning.

The guy at the door held people in the line back, judging their clothes and appearance with a tilted head. You could tell it was more than a job for him. Supposedly, he knew every person who walked through that door, and could tell you what everyone was wearing the last time they dared to enter . . . no matter how long it had been.

“Sorry folks,” I overheard him say to a couple of well-dressed women as we cruised by. “No more room tonight.”

This place was popular because lots of stuff went down here. You may have heard the rumors about Bungalow 8. This is where you might see Lindsay Lohan get too frisky on the dance floor or Paris Hilton bursting into tears on her cell phone. If a celeb had too much to drink, Bungalow 8 wouldn't necessarily call a cab. Instead, they might arrange for him or her to leave via helicopter from the helipad they had on top of the roof.

I know this was supposed to impress me, but seriously . . . who gives a shit?

We were whisked past the ropes and the lines of perfumed people. Russell smiled at the guy at the door without stopping. The club was decorated with potted palm trees, zebra-striped couches, and sparkly disco balls. The walls were painted yellow, patterned after the Beverly Hills Hotel. Apparently photography was forbidden—what happened at Bungalow 8 was supposed to stay at Bungalow 8. The club owners treated their celebrities with the ultimate discretion, so that it felt like old Hollywood.

The stars were out that night. At the first table full of people, George Clooney was holding court—telling stories and making everyone laugh. We joined them, including several other celebrities, and chatted and danced to Donna Summer songs.

“Anyone seen anything good on Twitter lately?” George said. Everyone started giggling behind their hands and then laughing outright.

I shot him a glance, but I realized he was just joking with me. The
New York Times
reporter who happened to be there didn't understand gentle trash-talking.

“So you're not willing to explain why you support Mitt?” the writer followed up, after I didn't take the bait.

“Yeah, I tweeted my support of Romney,” I said, “And then I went on to
Piers Morgan
and backed it up. If you'd like to Google it you can see for yourself.”

“But why?” he asked again.

“No, no, no,” I said. “I'm not having this conversation here.”

“She'd rather be having it out in a deer stand,” Russell said. “She's a big hunter, you know.”

“Did you kill that thing you're wearing right now?” the reporter asked.

“If you're asking if I believe in hunting and the Second Amendment,” I said. “Then, yes, I do.” I noticed the DJ had finally stopped playing 70s music and switched to top 40. I would've rather gone out on the dance floor at that moment, but I was being grilled.

“Like, in the same way the NRA does?”

I scrolled through the photos on my iPhone. I found one of me at my ex's ranch out west, holding up a pheasant. “Does this answer your question?”

“That literally makes me want to puke,” Russell said, which made me laugh.

“I like to hunt, I wear fur, I don't believe in welfare, I don't believe in the NAACP, and I don't believe in the Muslim Brotherhood,” I said, my voice rising. “What else do you think is wrong with me? Let's get it all out.”

“I just don't get it,” Russell said, pouring me more champagne.

“What's not to get?” I said, beginning to feel exasperated. Up until this point, I had managed to answer the questions easily without getting too offended. But by this time, it was feeling personal, like they had cornered me. Russell was saying, “How could you support a guy who wants to turn the cabinet room into a board room and sell America off to his rich friends? All the while, he's stashing their money in offshore bank accounts.”

If this were in church, you would've heard some amens. But since it was in a bar in Chelsea, people just looked baffled as Russell continued.

“He's a guy who hasn't told the truth to the American people about where he stands on the important issues and will turn back equality for women, blacks, Latinos, and gays. I could certainly go on and on.”

“You actually have been going on and on,” I said. “Ever since I got in your fucking car.”

“All I want to say is that Money Mitt works for the corporations.”

“Your arguments are all bullshit . . . and half of America agrees with me,” I said. “Tax breaks will entice the rich to invest in this economy and privatizing the social services like healthcare, education, and even social security will make it competitive, making them more responsible.”

At this everyone just laughed, as if I'd made a joke. We'd had too many drinks to have a serious discussion.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “Aren't you worth over $300 million? Suddenly, you're angry at other people who have made it?”

“Because I'm rich, I can't have opinions?”

“You can't try to discredit Mitt, when you might actually be richer than he is,” I said. “At least before you started bankrolling Obama's campaign?”

“She's got you there,” George said. At this, the table erupted with laughter. Everyone knew “Uncle Russ” was rich as hell, and I think George loved seeing me put Russell in his place.

“I'm not having a political conversation with a bunch of drunks,” I said, as I tipped back my flute. “Me included.”

It was a challenging night—filled with arguing and accusations. But I was used to it. In
Clueless
, I had a line that always caused laughter in the theaters. My character Dionne is waiting to play tennis, when a classmate complains about having to participate in the athletic activities in phys ed.

“My plastic surgeon says to avoid activities where balls fly at your face,” she complains.

“There goes your social life,” I quip. I've always loved the script of that movie, and that was my favorite line by far. To this day, fans come up to me, say that line, and it cracks me up.

In a way, as I sat there with my friends, I felt that sentiment.

Dare to speak out about a hotly contested presidential election? When you're black? When you're an actress? When you're a woman?

There goes your social life
.

My evening was a perfect demonstration of how hard it is for one side to really understand the other. I think Hollywood feels more comfortable welcoming directors who are accused pedophiles, famous actresses who are also thieves, boxers who are convicted rapists, directors who push cocaine, rappers who sell heroin, singers who solicit prostitutes, and actors who beat up their women than a Republican into their midst. In fact, people who fit into those categories still enjoy the professional adoration of their peers in Hollywood, even amidst the suspicion and guilt. It's like the only thing that can really ruin your reputation as a celebrity is to come out as a Republican.

Why does liberalism have such a stranglehold on Hollywood?

Because literally everyone they know is just like them. For all their talk of “diversity,” the people in Hollywood only like diversity if it's skin-deep. They love to create friend groups that include blacks, whites, different ethnicities, and gays. But if the “diversity” extends to anything more than sexual preferences and skin color, they don't know what to do. The “diversity” in Hollywood is the easy kind—getting along with people who think and act exactly like you. That's why they didn't know how to categorize me when I spoke out against their deeply held beliefs. They like easy-to-digest “diversity,” and I was making them think.

Yes, there are exceptions. But you can name secret—or in a few cases, not-so-secret—conservatives on two hands. Republicans have a few Hollywood stars—Clint Eastwood, Dwayne Johnson, Donald Trump, Adam Sandler, Jon Voight, Gene Simmons, Vince Vaughn, Patricia Heaton, Bruce Willis, and Stephen fucking Baldwin. Democrats have just about everyone else.

Like, everyone.

Democratic donors include Sting, Madonna, Alec Baldwin, Cameron Diaz, Matt Damon, Tom Hanks, and Bruce Springsteen. In 2011, celebs including Will Smith, Jack Black, Eva Longoria, Magic Johnson, Quincy Jones, and Danny DeVito attended a $35,800-per-plate fundraiser for Obama. At the Soul Train Awards, Jamie Foxx got so drunk on Obama's Kool-Aid that he called the president “our lord and savior.”

Not to be outdone, comedian Chris Rock came out and said, “I am just here to support the President of the United States. President of the United States is, you know, our boss. He's also, you know, the president and the first lady are kinda like the mom and the dad of the country and when your dad says something, you listen.”

I think Chris may have skipped a few civics lessons. In a self-governing society, the people are the “boss” of the so-called political leadership. There's a reason why the office is one of “president” and not “king.” Or “dad,” I suppose.

Russell, of course, was all in for Obama too. He designed a shirt for Obama's campaign in 2008 and another in 2012. He hosted fundraising events, tweeted out support, and advocated for the campaign. Right before the election, he hosted a mixtape called
Yes We Can
(you can't make this shit up) featuring Talib Kweli, Kanye West, Wale, Busta Rhymes, and others. Hollywood's richest director, Steven Spielberg, donated $100,000 to the Obama campaign. Sarah Jessica Parker and Anna Wintour co-hosted a fundraiser for him in the West Village. DreamWorks Animation CEO Jeffrey Katzenberg donated $2 million to an Obama Super PAC; Bill Maher donated $1 million; Harvey Weinstein was one of Obama's biggest bundlers.