On the way home, I called my favorite teacher, the one whose students' standardized test scores go up an average of 70 percent after she beats some sense into 'em: CommieMom. "Hey, Jimmy and I are just coming from a Teachers for Westly event!" I told her.
"I hate that little fucking creep!" she murmured gently.
I explained: he wasn't creepy per se—well, he sort of was, but only because he was so fucking sincere—but he seemed nice enough, I guess, nicer than Schwarzenegger, anyway, though he did partner up with him on those stupid ballot measures (way to fire up your base, Steve!) and though he's still no Phil Angelides—especially since Angelides tops six feet. I called his press guy and asked.
* * *
The next night, my son and I were all set to go to a California Coalition for Immigration Reform meeting. "They're weirdoes who hate Mexican people," I explained. "It'll be fun!"
"But I don't hate Mexican people!" my son said, kinda all freaked out. "I like Mexican people! Do we have to go hang out with the weirdoes?"
"No, son, we don't!" I decided. I don't help out in the office on Wednesdays.