When the elevator door opened, it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. The light in the penthouse was dim, the windows filled with the liquid majesty of Alaska by starlight. Across the wide space, a shadowy figure sat on a leather couch, legs crossed, holding a snifter of cognac. From hidden speakers, Bette Midler sang "The Rose," the strings rising to the swell of my heart.

"Sarah," said a gravelly voice. She took my hand and led me out of the elevator.

"Dick," she said.

From the shadows, he came toward us: the Angler, the Cheyenne Strangler, the man Sarah would replace. He was taller than I expected; what looked like stoutness on television was, in person, a muscled beauty that was almost Greek. He wore a hand-stitched, white three-piece suit, his ascot boasting the colors of a tropical bird. When he spoke, it wasn’t with the gruff fury of the infighter, the backstabbing oilman, the bare-knuckled partisan – but with the mellifluous allure of someone who knows your secrets, someone who makes it his business to know your secrets, someone who’s going to get what he wants and make you think it was what you wanted all along.

This is the story of how I blew Dick Cheney.

Jewcy, it would take too long to faithfully chronicle everything that happened that night, the ecstasy and agony, the pleasure and pain and more pain – lots more pain – that ensued. We sat for a time sipping cognac and watching the landscape, Her Babeness and the VP laughing about their old friend Ted Stevens, whose corruption trial had begun that morning.

"And so he says, ‘Quid pro quo? That’s not even my house!’" Dick said, waving one hand around, he and Sarah doubling over with hilarity. I sipped my drink and smiled politely – but inside, I was boiling.

Sarah leaned over to touch Dick. One strap of her dress had slipped off her shoulder. "What do you think? Should we make Ted Secretary of the Interior? Energy? Maybe director of the EPA?"

"Oh no, no, no," he said, suddenly serious. "He’s damaged goods. He’ll probably be convicted. You can’t put a felon in a position like that. It’d look bad, and be a distraction from passing tax cuts."

I was getting a little woozy, wondering if maybe there wasn’t something strange in my cognac. "Well, where, then?" said Her Babeness. "I have to do something for him."

"Where we put all criminals. Attorney General, of course," said the VP. Then he unzipped his white pants and pulled out his cock.

"Suck it, novelist," he said.

What followed was a bacchanal of epic proportions, a wild debauch that went on till dawn. Not an inch of flesh escaped being tongued, nibbled, bitten, burned; not an orifice went unfilled; not a membrane escaped the seep and spurt. The VP was, I have to say, impressive – athletic and flexible, light on his feet and yet powerful. He was, I could see it now, the perfect interlocutor for my beautiful Sarah, herself so accommodating and soft one moment, fierce and commanding the next. Their give and take was like a ballet, or a fierce, grunting rugby match, and I was the slick, disoriented ball caught in their scrum. I’ll never forget the feeling of Dick’s fingers trailing across my abdomen, of Sarah’s tongue on the backs of my knees. I’ll never forget the sight of the VP with his face between Her Babeness’s legs, or of Sarah licking the Angler’s asshole, silhouetted by the indigo and argent landscape out the windows. How many times did I think, "I can’t believe this is happening," swept along in a daze of desire and Rohypnol? I might not believe it today, if I didn’t have the keloid scars to show for it.

When I first saw my beautiful Sarah penetrated by Dick Cheney, something inside me broke and I cried out. The pain of that moment, and of the Angler squeezing my testicles, was exquisite. For the first few hours we’d all been equal partners in this erotic adventure, but now the truth was being made known: In this penthouse, there was one master and one only. There was predator and there was prey, governor and governed. There was Dick Cheney, and there was the rest of us.

Sarah went wild. With me, she’d always been responsive, her pleasure audible – but now she was like a beast uncaged, her eyes blank with frenzy. I’d thought I could win her heart by giving in to her demands, being the one who never said "no." But only now, Jewcy, did I see what she really wanted. Only now did I understand that the dominator always secretly wants to be dominated, strength always yearns for someone stronger. And the Angler played us like a maestro: his foot on my throat, his fingers in Sarah’s ass, her lips around his Vice Presidential member, all while he dialed room service with his free hand. It was beautiful. As my trachea began to collapse, I had the strange and somehow liberating thought that I deserved this, we all did. Hadn’t we been asking for it all along?

Later, I twitched and groaned in the tub, warm water bubbling gently from jacuzzi jets, soothing my bruised and broken bones, my lacerated skin, my fractured heart.

"It’s okay, baby," Sarah muttered. "Mommy’s still here." She lay sprawled on the cool tiles as though she’d been dumped out of a wheelbarrow. I slipped in and out of consciousness, until a voice at my side brought me back.

"’I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it -‘" it said.

With my last strength I pushed myself up. Dick Cheney was sitting on the bidet, watching me with fond, tired eyes. "’A sort of walking miracle,’" he said, reciting a poem I hold dear. "’My skin bright as a Nazi lampshade.’"

"That’s Plath," I groaned.

He brightened. "’Lady Lazarus.’ My favorite."

"I didn’t know you read poetry," I said wearily.

"I’m a huge Plath fan. What do you think I did the whole time I was dodging the Vietnam draft? I was reading poetry. Even wrote some." He sighed. "It wasn’t any good. But when I read your novel, Lady Lazarus, I just had to meet you."

"You liked it?"

He stared at his hands and nodded. "It was something. All that stuff about ‘90s punk rock, about celebrity culture and the cheapening of art, the sexualization of young women in the public eye and the glamorization of suicide. Real interesting," he said. "And then to throw in Zen Buddhism and Lacanian psychoanalysis – that was the coup, I think, exploring the connections between Eastern spirituality and poststructuralist theory, connecting them to Western narcissism…"

He let out a long, low whistle. On the floor, Sarah groaned. "And to have it be so funny," he said. "I nearly busted a gut. Satirical, and yet in the end very moving. You know, if I could do it all over again…" But he didn’t finish the thought. A moment later, he met my eyes. "Well, bravo," he said.

"Thanks," I said. "Dick."

"’For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge,’" he quoted, now touching his pacemaker. "’For the hearing of my heart -‘"

I finished the stanza for him: "’It really goes.’" Our eyes met. He put his hand atop mine. One moment of connection, before merciful sleep carried me off.

**

The "ding" of the elevator woke me. I didn’t know how much time had passed, only that the bathroom was cold and empty. When I heard the elevator door slide shut, I gingerly pushed myself out of the tub, staggered into the penthouse suite and stood shivering in the glare of raw morning. I didn’t quite know what had hit me.

In the last eight hours I’d been sodomized, brutalized, slapped, kicked, and violated; my last memory was of the VP standing over me, unleashing a powerful stream of urine. But now that he’d gone, and taken my beloved Sarah, I missed him. I missed them both. I’d believed them when they said they’d never leave me, that they would always look out for me, that even their most puzzling actions were done with my best interests at heart. They’d promised to keep me safe. But now I was alone.

In the elevator, I tried to stay calm. She would wait for me, I told myself. But who did I really want to see when I got to the lobby? I was confused, defeated. With each descending floor I felt it more acutely: the hangover, the terrible aftermath. We’d had a wild ride, but the party was over, the costs ever more apparent, ever more appalling. Dick and Sarah had taken my money, my dignity, the clothes off my back. I had no more respect for myself, nor could anyone respect me after the way I’d behaved. All that was left was resentment and self-loathing, the inescapable knowledge that the worst betrayal of all was my own.

Is there life after Sarah Palin? If so, who will I be? What will become of me?

Jewcy, I’m still trying to find out.

When the elevator opened, I dashed through the lobby and out the front doors, just in time to see Dick helping Sarah into the back of a stretch limo. He whispered something in her ear and she threw her head back and laughed, the laugh of a woman who’s found what she’s looking for, the laugh of a woman in love.

"Sarah," I said, but it came out too softly. I started for the car, but strong hands grabbed me and threw me down onto the pavement. Next thing I knew, I was pinned under Sarah’s two Aryan bodyguards.

"Aw, leave him be," one said. I had no strength left in me, and he knew it. On his face, I may even have seen pity.

I sat up, rubbing my bare arms. From inside the limo I could hear salsa music and the pop of a cork. As the car pulled away, the driver’s window lowered and the chauffeur leaned out to salute me. With a shudder, I recognized John McCain.

It was late morning. Hotel guests moved in and out. They barely noticed me, sitting naked and ruined on the driveway. I watched those taillights and thought about what I’d lost. For one more second I could hear the party still going on, before the limo turned onto the great Alaskan highway, gunned its engine, and left me out in the cold.

Andrew Foster Altschul, author of Lady Lazarus, spent the past week guest blogging on Jewcy.  This is his parting post.  Can’t get enough?  Buy his radicool book.

The post Letter from Jew-neau (Part V): In Which the Author Quotes Plath in the Bath appeared first on Jewcy.

Jewcy, I’ve never been so frightened – as Todd held me down I could feel water spilling into my nose, my heart thudding, my chest almost bursting with panic and oxygen deprivation. With a mighty wrench I lifted myself up. "Sarah!" I screamed, but Todd’s big, meaty hand clamped over my face and shoved me down again. There was water in my ears, in my mouth – they held me until I felt water pouring into my lungs and a bright white light burst in my head. My muscles wrenched and cramped, my back spasmed, a silent scream filled my skull. I may have wet my pants, but it was hard to say.

How had it come to this?

Only that morning, Sarah and I had been hiking on Gravina Island, enjoying the view of sleepy Ketchikan and beautiful Deer Mountain. Though stopping every hour or so to fuck, we still covered a lot of territory, Sarah pointing out the various places where illegal immigrants, Muslims, teachers, scientists, journalists, and anyone of French descent would live, once she was elected.

Timidly, I asked, "What about writers?" hoping to God we wouldn’t be put in the camps, too – or at least that my high-octane, well-lubed connection to Her Babeness would exempt me.

She didn’t answer. "And this," she said, sweeping her arm to point out a deep gorge below. It was several hundred feet down, the river that carved it long dry; a place where the sun never shone, impossible to get into or out of. "This is where we’ll put the community organizers." She made a face of such venomous disgust that it reminded me of our first night in the Baranof Hotel, when I’d said I needed a break from going down on her.

"I’m not really sure what you have against community organizers," I said. "Don’t you think they do important work?"

"It’s not the organizers." She arched her eyebrows, as though sharing something on which we agreed. "It’s those communities."

Then she threw her arms around me, jumping up and down like a charming girl. "Oh Andrew, let’s not ruin this beautiful day by talking about people Jesus hates," she said. "I want you to do something for me."

"Anything, my spotted fawn."

"I want you to be saved."

This gave me pause. It’s not like I’m an observant Jew or anything – I had to Google the date of Yom Kippur this year – but I’d never thought about taking Jesus as my personal savior. PJ Harvey, maybe – but the Son of God?

"I just can’t stand the thought of you being left behind," she said, tearing up. "I can’t stand the idea of you being struck down by the avenging sword of Christ and having to spend eternity with demons chewing on your ball-sack and Satan shoving his flaming fist up your ass while I eat grapes and read the Washington Times in a shady bower in Heaven. Who will I sled-dog with if you’re not there? Oh please please please, novelist? For your wittle Sarah-Warah who woves you so much?"

That’s how I found myself submerged in the baptismal fount at the Wasilla Assembly of God, with a Kenyan preacher waving a big heavy book over my head – and you can be sure it wasn’t Lady Lazarus!

Todd yanked me briefly out. "Tell us!" he screamed in my face. "Tell us what we want to hear!" Then he plunged me into the water again. My arms, twisted over the sides, felt like they were breaking, my guts churning with Holy Water. "Tell us, motherfucker!"

"I don’t kno-" Down I went again. I was sure now that I would die, a lapsed Jew in the Wasilla Assembly of God. I remembered Sarah’s last words as she kissed me goodbye: "It’s just a little dunk in the water. Then you’ll be one of us."

When he pulled me out again, I gasped, "Okay!" The music and the clapping stopped. Everyone stared at me, the two goons brandishing their fists. The preacher’s eyes rolled back in his head and he shook and made unintelligible sounds, like George Bush trying to read a sixth-grade vocabulary test. "Um… I love Jesus?" I said. Everyone cheered, and balloons with crosses printed on them fell from the ceiling. Sarah rushed forward and squeezed me while I coughed and sputtered and shook and eventually passed out in her arms from relief.

They took me back to their house and sat me at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, while Willow, the middle daughter, made tea. Other than some urgent thumping coming from Bristol’s room upstairs, it was a peaceful afternoon, and while Sarah took a long bath – she’d mentioned something about a mysterious rendezvous that night – I asked Todd about something that had been bothering me.

"Weren’t you supposed to give testimony in the Troopergate affair today?" I said. "Weren’t you under subpoena from the Alaska Senate Judiciary Committee?"

He laughed. "Yup."

"Did you go?"

Another laugh. "Nope." When I looked puzzled, he said, "Look, it’s like, no big thing. You don’t have to testify when you get a sup-… serb-…"

"Subpoena? That’s the whole point – you have to testify."

"Not if you’re like famous or something, or Christian, or you don’t like the people who issued it." I said I figured that he and Her Babeness would want to set the record straight about whether she had pressured the Public Safety Commissioner to fire her sister’s ex-husband, and whether she fired him when he wouldn’t do as she asked. I asked why, if she hadn’t done anything wrong, she’d want to make it look like they were stonewalling, perpetuating the scandal through Election Day.

He scratched his crotch. "Dude, of course that’s why she fired Walt. Duh!"

From upstairs, we heard water sloshing, and then Sarah’s voice. "Honey, are you talking about the trooper thing again?" 

"That dude was like a total douche," Todd told me. "What was Sarah supposed to do?"

When I said government officials weren’t supposed to fire subordinates just because they didn’t see eye to eye on personal matters, and weren’t supposed to use their office to carry out vendettas, he looked at me as though I were speaking another language. With a bang on the kitchen table, he stood and went into the next room.

"You think you’re so smart," he said, unrolling a parchment scroll. "Just cause you wrote that really cool book, Lady Lazarus, you think you know everything. Well, this here legal opinion says different. It says if someone under your power is uncool you can fire them. It says, and I quote, ‘conventions regarding the abuse of power are quaint or obsolete.’ So there, writer guy."

"Who wrote that?"

He bent over the parchment. "It’s signed by Al… Albert Gozo…"

"Alberto Gonzales?"

"Yeah, that’s it! And someone named John Yoo."

"Figures," I said. That’s when Her Babeness, fresh from the bath, her skin radiant as a spring peach, swept into the kitchen. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel and she wore leopard-skin panties and nothing else. "Todd, baby, you’re going to be late for your secessionist meeting," she said. "Andrew and I have an appointment to keep."

"Yes, Mother," he said.

All the way from Wasilla to Anchorage, Sarah was keyed up and distracted. After Todd left, and we slaked our lust on the kitchen table, Sarah had put on a stunning little black number and stiletto heels. She borrowed one of Levi’s suits, which fit me pretty well, and we sped off toward our secret assignation. From the passenger seat, I stared at Her Babeness, once again marveling at the strange events that had led up to this night. There was something new in the air, a charge I didn’t recognize. When I put my hand on her knee, she sucked on my fingers and floored the accelerator.

Jewcy, it’s a good thing I have some experience with powerful women who are detached from reality. My novel, Lady Lazarus, deals with a confessional poet who is, shall we say, a couple french fries short of a Happy Meal. But it’s her mother, a punk rock star, who most reminds me of Sarah Palin: smoking hot, with some kooky religious ideas, married to a man who can’t quite keep pace. Sarah was beyond me every step of the way – smarter, better looking, more skilled at conspiracy, hornier. As the Anchorage skyline grew up out of the tundra, I started to feel a strange dismay, the sour certainty that, wherever she was going, I might not be able to follow. Would my Wasillan Love Machine be willing to stay behind?

"So, I have something to ask you," she said, her words a little shy, one finger twirling her hair.

"Anything, dear heart."

"Do you think you’re ready? To take the next step?"

How my heart leapt! "Yes! Yes, I am, Sarah. Oh, sweetheart, I thought you’d never ask."

"I’m so happy," she said. She pulled up in front of the Millennium Alaskan hotel, the lights spangling on the surface of Lake Spenard, dancing like the very spirit of love. "I can’t wait!"

"When will we do it?" I said.

Her Babeness leaned over and kissed my ear. "Right now. He’s waiting for us. I booked the penthouse suite." She got out of the car and, as a valet trotted over, dropped the keys on the pavement. He? What the hell was she talking about? Who was he, and what did he have to do with our future?

I followed Sarah through the lobby and into the elevator. "What’s going on?" I was nearly hysterical.

"I just thought it was time to spice things up a bit, novelist," she said. "I thought I’d bring someone else into the mix."

"You mean -" I swallowed hard. "A ménage à trois?"

She looked at me strangely. "No, I mean a threesome. Now straighten your tie."

The elevator rose and I nearly crumpled to the floor with anxiety. Whoever was waiting for us in the penthouse suite, whatever happened tonight, I would never be the same. We would never be the same. I looked over at Sarah and wanted to weep – for what we once were, for what we might have become.

The elevator slowed. With a lurch and a bright, ominous "ding," the door slid open.

Tomorrow: The mysterious man in the penthouse suite; Lady Lazarus’s biggest fan; is there life after Her Babeness?

Andrew Foster Altschul, author of Lady Lazarus, is guest blogging on Jewcy.  Tomorrow he’ll publish his parting post.  Stay tuned.

The post Letter from Jew-neau (Part IV): In Which the Author is Saved appeared first on Jewcy.

"What’s she really like?" they ask. "What does she do for fun? She’s so hot, don’t you feel nervous around her?" People want to know her little quirks, her secrets, what kind of toothpaste she uses. I’m bombarded with questions about Todd and Trig and Track. They want the inside scoop, the Wasilla skinny, her likes and dislikes.

Well, I’ll tell you one thing: Her Babeness likes sex.

Who doesn’t, right? But Sarah Palin is above and beyond. She likes sex the way SUVs like gasoline, the way cats like nip, the way Paris Hilton likes attention and George W. Bush likes really small, easily pronounceable words. Frankly, it’s starting to scare me.

She’s a tigress, a terror, a tyrant in a teal snowsuit. When Sarah says jump, this writer gets busy. When she peers at me over the top of her frameless glasses, I know I’m not getting any sleep. She’s loud, ardent, she says what she wants and expects to get it. And she wants it all! Oral one minute, manual the next, she’s got the Kama Sutra memorized, and she’s even come up with her own variations. Her favorite is a position she calls "sled-doggie style" – and I gotta tell you, the harness kind of hurts!

The weirdest part is that whenever we’re sled-dogging, she seems to forget my name."Mush, John! Go faster," she says. "Atta boy, John. Take me all the way!" Who the hell is John, I want to know?

She’s got a closet full of equipment – Oh how that sliding door sets my knees a-trembling! – whips, knives, strap-ons, lots of spare batteries. A five-gallon drum of lubricant, a bottle of iodine always close at hand. She learned the art of seduction at a CIA black site, foreplay somewhere on the border of Pakistan and Iraq. Family values? My ass. Actually, her ass. What I’m trying to say is, Sarah is a dirty, dirty girl.

But she’s still my sweetheart, and I’m her left-wing Jewish novelist toy.

"I’m just so lucky I met you," she said the other night. She rested her head on my shoulder and we strolled under the full moon, owls hooting in the distance. She kissed me, hard, and we slipped a little on the icy roadway. We both giggled.

"I’m glad you’re back," I said. She’d been in New York for several days, meeting important people. ("What a snooze!" was all she’d said about it. "Half of them didn’t even speak English.") While she was gone, I was kept tied up in the basement of the capitol building; once a day, Todd brought me coffee and a bowl of raw, greasy seal meat.

"Andrew, don’t you just love the sky over Gravina Island?" She pointed to the dark hills ahead, the distant gleam of glaciers. Behind us, the town of Ketchikan glowed warmly, reflected in the still waters of the Tongass Narrows. "I’m so happy we got this darned bridge built. It’s just so romantic."

"Gravina?" I said, ducking to avoid the wingbeats of a heron that swooped out of the darkness. "You mean, this is the Bridge to Nowhere? I thought you said, ‘No, thanks!’"

"It was such a terrible name," she said, pulling me close for an Eskimo kiss. "So I said, ‘no, thanks’ to a Bridge to Nowhere, and ‘yes, yes, yes’ to the ‘Highway of Love.’"

She widened her eyes and clapped her hands like a schoolgirl looking for approval. How could anyone not love such a sweet creature!

"Besides, what’s the big deal? You New Yorkers have the Golden Gate Bridge, why shouldn’t Alaskans have the Highway of Love?"

I ignored the comment about me being from New York – you have to choose your battles with Her Babeness – and pointed out that the Golden Gate Bridge serves over 100,000 people a day, and cost a fraction of the $400 million it cost to build the, er, Highway of Love. "Plus, it was financed with bonds held by a private bank, not with federal tax dollars," I said. I thought surely I had her there.

But Sarah’s full of surprises. "Well, my little polar bear cub, what with the government buying $700 billion of bad mortgages, federal tax dollars and private banks are kind of the same thing now, aren’t they?" God, I love how her mind works!

We’d reached the end of the road, and Sarah set off into the hills where her advance team had set up camp. My legs were shaky, my lungs still burning from the crack we’d smoked earlier, in bed. I quickly fell behind. Somewhere in the darkness I could hear rustling and moaning, as though a strange animal were suffering terribly. "Wait for me, darling," I called, but Sarah had already disappeared.

Jewcy, there comes a time when every man questions his life. He looks around, takes stock, tries to imagine having done it differently. I stood on that hillside, under the breathtaking sky, and thought about the path that had brought me to Gravina. Certainly it had something to do with Lady Lazarus and success, with the need to escape the adoring crowds. But, I thought, still hearing the strange cries, didn’t it also have something to do with fate?

When I finally caught up, Her Babeness was already in the tent. She had changed into a sexy black union suit, and in the light from the lantern I could see that her nipples were even harder than usual. It was cold, sure – but I knew I was in for a strenuous night. Teeth chattering, I assumed the position – but as Sarah was heating the oil I caught sight of something on her chest: a lapel pin.

"That’s not the American flag," I said.

"What, this?" she said, unzipping the front of the suit and exposing quite a bit of skin in an effort to distract me. I moved closer, only to discover that what she wore above her plump and luscious left breast was a tiny Israeli flag.

For a moment, I was pleased by the thought that she’d worn it for me, that, knowing I was Jewish, my alluring Alaskan amour was trying, however misguidedly, to please me. "I’m touched," I said.

"You like it? My pastor at the Wasilla Assembly of God said wearing it would help bring about the End Times," she said, running her tongue across my collarbone. "Plus, it will help us get that natural gas pipeline built."

"The…um…" I was finding it hard to concentrate while she bound my hands behind my back. "The End Times?"

"You know, silly – when Christ comes back to kick serious ass and all the nonbelievers go up in a pillar of flame!" She had my pants around my ankles, and with a heave she flipped me onto my stomach. I pointed out that I was a nonbeliever and she laughed and delivered a sharp slap to my bare ass. "You’re such a kidder. That’s why I love you."

"But… what about the American flag? Aren’t you worried FOX News will accuse you of not being patriotic?"

Her lips were close to my ear, one hand pressing firmly between my shoulder blades. I could hear jingling behind me as she cinched up her work belt. "Not at all, novelist," she said, the last thing I heard. "I have pins from all the other 49 states, too."

I don’t know how much later it was when I woke up, warm and sticky in Sarah’s embrace. Her Babeness was snoring lightly, the lantern guttering and throwing shadows around the tent. In the distance, the strange moaning had resumed – I was sure now it was a human voice, the voice of a man in terrible anguish.

"Sarah," I whispered. "Baby, I think someone’s in trouble."

"Hmmm?" she rolled over. "It’s fine. Probably just Joe."

"Joe?" The cries mounted, spiraling into an inhuman shriek.

"The boys are out there with him, doing a little debate prep. Lie down with me."

My blood ran cold. "Debate prep? You mean, that’s Joe Biden?"

Sarah sighed her impatience and propped herself on an elbow. "For cryin out loud, you think it’s fair I should have to compete with someone like him? He’s been governor much longer than I have." She reached for her union suit and started to get dressed; in the dim light I could see spatters of dried blood on the material – I closed my eyes and prayed she wouldn’t notice, or I’d be in big trouble.

"You’re just protecting him because he’s your coreligionist," she said petulantly, fingering the lapel pin. With a vicious tug, she zipped up the suit; I felt a sting of grief as her perfect breasts disappeared.

"No, he’s not," I said. "What are you talking about? I just respect the man for being outspoken and unapologetic about liberal causes. Sure, he runs off at the mouth sometimes, but only because he can’t hide his indignation at Republican hypocrisy and incompetence. He’s less full of shit than anyone in Washington, exactly what we need after eight years of shameless lies."

"He’s a lawyer, he’s a grouch, he’s got kind of kinky hair – of course he’s Jewish," she snapped. "And once I’m elected, he’ll be happy to have gotten a tour of Gravina in advance."

She unzipped the tent and stood in the crystalline chill of the new morning. On the ridge far above, I could make out the form of a wolf out for the hunt. I wondered if he, too, had come across the narrows on the Highway of Love, or whether wolves had always been on this island, whether every part of Alaska was their home.

We sat on stumps and sipped coffee, and when I thought her temper had subsided I asked Her Babeness what she’d meant about Biden being happy to have seen Gravina. She touched her palm to my cheek – Jewcy, how could I not forgive her? – and said he’d be spending a lot of time here, once the camps were up and running.

I kissed her hand, distracted. From the other side of the ridge came the sound of a grown man crying. "Camps?"

"For the Jews. And, you know, the other unwhite people. And the cosmopolitans and the media, and definitely the celebrities. Except Alec Baldwin. He’ll have his own island. But, yeah, this is where we’re gonna put all the people who aren’t really American and don’t love this country enough. Why do you think we needed the Highway of Love?

"I don’t know why you’re so surprised, novelist," she said as she cleaned her toys with bleach. "Weren’t you listening to what Rudy and I said at the convention?"

Tomorrow: The secrets of Troopergate revealed; Sarah takes me to church; Her Babeness pops the question…

Andrew Foster Altschul, author of Lady Lazarus, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and he’ll be here all week.  Stay tuned.

The post Letter from Jew-neau (Part III): In Which Sarah Palin Reveals Her Breasts and Her Plans for the Jews appeared first on Jewcy.

“Like this?” I said. I was breathing hard, blowing steam into the air. “Is that good?” “Faster!” she said. Her command echoed across the tundra, startling a vulture or two into flight. “Gosh darnit, can’t you move any faster?” The truth was, I couldn’t. Her Babeness had worn me out. But for her, my radiant snow goose, my siren song of subarctic sex appeal, I would try harder, no matter how sore and depleted I was, no matter how cold. Summoning my last burst of energy, I pumped my legs and sprinted across an open field between two high snowbanks. The moose antlers she’d made me wear swayed perilously on my head, the leather straps that fastened them chafing my chin. You’d be shocked at how heavy moose antlers are – earlier, Sarah told me these had come from a 1300-lb. bull killed last season. I could barely lift them. But Sarah picked them up with one hand.

“My seven year old, Piper, shot that bull,” she said, fastening them to my head. “Jeez, you’re a pussy.” Now, across the undulant snow, Sarah raised her rifle. Jewcy, it can’t be overstated how unbelievably hot she looked in her camouflage pants and ammo vest, her bare shoulders dusted white –like an angel, a curvaceous and possibly deadly angel. I tried to zig-zag, though I knew this was un-mooselike; but damned if I was going to stand still and eat shrubs and bark while the governor took aim. I saw the puff from the muzzle before I heard it. Then there was a crack and a slam on my antlers and a wrenching of the neck and next thing I knew I was flat on my ass in the snow. Waves of color flapped across my vision, electric curtains dancing almost as erotically as Sarah had danced the night before, in the Baranof Hotel. “Is that the Northern Lights?” I muttered, stunned and broken. I closed my eyes, but the colors kept dancing. “Bulls-eye!” I could hear Sarah running toward me, panting, and I remembered how she’d sounded in the big bed in Suite 604. “That’s a confirmed kill.” “Are you going to eat me now?” I said. “Isn’t that what you do around here?” “Well,” she said coquettishly. “First I’m gonna string you up and tear your flesh off, then bleed you and slice you up into little pieces. I’ll bet your meat is real, real succulent, novelist.” “Will it hurt?” I said, trying to keep up with the little game. Or, at least, I hoped it was a game. I’d only known Her Babeness for three days – three wild, beautiful days in which we barely left Suite 604 – but I thought she might be dangerous. There was that Room Service waiter she had fired when she found out he once dated her oldest daughter (though she told the manager it was because the Steak Tartare was cold). Then there was the time I’d woken to find her holding a straight razor to my throat, rifling through my wallet; she’d laughed it off, placated me witha long, slow kiss. “I’m a Republican,” she shrugged. “It’s just something we do.” “Get up,” she said now, shielding her eyes. “I can’t feel anything in my legs.” “What do I care? Just because I shot you, does that mean I have to play nursemaid? The freakin’ welfare state’s over, novelist. We have to get back to Wasilla. Meter’s running – I want to collect every cent of the per diem for travel.” I rolled to one side and managed to unstrap the moose antlers. My head was throbbing, blood trickling over my scalp. I thought I saw Sarah lick her lips. “Travel? Don’t you live in Wasilla?” She cocked her hip and puffed out her lips that way I like. “I’m the governor. I live in Juneau.” When we left the Baranof, I’d told Sarah I’d never been moose hunting. She said it was just like deer hunting, and I said I’d never done that, either. “Well what do you hunt in New York, rats?” she said. I told her again I didn’t live in New York, and explained that Jews don’t really hunt. We made a pact: If I was a good sport about the whole getting-shot-at thing, she’d make it up to me by doing something “more Jewdy” afterward. Now, over a plate of Kung Pao Grouse in Seward’s Fortune Cookie, Wasilla’s only Chinese restaurant, she asked me about Lady Lazarus, my novel. “There’s no sex in it, is there?” “Some,” I allowed. “Straight, gay, you name it. Masturbation, too.” “Then we’re not going to have it in our libraries. Nuh-uh, no way pardner.” “That surprises me,” I said, shoveling the food in. Since the Room Service episode, we’d barely eaten. I said a woman with five kids couldn’t object to sex that much. Plus, I said, I happened to know for a fact that she enjoyed sex quite heartily. I slid my hand across her knee, but Her Babeness stabbed it with a chopstick and I withdrew. “Anyway,” I said, stung and feeling pouty. “You can’t ban books. The Wasilla librarian already told you that.” In response, Sarah lit up that $700 billion smile, the one that turns my guts to mush. “That’s the great thing – once I’m elected, all that’s going to change!” When I asked how, she said she would write a Constitutional amendment. I said I didn’t think it worked that way, and she banged a fist on the table, spilling hot and sour soup all over the place. “Yes it does! That’s the Bush Doctrine – we can do whatever we want. It’s the theory of the Urinary Executive!” “Sarah,” I said. “Sweetheart. Do you mean the Unitary Executive?” To which she reached out and gripped my chin, squeezing my cheeks together painfully. “Ooh, that’s why I love you writers,” she said. “So good with words. Oh, hello boys, is it time for Andrew’s little, er, interview?” Behind me were the two Aryan agents from the Baranof, looking none too pleased. I thought maybe they’d found out about the fancy bathrobe I’d stolen from Suite 604, but as they dragged me out to the snowmobile I realized that couldn’t be it – since when did Republicans object to stealing? Blindfolded, lashed by wind, still bleeding – and worse, I hadn’t finished my Kung Pao! – I bounced on the back of the snowmobile as we raced across the landscape to an undisclosed location deep underground. “Tell the truth, scumbag,” said one, throwing me onto a cot with no mattress. The other bound my wrists and ankles to the frame. When he picked up a thick electrical cable, my teeth started to chatter. “W-what are you doing?” “It’s called ‘extraordinary rendition,’” one of them laughed. “We’re in Russia now.” “Wanna look out the window?” said the other. “Maybe you’ll see your girlfriend waving.” “Now,” said the one brandishing the cable. “Talk.” Jewcy, I thought I would be stronger. I thought, when the brown shirts (flannel, in this case) finally came for me, I’d stick to my guns, die with my mouth shut. But it took only a few taps of that cable against the bed frame before I was squealing like a pig who’s lost his lipstick. I told them everything: How I’d hacked into Sarah Palin’s email accounts, crazed and lovesick, how I just had to know everything about her. How I’d set it up to look like that kid from Tennessee did it, the state representative’s son. “Oh god I’m so sorry,” I cried. My legs spasmed, my gums crackling as though I were chewing tin foil. “Oh Sarah, please forgive me!” Before the agent could jolt me again, the metal door smacked open. “Stop!” Sarah said. She flung herself next to me on the cot. “You mean, you did it for love?” “Uh huh,” I whimpered. “And not to get at the state business I was illegally conducting on personal accounts so as to circumvent laws about keeping records of all such official communications, thereby avoiding accountability for my actions as governor?” All I could do was sniffle and hide my face in her breasts. She stroked my cheek and I wept, hugged her while she whispered and cooed. All lovers go through rough spots, Jewcy – there are no fairy tales in life, no perfect relationships. What really matters is communication: the ability to talk through the difficult things with your partner, to weather the hard times and emerge stronger. Together. “Take your clothes off,” she said. But I was still bound to the bed, so she took them off for me. Then she lay across my quivering form and, touching her lips to mine, pulled the cable to the nearest bedpost. I couldn’t possibly articulate the white-hot ecstasy that followed, my soul and Sarah’s fused in an electrical storm of passion until the rusted old springs finally gave way and we fell to the floor, collapsing into the kind of sleep only known by those blessed with true love. When we woke, the door was open, a tall silhouette blocking the light from the hall. “Sarah?” the man whispered. I nudged Her Babeness awake. She sat up, her body lit lusciously by the moonlight, her hairdo unperturbed by our crazed lovemaking. The room smelled vaguely like roast turkey. “What is it, Todd?” she said. “Well, uh, honey, uh… I just –” “Spit it out!” she said. “And call me ‘Mother,’ for Christ’s sake.” “Sorry, Mother. But, uh, who’s this guy?” Sarah smiled, and you could see immediately how her smile pleased him. From her briefcase, she took out a copy of Lady Lazarus. “He’s a novelist, Todd. Look at this book he wrote – isn’t it big…?” “Yeah, but, uh…” Todd scratched his head. “Why are you guys, like, naked?” The governor of Alaska stood and walked across the room in all her glory. She slid her arms around the First Dude’s waist and nuzzled his neck – oh, how it hurt me! – tickling his ribs until he cracked a smile. “You’re so silly-willy,” she said. “Todd’s so jeally-welly, isn’t he, Andrew?” I thought it might be best to keep my mouth shut. Todd twisted and shrugged, trying not to get tickled. Finally, Sarah stopped. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” she said, winking at me so he couldn’t see. “Andrew was a Hillary Clinton supporter. I’m just making sure I have his vote.” Tomorrow: Sarah Palin’s secret love techniques; a romantic, moonlight walk on the Bridge to Nowhere; strange happenings in the Alaskan bush…

Andrew Foster Altschul, author of Lady Lazarus, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and he’ll be here all week.  Stay tuned.

The post Letter from Jew-neau (Part II): In Which the Author is Hunted, Tortured, and Brought to Climax appeared first on Jewcy.

Thanks for inviting me to be a guest blogger! I have to admit, at first I wasn’t sure what to write about. I mean, I do post every so often on The Huffington Post–but those are usually impassioned tirades about the calamitous political situation. You know: how George Bush and the Republicans have destroyed the country, and the Democrats have let them do it, and how if Obama doesn’t get on the stick we’re in for four more years of it? But let’s face it: that stuff’s just no fun! 

Between the occasional HuffPo rant, and co-organizing San Francisco’s Progressive Reading Series, and teaching creative writing, and promoting my new novel, Lady Lazarus, I’ve been pretty busy lately. Which is why I recently decided I needed a vacation. Somewhere beautiful, quiet, maybe a little on the chilly side. Somewhere slightly exotic, but not foreign, somewhere people wouldn’t constantly be talking about literature, or yammering on about elections. Somewhere far off the political map.

That’s how I wound up in Alaska.

And that’s how Sarah Palin and I met, and fell in love – if that’s what you call the hot, slippery, sexually supercharged relationship we’re carrying on in secret – and how, at last, I found something to blog about.

It all started at the Baranof Hotel, a dignified old establishment on Juneau’s North Franklin St., just a few blocks from the capitol. On weekday evenings the Baranof’s almost-swanky lounge, the Bubble Room, bustles with legislators and staffers in snow shoes and Armani parkas, hunting rifles slung amiably over their shoulders, talking policy over scotchcicles and bowls of moose stew. Light jazz tinkles from hidden speakers, but can’t drown out the baying of the sled dogs tied up outside. Everything about the Baranof says "romance," and when I made the reservation, I’d told them I wanted to splurge – what with the tsunami of royalties from Lady Lazarus, and the exorbitant salary of a creative writing teacher, I figured, sky’s the limit. They gave me Suite 604, a nicely appointed suite with plush couches in the sitting area and a beautiful view of the Gastineau Channel and Douglas Island. "Home, sweet home," I thought, flipping through the television menus to see what my late-night porn choices would be. Little did I know, I wouldn’t have to choose.

When I walked into the Bubble Room, I was greeted by waves and back-slaps and high fives. It seemed a little odd, but I figured Alaskans must just love left-wing Jewish artists from San Francisco. Everyone wanted to buy me a drink, and to talk about Lady Lazarus – again, I was surprised; I had no idea a book about poetry, punk rock, celebrity, and suicide would be such a hit on the Last Frontier. By midnight, when the sun had started to slant through the windows, I was in my cups, feeling pretty proud of myself for having chosen Juneau for my getaway. All that was missing was female companionship, so I called the bartender over and asked him if he knew where I might find some.

"Funny you should ask," he said, with a strange look of concern. "Someone’s been trying to get your attention." I started to turn around, but he lunged across the bar and grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Be careful," he said. He squared his jaw and leaned closer. "Be strong."

At a table near the back sat the brightest bubble in the Bubble Room. She was wearing a red leather jacket, tightly belted, with big black buttons and wide lapels. Her hair was swept up and shimmering under faux-tiki torches. When our eyes met, her smile flashed with the kind of megawattage that can only be generated by fossil fuels. I was paralyzed. I tried desperately to think of how to introduce myself.

Jewcy, it was love at first sight.

Before I could come up with an introduction, hands grabbed my elbows and lifted me off the stool. Two tall, blond men in hunting jackets stood at my sides. Their sunglasses reflected the torches; their earpieces buzzed with secret instructions. They had identical clefts in their strong chins. "Time for your appointment," one said.

"Appointment?" I croaked.

"Her Babeness doesn’t like your game. She wants to talk to you," snarled the other.

I looked over to where my beautiful bubble had been. Seeing a flash of red disappearing into an adjoining room, I suddenly understood.

They ushered me through the bar, slowed only by the many people trying to get me to sign their copies of Lady Lazarus. "I’m sorry!" I called back, as they dragged me through a door. The room was cold, windowless, concrete. There was a steel table on an incline, with a complicated network of tubes and pulleys overhead. Somewhere, the sound of water slowly dripping.

"If you wanted to impress me, staying in Suite 604 isn’t the way." Behind me, in a high-backed leather chair, sat my lovely bubble. Her smile was the only source of heat in that chamber. She wrinkled her nose – so adorable! – as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

"W-why?" I said. "What’s wrongwith Suite 604?"

The two Aryan goons started to snicker. "Like you don’t know," one said. "Why else would you be here?" said the other. "All you New York journalists come here because of 604." In the chair, Her Babeness tilted her head and blinked a lot. I said I wasn’t from New York, and I wasn’t a journalist – which seemed to confuse the goons. "But… you look like a New Yorker."

"I’m a novelist," I said, somewhat indignantly. "From San Francisco. I’m on vacation."

"Boys," said the bubble. "Maybe you should take a lunch break."

When they had left, she motioned for me to have a seat on the steel table. I said I preferred to stand and she giggled, then stood and shoved me backward. I sat.

"See, not many people request Suite 604. It’s got what we Alaskans call ‘a history.’" That’s when she explained about VECO, the oil pipeline company that bribed basically the whole state legislature, not to mention Alaska’s only U.S. congressman, Don Young, the ornery senator, Ted Stevens, and for good measure, Stevens’s son Ben. The Feds had caught them by bugging Suite 604 and capturing some pretty incriminating discussions on tape. Suddenly I understood the warm welcome I’d gotten from all the government staffers: they thought the gravy train was back!

It turned out that my bubble of charm and sex appeal was none other than the governor of Alaska, who’d made much of her reputation by denouncing Alaska’s good ol’ boy system of corruption, even while she worked hard to help Stevens continue to extract pipelines full of pork spending from the federal government.

"Not a bad trick," I said. I pressed my palms against cold steel. It may have been the chilliness of the room, but I was shaking like a kid at the eighth grade dance.

"I know!" she said, biting herlower lip. "I like to play both sides."

I was sure now that Her Babeness was flirting with me. How I longed to pull her close! But I didn’t dare.

"Governor of Alaska," I said. "And so smart, and so, um, physically, you know, attractive. You’re doing pretty well for yourself."

That’s when Sarah Palin put her hand on my chest, leaned close, and said, "It gets better than that, even…"

Jewcy, I’m sure you’re reading this with your mouth wide open. I’m sure it’s as hard for you to believe as it was for me – but I swear every word of it is true! As she led me out through a back door, and up a hidden staircase to the sixth floor of the Baranof, she told me something that blew my mind: She’d been chosen to run for Vice President. Of the United States!

Needless to say, by the time we arrived at Suite 604 the governor and I were weak-kneed and frothing with desire. She shoved me into the room and dimmed the lights and we fell onto the couch in a sweat. I fumbled with the belt of her jacket, but she pinned my arms under her knees and whispered in my ear, "Is it true about Jewish men? Are you really the Chosen Ones?" How to describe the look on her face? She was still smiling broadly, but her eyes pierced me with intensity, drilling into my skull as though I were a coastal plain in the ANWR, and she’d just caught a whiff of light, sweet crude.

Sarah unbelted her jacket, undoing each button with an unblinking wrinkle of the nose. What do you think she was wearing underneath?

"I like novelists," she said. "I like them a lot. In my administration, we’re going to outsource the fiction to professionals. That way, we can privatize, and keep our hands clean, at the same time." Stark naked except for her mukluks and the latex gloves, dazzlingly beautiful, Her Babeness glanced around Suite 604 with a proprietary, satisfied look. "You know," she said in a husky voice, "a lot of people have gotten royally fucked in this room…"

Somehow, though my throat was parched, I managed to whisper, "Why do you think I requested it?" Sarah threw back her head and laughed. Then she picked up the remote control and tossed it in my lap.

"Stop talking, novelist," she said. "Save your words for the next war. They comped us the all-night porn package. You’d better conserve your strength."

Tomorrow: Sarah takes me on a moose hunt; the Secret Service roughs me up while Sarah watches; First Dude Todd Palin suspects something…

Andrew Foster Altschul, author of Lady Lazarus, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and he’ll be here all week.  Stay tuned.

The post Letter from Jew-neau (Part I): Sweet, Crude Sex with Sarah appeared first on Jewcy.