Canadian Coffee Break: Dick Cheney And You

’cofadian’The Canadian Coffee Break brings together some of the finest Canadian minds in Southern California every week for a topical, lively round-tablesque discussion over very dark coffee. Won’t you join us.


You have been tasked with hosting Dick Cheney in Los Angeles for 48 hours. You will have the exclusive rights to Dick Cheney’s time and may bend his ear on any topic during that time, but you must keep in mind: Dick Cheney likes (a) food, (b) his booze, (c) flea markets. Where do you take Dick Cheney for 48 hours? What do you talk about, and why?

’chenenjealous’Seth (website)
48 Hours of Dick:
I’d like Dick to experience my L.A., for what it’s worth. I suppose that would begin with a round of head-to-head competiton on my recently purchased Nintendo Wii. I think to be heart-safe, we’ll stick to golf. Then we’ll drop by bike-and-coffee shop Choke on Normal Ave. for a couple lattes and to scope out the wicked motorbikes and scooters and say hi to its dreamy-eyed proprietor Jeff Johnsen. I’d quietly ask Dick if he thought Jeff was dreamy and he’d undoubtedly say he doesn’t know but his smirk and flush complexion would end up giving him away. Then we’d hightail it to Gold’s Gym Hollywood for a morning workout. I’d ask Dick for a spot on the bench, and he’d shout, “Dammit, one more, Seth!” out of that trademark sidways-snarl, and I’d squeeze one more rep out! A quick shower and a protein shake would follow (the Velvet Elvis, peanut butter and banana…mmmmm…) and we’d to hit the town for a little shopping at the Adidas Heritage store on Melrose and Laurel, where I’d help him pick out a track suit jacket and pair of killer kicks. At this point we’re getting hungry for some substantial food, so I’d insist he crack out the White House Black Card at Pizzeria Mozza for some thin crust and a nice rosé. We’d probably catch a movie after that at the Vista–but not Across the Universe. Let’s pretend Eastern Promises is playing there, and I’d lean over to Dick during the naked bathhouse fight scene and I’d ask him if he found Aragorn hotter with or without tattoos and/or clothes and he’d say, “Shh! I’m watching the movie.” Dinner would be somewhere equally extravagant since he’s paying…but since he keeps referring to L.A. as a “sausage factory” I’ll take him somewhere where he can meet some hot Hollywood-type chicks and maybe some celebrities. KOI! We’d get his driver to take us there, and we’d sort of hold court doing sake shots at the sushi bar as Dick’s various admirers like Christopher Titus and Pat O’Brien walk up to him to shake his hand. Then I’d start getting itchy to get out of this scene, so I’d tell him I’m taking us to Jumbos Clown Room to get a lapdance from a really hot, really bipolar stripper, but I’d do the old bait and switch and take him to Hot Dog at the Firefly–a literal sausage fest, knowing deep-down that what Dick really wants is more Dick. I’d order up a round of Jack n’ Coke Doubles, then put a fistful of dollar bills into his hand and push him towards the gogo boys dressed like sci fi heroes. After a little encouragement and a few sips of cocktail, Dick will really get into the spirit, shoving the majority of his allotment into the gold lamé thong of one particularly nubile blonde, best described as Flash Gordon: The Teen Years. At closing time, we’d hit the 101 to drunkenly scarf their macaroni and cheese (awesome) and stumble home. Then there’s Sunday, but I gotta keep something for just me and Dick.

If Dick Cheney were my guest for 48 hours?! Ok, that would only happen in a Philip K Dick story. So after leaving the protective enclaves of the Bunker Hill satellite, we’d take the spaceship and probably spend the better part of the day going an a field trip to visit the off-world colonies , to, you know, get in touch with the silent majorities. In the evening we’d return for some low balls at Taylors in Koreatown , but he’d go home that night complaining of indigestion. Cheney’d stay in his room the next day, and never share with anyone the fact that those 24 hours would seemed to him to have lasted 1000 years, due to some strange psychotropic reaction between his heart medication and the hormones in the steak.

’chenenjealous’Sean Chrétien
Upon Massa Cheney’s arrival, I’d take him to his hotel room at the Regent Beverly Wilshire or wherever to unload his baggage. Much to the chagrin of Dick, CNN’s Jack Cafferty or MSNBS’s Keith Olbermann would be blasting Georgie on the TV set in the living room and the thermostat would be set to dead-of-winter heatmode, thereby forcing Big C to melt just a little. Of course, the kitchenette would be fully stocked with crude oil for Dicky to sip on; however, I would deftly distill it with the tap water of us plebs in an effort to force Che into remembering his humble roots. The fridge would be fully stocked with Oreo Pizzas from Domnio’s, because I’ve read enough to know how much my man loves cardiac arrest.

After Dicky’s OP and crude, I’d arrange a series of quick tete-a-tetes for the hapless Veep. First, I’d sit him down with a 5th grade civics teacher from any of our fine LAUSD institutions to explain to him that yes, he is in fact part of the executive branch. Undoubtedly, after this brief jaunt with logic, C would be foaming at the mouth and in need of more crude. I would offer it to him in a Styrofoam cup, but surely, at this point, he’d need to shoot it with a syringe. For this, I’d take Dick down to Central City East to greet the disenfranchised patrons of Skid Row who, with all their mental idiosyncrasies, would probably get along with D.C. just fyne. After his shot of crude, I’d take Dick to his last stop – Girl Bar in West Hollywood. Here, I would hope Dick could either get in touch with his inner lesbian (s’gotta be in the genes) or at least start moaning like an angry Chewbacca in a fit of insanity. Either way, it’d be out of the ordinary.

’chenenjealous’Jamie (website)
I’d be like, “Hey Dick, how’s it??” and he’d be like, “Good, Jame – how are you??” and I’d be like, “Good.” And Dick would be like, “Thanks for picking me up at the airport. I really appreciate it.” Later on in our time together, Dick would tell me that he appreciated the fact that I avoided making dick jokes. “They get so tiring,” he would tell me while patting me on the back.

After picking Dick up at the airport WE WOULD GO GET POUTINE. Why?!?! WHY WOULD WE GO GET POUTINE?!?! Because NOBODY HELPED ME JUSTIFY GOING TO GET MORE THIS PAST WEEK. Which is fine, sure, no problem!! I mean I don’t NEED poutine… My heart doesn’t require fries, gravy, and cheese to keep beating – no, no… I just REALLY WANT IT and REALLY WANTED someone, ANYONE, to go with me – but don’t worry about it!! I’ll just go with Dick Cheney, frig!!

So then Dick would THANK ME PROFUSELY FOR THE POUTINE BECAUSE IT’S SOOOOO GOOD… Of course YOU’LL never know because YOU didn’t take me to get poutine!! But that’s fine… Obviously you’ll never be a vice president either.

Okay, so that takes care of an hour and a half. I think I’d take Dick Cheney to Magic Mountain to show him that he can still have fun when he doesn’t combine alcohol and guns – plus I have a Season’s Pass and a coupon so it would be free for me and only $20.00 for him.

Would you rather THAT?!?! Should you and I go to Magic Mountain and then go get poutine?? Does THAT sound like more fun?? Would you ask me then?? Ugh. Whatever, no, I’m going to save that fun for Dick. We’ll have a great time smiling and laughing and talking about why Deja Vu is fantastic and talking about the best part of Tatsu, and then I’ll make him make George Bush make selling Six Flags illegal.

On the second day I’d probably have to go raise the polar bear cubs (like all Canadians have to), so I would just leave him in my room and hope he respected the No Sex Zone sign.