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MARCH 28 - APRIL 3, 2003 Curb Your SUV
Laurie David put celebrity activism in the driver's seat
by Deborah Vankin
'It's crazy: To do something patriotic right now, you have
to buy a Japanese car.' (Photo by Elliott Shaffner) It's a
rainy Wednesday afternoon, and as Laurie David zips around
the curvy, lush back streets of her Pacific Palisades
neighborhood, she hopscotches between topics: from the
ongoing fuel-economy/SUV debate to how she hooked up with
her husband, Curb Your Enthusiasm creator and star Larry
David, then back to America's dependence on foreign oil
and, finally, to the absolute irrelevance of straws � "I
could spend my life focusing on getting rid of straws in
our society. The plastic things, the paper it comes in � I
mean, what we do with the packaging!"
The interior of David's electric Toyota Rav 4 is littered
with the signs of a chronic multitasker: One cell phone
charges in its dashboard cradle as another rings
periodically from the depths of her purse on the back seat;
a laminated list of important contacts (columnist Arianna
Huffington's cell, the Natural Resources Defense Council,
her children's school) is tucked into the door pocket; and a
smashed tissue box on the floor functions as a makeshift
notepad, with phone numbers and messages-to-self, such as
"get Bobby K[ennedy] programs," written on three sides.
At the moment, David finds herself enmeshed in two national
controversies: the issue of fuel economy and the touchy
subject of celebrity activism, both of which are exceedingly
relevant with war in the Middle East. She's not your typical
Think Globally, Act Locally sort, however. Her husband
co-created and produced Seinfeld, for one thing, and doesn't
exactly need his day job; and David herself travels in
privileged Hollywood circles. Yet she flips their good
fortune on its head, mining her connections to actors,
producers and movie execs to forward populist environmental
campaigns. And the Hollywood alpha crowd listens to her �
which means that millions, in one way or another, may
actually hear her message. In May, the New York-based
environmental-litigation group Riverkeeper will honor David
for being the "single most effective environmental voice in
America" this year.
'How often in history has a person�s choice in a vehicle
really been able to effect change?'
David had spent the morning, she tells me, with her NRDC
Action Forum, an informal group of wealthy and influential
women friends that includes GiGi Levangie Grazer ("wonderful
screenwriter, married to Brian Grazer"), Gwen McCaw
("married to John McCaw of McCaw Communications . . . McCaw
cellular . . . major") and Kelly Meyer ("She's Ron Meyer's
wife, president of Universal"). Its purpose, David says, "is
to use our resources to help stop the assault from this
current administration on our environmental laws. I
co-founded it with Elizabeth Wiatt. We created it together,
to turn all these women into activists."
The group had gathered at Cindy and Glenn Frey's Brentwood
home to spam senators. It was an urgent, last-minute attempt
to stop the Omnibus Budget Bill, onto which, David says,
anti-environmental riders had been attached. "It was kind of
like bedlam. But the bedlam was coming from the eight women
around the table," she says. "We were all talking on our
cell phones at once, leaving messages with chiefs of staff,
trying to get through to senators, leaving voice mails �
everybody was really fired up. This thing was supposed to
get voted on within 24 hours � and there had been no public
discussion." She lets out an exhausted sigh. "All these
things feel like the world's coming to an end."
During a lull in their phoning, Heather Thomas ("She was an
actress, now she's married to Skip Brittenham, one of the
top entertainment attorneys in town") casually asked if
anyone had heard the NPR story reporting that this year's
Oscar nominees would receive keys to brand-new Lincoln
Navigators in their goodie bags. "There was this moment
where everyone just looked at each other, and then we all
started screaming." Elizabeth Wiatt snatched the phone and
called her husband, Jim, president of William Morris. He
gave her the extension for Frank Pierson, president of the
Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. "We were
screaming questions at her in the background: 'Ask him if
it's true, who's in charge, who made the decision,'" David
says. But the rumor turned out to be just that.
Had it been true, this particular celebrity-thick,
fuel-inefficient affront might just have been the perfect
battle for the NRDC Action Women (picture them bursting out
of phone booths in tights and designer capes). "We would
have done everything in our power to keep it from happening"
David says. "I'm telling you, it would not have gone down
without a fight." As she relays the story, David stares
straight ahead, coolly steering the wheel with one hand and
with the other repeatedly jabbing my arm to accentuate her
points. "Not without a fight," she jabs. "Not . . . without
. . . a . . . fight."
The phone calls have become a near daily ritual. Sometimes
they arrive at home, occasionally on my cell; often, they're
friendly but urgent voice mails at work, always the same
basic message, quick and businesslike: "Hi, Laurie David.
Just wanted to make sure you saw the paper today: 'The Great
SUV Divide,'" she reads emphatically. "Oh, and The New York
Times, A1: 'Hybrid Cars Are Gaining Attention.'" Another
day, another call: "Have you seen The Wall Street Journal
yet? 'SUVs May Be Losing Their Cool.' If not, I can get it
for you." And always, she signs off with an "Okay, bye,
doll." Or "Thanks, sweetie."
The first time I met David, 45, was at a book party at
Nicaraguan author Gioconda Belli's house. And it didn't take
long to discover how altruistic and socially conscious,
quite literally, she is � a concerned but high-maintenance
Jewish-mom type, a brassy New York go-getter with a warm
demeanor and a sharp tongue. A modern-day Rhoda of sorts, if
Rhoda were amped up on caffeine. That evening, David rescued
me from the acerbic former state Senator Tom Hayden, who'd
snapped at my cutting in on his one-on-one time with Larry
David. Laurie swooped in and linked her arm through mine and
said of her good friend, laughing: "Oh, just ignore him, he
really needs to work on his social skills." As she guided me
to a corner oasis in this liberal Westside cocktail crowd, I
asked David why she didn't appear on her husband's hilarious
HBO docu-sitcom, on which most everyone in Larry's world
plays themselves. "I have my own career," she said. "I'm an
environmentalist."
As is her alter ego Cheryl Hines, who plays Larry's wife on
Curb Your Enthusiasm; but that's where their likeness ends.
The small-screen Mrs. David, a sweet, almost saccharine
�ber-shiksa, seems to get blonder with each season and
typically lounges in comfy stretch pants and a fitted T
while playfully nagging her husband from the couch; the real
Mrs. David, who has sleek, ink-black hair and favors
tailored monochrome pantsuits, is a force to be reckoned
with. "She's Larry's dream wife. I'm the real wife," David
says. "He wishes I was like that. I'm much more aggressive �
that character is so much nicer than I am."
Later, Larry weighs the question � to what extent are his
wives alike? � carefully. "The actress on the show wouldn't
get quite as, um, worked up as Laurie," he says. "You'll be
having breakfast with her, and then all of a sudden,
something will get her attention in the newspaper � some
environmental rollback � and she'll start screaming. And
it's, like, 7 o'clock in the morning!"
Committed is the word that pops up, over and over again, in
conversations about David. In addition to political
fund-raising for Democratic candidates, relentless lobbying
for environmental-policy changes and presiding on the boards
of community organizations such as P.S. Arts, which raises
money to restore arts programming in public schools, David
co-founded, with Arianna Huffington, the nonprofit Americans
for Fuel Efficient Cars. Its much-talked-about Detroit
Project launched the biting TV ads that satirize the Bush
administration's anti-drug ads by linking driving SUVs to
supporting terrorism. The sound bites are now ingrained: "I
helped hijack an airplane," says one suburban mom, deadpan.
"I helped blow up a nightclub. So what if it gets 11 miles
to the gallon?"
The ads ran mostly on cable outlets in select markets around
the country � Detroit and Washington among them � but most
major television stations refused to air them, including
KCBS and KABC in Los Angeles. The controversy generated
millions of dollars in free publicity on more than 350 TV
shows nationwide, including NBC Nightly News, Inside Edition
and CNN's Crossfire. But the campaign also stirred up a
tremendous amount of criticism of celebrities � a barrage of
snarky quips running rampant across the AM radio dial,
ridiculing famous people for preaching about fuel efficiency
while living large, energy-dependent lives that include
stretch limos and private jets.
David scoffs at the sniping: "It's like they don't want you
to do anything. What are people who have resources, power,
money � what should they be doing with their time? Nothing?
Going to lunch? You know, you do one thing at a time, and we
chose cars."
Among the four Detroit Project founders, who also include
film producer Lawrence Bender and Hollywood agent Ariel
Emanuel, Huffington was, by far, the biggest talking head
during the media blitz. And more often than not, the ad
campaign was referred to as "Arianna's project." But David
was the real engine behind it. She persuaded Huffington,
while on one of their weekly hikes together, to give up her
hulking 13-mpg Lincoln Navigator for a 26-mpg Volvo station
wagon � a stopgap measure before Huffington moved on to a
52-mpg (chauffeur-driven) Prius. "I picked Arianna up, and
in her driveway there was that . . . [She twists her face
and spits out the words as if talking about an old,
unfaithful boyfriend.] . . . that disgusting Lincoln
Navigator. Arianna gets these issues, she's writing about
these issues, and she hadn't figured out that what's in her
driveway . . . [David cannot complete the sentence.] . . .
That blew my mind."
When Huffington returned home after their hike, she penned a
column addressing the illogic of Bush's drug-war ads and
rhetorically asking if anyone would be willing to fund an
alternative "people's ad campaign . . . using the same
shock-value tactics the administration uses in the drug war
to confront the public with the ultimate � and much more
linearly linked � consequences of their energy wastefulness.
Imagine a soccer mom in a Ford Excursion (11 mpg city, 15
mpg highway) saying, 'I'm building a nuclear bomb for Saddam
Hussein.'"
The next morning, Huffington awoke to more than 5,000
e-mails offering money. "They were so moving," says David:
"'I'm a student, I have no money. Here's $25.' Or 'I just
got laid off, here's $5.'" Within seven days, they'd raised
$200,000 for a week of airtime. The ads were written and
directed by "Got Milk?" creator Scott Burns, and all the
actors, equipment and production costs were pro bono. "It
was an absolute populist campaign," says Huffington,
"entirely funded by small donations. In a sense, the public
created the Detroit Project."
Now, David believes, we're at a crucial "tipping point" in
the SUV debate, that the heated national discussion,
propelled by the war in Iraq, will soon boil over into
action � and tangible changes in public policy. "It all
started at our press conference," David says of the morning
they unveiled their TV campaign. The ads did ignite an
already present undercurrent of SUV resentment and set into
motion a wave of anti-SUV sentiment. The Evangelical
Environmental Network's quasi-religious testament "What
would Jesus Drive?," for instance, has been absorbed into
our lexicon like a memorable Saturday Night Live punch line.
"It has not let up," David says. "Lawrence Bender just
called me from Mexico � he's doing a movie there with
Quentin Tarantino. He turned on CNN in his room the other
night, and there were two stories back-to-back about it.
There's a lot going on, it's all good."
"Laurie was definitely the key person who helped me connect
the dots in terms of the car I was driving and what it was
doing to the environment," says Huffington. "There's no
dividing line between her personal life and her children and
her marriage and her causes � it's just all part of who she
is."
My first interview with David, over a tuna tartare lunch,
unfolds like an episode of Curb: I'm waiting at the only
Sushi Roku I know of � a power-lunch spot in Beverly Hills �
and David's settled in at the Sushi Roku in Santa Monica.
But then the plot threads start to come together: As we wait
out this classic mishap, I spot my first hybrid car � a
cute, pug-nosed little vehicle with a quiet (near silent)
demeanor. The valet, Carlos, says that whereas this time
last year he'd never even seen one, he typically parks two
or three hybrids a day now. When I finally join David at the
Santa Monica restaurant, where she's been waiting an hour,
she is surprisingly friendly and unperturbed by the
misunderstanding, full on into drafting a letter on both
sides of recycled Post-its.
During lunch, she bombards me with information � press
releases, videotapes, a thick binder of clippings tracking
the SUV debate. Later, back at the office, the faxes start
to come � a steady stream of articles stating what most of
us already know, but which can always bear repeating: There
are something like 22 million SUVs on the road, and these
tippy gas-guzzlers, along with pickups and minivans, account
for more than half the sales of new cars in California.
Though the U.S. possesses only 3 percent of the world's
natural oil reserves, we use 25 percent � 20 million barrels
of oil a day, 40 percent of that for cars. Meanwhile,
pollution from tailpipe emissions is the number-one
contributor to global warming.
But it's more than a global-warming issue, David notes,
"it's a national-security issue. These are two of our
biggest problems in this country. And here's a solution,
guys. You can do something about it. How often in history
has a person's personal choice in a vehicle � or personal
choice of anything � really been able to effect change?
Everyone has to embrace hybrid cars, we have to." The fact
that only Honda and Toyota currently produce the
gas-electric hybrids, and Bush's much-vaunted
hydrogen-powered fuel-cell vehicles are at least two decades
from fruition, is a problem. "It's gonna get ugly. We're
going to lose the race to Japan � the same way we lost
televisions and stereos. It's crazy: To do something
patriotic right now, you have to buy a Japanese car."
Three years ago, David traded in her family car, a Lexus,
for the first hybrid on the market, Toyota's Prius. Then
last year, as soon as they were released, she bought her
electric Rav 4, which (unlike hybrids) has to be recharged
fairly often but is emissions-free. Like any good new
convert, she took to the practice of converting others. And
her enthusiasm � sparked a sort of "environmental chic"
domino effect within her A-list Hollywood circle. After
persuading Huffington to buy a Prius, husband Larry got two
(one for himself and one for the character � Larry David �
he plays on TV); Rob Reiner got one because Larry had one,
and singer-songwriter Carol King copied Laurie; Howard
Gordon, producer of 24, got one because the Davids had one,
and so did J.J. Abrams, producer of Alias. "Now they're
putting the lead actress, Jennifer Garner, in a Prius on the
show," says David. "And we're trying to get it on The
Osbournes � to be the car that Jack Osbourne drives."
Meanwhile, in all the confusion, Tom Hanks snagged the last
electric Toyota on the market. ("It wasn't embraced," says
David. "The electric vehicle is over.") Bill Maher, by the
way, will tell you he started the trend: "I started the
trend." Regardless, on and on it went. Now, more celebrities
have hybrids than lunch reservations at the Ivy � Leonardo
DiCaprio, Cameron Diaz, Brad Pitt, David Duchovny, Ted
Danson, David Hyde Pierce, Kurt Russell, Patricia Arquette,
Kirk Douglas, Alicia Silverstone, Will Ferrell, among
others. No wonder, then, that Toyota Santa Monica has sold
more Priuses than any other dealership in the country.
Ten p.m., the phone rings: "Hi, it's Laurie David. Is it too
late? Have I passed the cutoff point?" It's a surreal,
Seinfeld-ian moment. Or, perhaps, Davidian � Larry devoted
an entire episode of Curb to that bit of minutia. There are,
in fact, so many parallels between Larry's real and reel
lives that, at first, Laurie David has trouble recalling
specifics. Then she remembers another recent episode, in
which the fictional Mrs. David gets stuck driving through a
car wash after having taken a hefty dose of Colon Cleanse.
"That really happened to my sister Lisa. Larry just
exaggerated it."
The sort of celebrity-adjacent life that David leads is
fairly organic. "I thought I was going to be president of a
network someday," she says. "I was very ambitious." After a
stint as talent coordinator for David Letterman in New York,
she formed her own Manhattan-based management company
representing comedians. Then, while at a club scouting for
new talent, Laurie "It's All Good" Lennard met Larry "I Tend
To See the Catastrophic in Most Things" David. The earth did
not immediately move. "We had two dates, and then I
completely blew him off," she says. "He was, you know, bald.
And even before, when he did have hair, it was bad hair. He
had no money and no potential for earning, because he was a
comedian who didn't like to travel. But everything worked
out. Now all I have to deal with is always having my life on
television."
In 1990, she and fianc� Larry schlepped out to Los Angeles
after "his and her sitcoms" had been green-lighted �
miraculously, in the same week. Hers was the Chris Elliott
vehicle Get a Life; his was about a struggling New York
comic who made a big deal about a lot of nothing. "Nobody
thought Seinfeld was going anywhere. Everybody thought my
show was gonna be a big hit," she says. "My show lasted two
years, and his show . . . you know, the rest is history."
David "retired" to have children � two daughters, 7 and 9 �
and the question, many millions of dollars later, became:
Now what? "That was the end of show biz. What was I gonna do
� go back and start developing comedies that were better
than Seinfeld? It just took the air out of the whole
project." So she tapped into another passion, one born out
of a new parent's concern for her children's future, and
nurtured by environmental reporting in The New York Times.
"I have kids, I want something left for them. It's a clich�,
I know, but it's true. That's what drives me every day."
And then there was that childhood littering thing. "When I
was a little kid � and I don't know why � I was obsessed
with littering. I'd yell at people in their cars if I saw
someone throw paper or a cup out of their window. My mother
would say, 'Stop it back there � you're going to get us in
trouble!'"
Larry would argue that his wife hasn't changed much since
then: "She's gonna get me in trouble pretty soon," he
whines. "Either I'm gonna get beat up because of her, or
people are gonna stop watching my show � I'm gonna lose
viewers! And that's where I draw the line." But the only
people David has gotten into any trouble, thus far, live in
Detroit � auto-industry execs. And she's been that much more
dangerous since hooking up with the NRDC six years ago,
approaching pesticides and children's health issues with a
characteristically ferocious passion. Fuel economy
eventually became her central issue, and David found her
voice advocating for hybrid cars; then she fashioned a niche
cultivating people in Hollywood. Which is important because
the challenge for groups like the NRDC is to get the debate
aired nationally, and the Hollywood community offers a
direct route.
Since David's involvement, the NRDC has raised its profile
significantly � both in Los Angeles and nationwide.
"Laurie's made an enormous difference in expanding our
ability to connect with top celebrities, and enlist their
support," says Joel Reynolds, director of the NRDC's
Southern California office. "There are so many people trying
to get things from people like Pierce Brosnan or Cameron
Diaz. Laurie has enabled us to talk to them. I've seen what
Leonardo DiCaprio can do in terms of focusing public
attention and getting results."
Celebrity activism is a tricky thing, however, as the
growing controversy over Michael Moore's speech at last
week's Academy Awards suggests. When someone like DiCaprio
starts proselytizing about Mother Earth, people take note;
but then they don't stop taking note. They glare through a �
magnifying glass under a heat lamp. And the criticism tends
to be selective. "You don't see them criticizing Republican
celebrities," says David. "I don't see any criticism of
Arnold Schwarzenegger, and it's because of him that we have
the Hummer � the single worst car in the history of this
country. It was a military vehicle. He said, 'I vant one,'
and they made the first commercial Hummer for him."
Of course, there's no shortage of celebrity hypocrisy out
there for conservative talk-show hosts to mine, such as the
endlessly referenced 21-car garage of Detroit Project
contributor Norman Lear. New York Post gossip columnist
Richard Johnson is on a crusade questioning celebrities'
integrity, criticizing them for being "hypocrites who
consume huge quantities of fossil fuels in their stretch
limos, Gulfstream jets and oversize Beverly Hills mansions."
And it is much easier to advocate for the environment when
there's discretionary income � huge amounts of it � to buy
and trade hybrid cars like baseball cards. So, for all the
money and publicity toward select causes that famous
spokespeople generate, to what extent is the parallel
criticism obscuring the issue and undercutting the message?
At its core, the Detroit Project is about raising awareness
� regardless of what kind. Its founders meant to start a
national conversation, and they did. "These ladies have
figured out a way to break this issue open," says NRDC
president John Adams, "and it's caused an enormous debate
throughout the country. I think what they're doing is going
to change the course of history."
Tonight, there's not a stretch limo in sight. And there is a
green, rather than red, carpet � a 200-foot-long,
politically correct tongue of sorts, illuminated by
floodlights and rolled out to greet the rich and famous.
Which is fitting, since it's the Rolling Stones appearing at
Staples Center � a free concert sponsored by the NRDC to
raise awareness about global warming in a way that, as one
concert organizer put it, "gets the issue off the science
page and in people's faces." It's the largest such event the
NRDC has ever coordinated � nearly 150,000 people competed
online for 12,000 free tickets. E!, Entertainment Tonight,
Access Hollywood � they're all here. Along with newspapers
and magazines from the French press, the U.K. and Australia.
More than 50 celebrities will arrive in donated,
chauffeur-driven hybrids, and a media mob waits, restless
and stirring, behind a shiny metal barrier that runs
alongside the green carpet.
When Laurie and Larry show up, the couple clicks into a
well-oiled routine � she's the more "adult" straight man to
his funny, high-speed kvetcher. Laurie moves leisurely,
effortlessly, down the green carpet, smiling and stopping
for interviews, then interjecting a line about the ozone
layer. Or the absurdity of tax credits and loopholes that
have helped to create the so-called "SUV explosion." Larry,
in a beige corduroy jacket and sneakers, is less focused,
slightly amused, even a bit shy. "Larry, E!" "Larry, over
here!" the reporters call out, stretching their long mikes
and unwieldy rubber cords over the metal barrier � looking,
collectively, like a giant, multilegged insect flipped on
its back. When he wanders ahead, Laurie snaps, "Larry!
Wait!" He returns to her side, and she softens up, smiling
at him affectionately.
"Larry, are you a Stones fan?" shouts a TV reporter.
"No."
"Do you know any of their songs?"
"No."
"What's one that you like?"
"Uh . . . 'Blowin' in the Wind'?"
Meanwhile, Cameron Diaz is trying to get her lips around the
largest chocolate-covered strawberry ever to be presented on
a dessert tray. The pre-concert VIP party is a People
magazine editor's dream: Rita Wilson, Pierce Brosnan,
Christine Lahti, Bill Maher, Peter Gordon, Governor Davis.
Behind the bar, a bank of televisions shows live footage of
DiCaprio getting out of his hybrid car and stepping onto the
green carpet. David works the room as if it were her
family's annual Seder, facilitating introductions, making
connections. One minute, she's leaning over Lisa Kudrow's
table; the next, she's welcoming Diaz or casually strolling
with Bill Clinton, laughing, chatting, oblivious to the
excitement that surrounds them.
The former president doesn't venture much farther than the
entrance hallway � he doesn't have to. A throng of people is
pushing to get near him � a mosh pit of stars, politicians
and other guests held off by security men in blue blazers.
This goes on for a while: Clinton thrusting out his arm to
greet old friends and nodding at others who can't get close
enough. A slender, pretty woman � who, until now, has been
hanging back by the wall � steps forward: "
Hi, I'm Mira Sorvino" she says sweetly. Clinton lingers a
little longer than usual, making extraordinary eye contact.
In a sort of James Bond-meets-Mark Wahlberg/Rock Star
moment, Brosnan and Clinton pause by the black curtain
separating them from the arena. As bluesy solo artist Susan
Tedeschi finishes her set, Brosnan puts his hand on
Clinton's shoulder, nods toward the curtain and says, "We
have fans out there . . ." As in: It's time for the
president to make his way downstairs and introduce the
Stones. Many thank-yous and references to global warming,
solar power and cleaner car engines later: "Ladies and
gentlemen, the greatest rock & roll band of all time!"
The awareness event morphs into pure stadium rock � 15,000
rumbling, hooting, foot-stomping fans, cigarette lighters
held up high. Then Mick Jagger appears onstage, in purple
iridescent jacket and tight black jeans, still pushing the
envelope � in this case, age. "Really nice to be here, innit
a good cause and all that," he shouts, and the band jumps
into "Start Me Up."
The Laurie David Group � her sister and niece, Rob Reiner
and wife, close friends who've flown in from out of town for
the concert � occupies the front row, stage left. Larry is
gone after two or three songs ("What can I say, he's not a
rock & roller . . ."), but Laurie is slumped down in her
chair, feet up on the railing, slamming her head to "Brown
Sugar" and receiving passing "visitors" on their way out:
Huffington, Lahti, NRDC board members. Toward the end of the
night, Jagger leaps off the stage and struts down the runway
shaking hands and high-fiving; the band finishes off the
last 15 minutes on an elevated podium in the center of the
floor, surrounded by NRDC logos.
"This is not a fund-raiser," says Adams, explaining why the
Steve Bing-organized concert is free. "We're trying to get a
message out across America." Everyone through the door
received free, limited-edition CD-ROMs (they'll later sell
on eBay for $30 a pop), and there are seven NRDC booths
scattered around Staples Center stocked with post cards
addressed to the CEO of GM, urging him not to meddle with
California's global-warming pollution bill. The cards litter
escalator steps and bathroom stalls for the most part, but
several people hang on to them.
"I'm going to join the NRD . . . what is it again?" says an
Orange County mom and longtime Stones fan. "I drive a Grand
Jeep Cherokee. When they were saying it's awful, and it's
bad, and you're contributing to that, when it was on the
news, I felt bad. You know, with celebrities coming, it gets
people to pay attention."
Pulling up to Crossroads School for Arts and Sciences, David
spots another electric car. "Oh, that's Liberty Godshall's �
Ed Zwick's wife," she says. "I know everyone who has one."
Then she slips out to corral her children, the only other
topic she's as enthusiastic about. On the way home, the kids
� one looks exactly like Larry, the other like Laurie �
rattle on excitedly about an upcoming party. In between
"Yes, you can have those red balls" and "No, we can't invite
anyone else," David lays out environmental strategy. The
SUV/fuel-efficiency debate will hopefully travel the same
road that seat belts, air bags and catalytic converters
took, she explains. And, much like Mothers Against Drunk
Driving's "Designated Driver" campaign (which transformed
drunk driving from being somehow cool to being socially
irresponsible), the Detroit Project hopes to create a demand
for cleaner cars, so that big business begins to supply
them.
Americans for Fuel Efficient Cars, she says, is already in
pre-production on a second round of television ads. This
time, aimed at automakers rather than drivers, the ads will
parody the he-man nature-lover's ideal seen in SUV
commercials. So the industrious earth mom, like any good
Jewish mother, will continue guilting America out � one SUV
at a time. "Okay, I'll reveal this. I've spent plenty of
time ticketing cars," she whispers. Then she digs through
her purse and pulls out a Day-Glo orange parking ticket,
which looks much like any other parking ticket � except for
the fact that it's made out to SUV drivers and suggests
"biking to work" and "carpooling" in the appropriate boxes
(that, and it's printed with soy ink on recycled paper). "I
go to parking lots and put these on windshields. I believe
in that � one person at a time."
In Laurie David's world, that one person just might be the
president of a television network, which is why teenagers
are going to see more and more hybrid cars on MTV � Tom
Freston is a close friend. Diaz, DiCaprio and Brosnan will
continue to show up for press events. And when one of them
says, "Vote for leaders who care about protecting our
environment," local media outlets will run the hell out of
the soundbite. Rabbis will consider speaking to their
congregations about global warming, schools will consider
premium parking for hybrid and electric cars, Vegas limo
companies will consider turning over their fleets to hybrids
� all projects David is currently working on. Everything
adds up.
When, finally, David returns home, it's still raining
outside, and there are waterlogged Post-its stuck to the
bottom of the driveway, with "to-do list" tidbits scrawled
in runny black ink. The Davids' house, a large country-style
Tudor with lush, manicured grounds, looks like the kind of
place where, on his show, Larry would typically make an
appalling faux pas. Inside, it's spacious, quiet, low-lit
and cool. Though not an "eco-home" per se � there are no
solar panels, recycled wood or non-toxic cleaning products �
it's not frivolous or wasteful, either (if you don't count
the electric kitty litter box on the patio).
"Bobby Kennedy called me the other day," David says while
unloading kid paraphernalia from the trunk. "He was at a gas
station, and a woman came up to him in a huge Suburban and
said, 'Oh, it's you.' And he's used to it, he's ready to be
attacked. The woman said, 'I just want you to know that I
saw you on the Today Show, and this morning, I sold this
car.'" David races for cover toward the house, feet squishy
from the water, arms loaded with cardboard juice boxes,
little plastic rain jackets and a backpack. "I mean, that is
just . . ." � she smacks the air like a proud Italian chef �
". . . Mmmwa! This is going to take some time, but people
are going to start feeling like idiots in their cars, and
Detroit is going to start making better cars."
Just before retreating inside, David plugs her E.V. into its
charger by the side of the house, as if it were an enormous,
tinny-looking cell phone. "See, easy." And then she mutters,
one last time over the pelting rain, "It's all good, it's
all good. Yeah."
Related Story: LARRY DAVID on the perils of being married to
an environmentalist.
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. http://geocities.com/brucedp/
. EV List Editor & RE newswires
. (originator of the above ASCII art)
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