Chasing Breitbart

An amazing testimonial from a writer/producer in Hollywood. After exposing the rot in the belly of the beast, after years of denying his real beliefs, he finally lets it out.

Such were my thoughts last night as I was having a quiet drink at the Huntington Langham Hotel. I saw the hashtag thread #IAmAndrewBreitbart and drew some cheer from it. I mentally debated whether to add to the thread and thought, "Ahh, to hell with it. One tweet. Nobody'll even notice."

Besides, I had no choice. The tag was a play on the signature line from Spartacus, and I was a writer-producer on the first season of Sparatcus: Blood and Sand. It seemed preordained.

And thusly I tweeped:

"I wrote Spartacus, and #IAmAndrewBreitbart"

I got a response. Clever stuff. Typically mindless Leftist-style zombie-chant:

"HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIEDHE LIED AND HE DIED"

Stupid stuff. A bullshit schoolyard taunt designed to get a rise out of me. Wouldn't have phased me any other night.

But last night, something snapped.

12 years of silence. 12 years of cowardice. 12 years of humiliating self-censorship. 12 years of hiding what I think, who I am and what I believe in order to protect my livelihood.

And Andrew Breitbart is dead.

It all just started bleeding out of me, white hot, 140 characters at a time. All my rage. All my indignation. Like the jetting pulse from a slashed carotid, for the whole world to see.

Then came the emails. And the Follows. 1,000 in about an hour. My jaws clenched, tears blurred my vision as I typed (as they blur them now as I type): My hero is dead. Andrew Breitbart is dead.

Long live Andrew Breitbart.