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Sean Hannity
c/o Fox News
1211 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10036

Dear Mr. Hannity,

I know this is a big week for you, what with your new show debuting. I’m sure I speak for a large swath of the population when I say how relieved I am that you finally went solo. I may have agreed with Colmes when it came to politics, but he was dragging the production down.

I guess I should start at the beginning. I was a guest on your show a couple of years back. I know you have a lot of guests, so I’m posting this link as a refresher.

You can skip ahead to the 2:00 mark, where our interview starts. (And please ignore the title. I don’t know how to post stuff to YouTube, so I had to ask my cousin Gary for help, and this was his idea of a “joke.” Ha-ha-ha.)

I realize it was probably just another day at the office for you. But for me (a non-pundit) it was a pretty bizarre experience. I was sitting in a studio outside Boston with an audio feed in my ear, staring at a piece of black cardboard. Suddenly, your voice was ringing inside my head. Your producers told me I’d be “on air” for at least ten minutes. But they pulled the plug after three. I imagine this had something to do with the veiled allusion I made to Bill O’Reilly’s sexual-harassment lawsuit.

I’ve looked at the segment a few times since it aired (oh, all right, a few dozen times) and what’s most disturbing is that, while I find your demeanor shrill and brutish, I also find it strangely. . . alluring.

I don’t want this to come off the wrong way. In my social milieu, admitting a secret attraction to Sean Hannity is about as louche as it gets. I’m a happily married man and, from what I understand, so are you. What’s more, I find you, as a moral actor, repulsive.

But the chemistry of desire doesn’t factor in morality. When it comes to pure animal magnetism I’m afraid to report that you’ve got my number. I’ve thought about this more than I’d care to admit. To be honest, it’s kept me up a few nights. In my social milieu, admitting a secret attraction to Sean Hannity is about as louche as it gets. (I mean, I guess it could be worse — it could be Ann Coulter.)

My bromance has two equally disturbing components. First, your physical presence. Every time I watch our segment (okay, calling it “our segment” is already kind of creepy, isn’t it?) I keep thinking: Why does this guy look so incredibly familiar to me? My first thought was Superman, the Man of Steel recast as a cable host. Then I thought, no, he’s like the ruddy Irish guys who ran the hockey frat at my college. Finally it dawned on me: You look exactly like the brawny bully in those Charles Atlas ads that ran on the back cover of the comic books I read growing up. You’ve got the exact same black slab of hair, the broad shoulders, the big jaw, the sneering profile.

To a lot of folks, this kind of stylized he-man look is comic. But I grew up in a world of scrawny, swarthy Jews with weak chins and thinning hair. And not surprisingly, I grew into a scrawny, swarthy Jew with a weak chin and thinning hair. Sad as this may sound, Sean, you’re my masculine ideal.

And I know I’m not alone in this feeling. After all, most of your viewers are men. Most of them would claim they watch your show because they want to stay informed. But let’s be honest here: TV is a visual medium. It isn’t what you say that matters most, but how you look saying it. You’ve perfected that rare combination: gravitas and beefcakeitas.

Thankfully, when I appeared on your show I couldn’t see you. But I could hear you — loud and clear. And that’s what really captured me. The liberal in me was appalled by your hectoring. But the insecure male in me felt, I don’t know. . . ravaged is probably the best word. Within ten seconds, you were interrogating me. Within twenty, you were insulting me. Within thirty, you were disgusted. There was something so raw and personal about it all.

I realize that your rage is supposed to be “part of the act,” to keep the faithful lathered up. I’m not naïve. But it felt real to me, and charged with a distinct sexual energy.

I don’t mean “lewd.” On the contrary, Sean, you’re sexual in the way the Catholic Church is sexual. It’s morally prohibitive and instinctual. It uses aggression as a proxy for repressed impulses. You’re like a priest who relishes the chance to whack naughty altar boys with a ruler. When you get really worked up, you’re like an inquisitor who lays his victims out on a rack and lingers over which tool to use.

This is why I made that strangely tender statement in the midst of our contretemps: What is it that you want to say to me? I simply couldn’t understand why an allegedly political debate had become so personal, so intimate.

If I can venture some psychological speculation, it’s this curious vehemence that has provoked debate over your sexuality online. As I’m sure you know, there’s a whole fringe mob out there that claims your friendship with an alleged repressed homosexual neo-Nazi means you’re secretly of the same ilk. The logic runs something like this: Anyone who works so hard to be a top must secretly yearn to be a bottom. Let me go on record saying that this is absurd. One of your own favorite tactics as a pundit may be to assert guilt by association, but it’s no more fair to you than it is to Barack Obama.

It’s true that your big break in right-wing radio was the result of a controversy over homophobic comments you made at a tiny radio station in Santa Barbara, where you worked after dropping out of college.
You’re sexual in the way the Catholic Church is sexual. It’s morally prohibitive and instinctual.
But you’ve polished your act since then. Heck, Hannidate, your dating service for conservatives, even caters to gays.

What hasn’t changed is your essential come-on. In many ways, you’re the poster boy for the swaggering sexuality that dominated the Bush era. It’s a world of fraught masculinity in which the assertion of old-school hetero perogative expresses itself in ways that feel suspiciously homoerotic. I know this world because, for all my liberal pieties, I’m a part of it too. We spend hours watching other, half-naked men engage in athletic warfare. We find excuses to gather amid a dwindling fraternity of male colleagues. And, yes, we watch dreamboat silverbacks like you work themselves into a chest-thumping fury.

In this sense, you serve a crucial civic function. You’re a covert sexual outlet to the aggrieved and unmanned among us, Sean Hannity. There’s really nothing you can do about this, either. It’s just who you are: angry, engorged and totally hot. At least to me.

Sincerely,

Steve Almond

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