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«Republican Party Animal The “Bad Boy of Holocaust History” Blows the Lid Off Hollywood’s Secret Right-Wing Underground Copyright 2014 © David ...»

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Republican Party Animal

The “Bad Boy of Holocaust History”

Blows the Lid Off Hollywood’s

Secret Right-Wing Underground

Copyright 2014 © David Cole


Feral House

1240 W. Sims Way Suite 124

Port Townsend, WA 98368

design by designSimple

David Stein brought right-wing congressmen, celebrities, writers and entertainment industry

figures together for shindigs, closed to outsiders…Over the past five years Stein’s organization,

Republican Party Animals, drew hundreds to regular events in and around Los Angeles, making him a darling of conservative blogs and talkshows. That he made respected documentaries on the Holocaust added intellectual cachet and Jewish support to Stein’s cocktail of politics, irreverence and rock and roll.

There was just one problem. Stein was not who he claimed. His real name can be revealed for the first time publicly…as David Cole.… He was once a reviled Holocaust revisionist who questioned the existence of Nazi gas chambers.

—The Guardian Over the past five years, David Stein has made a name for himself as a leader for Hollywood’s conservatives…But it turns out Stein had a bizarre secret.

—Gawker From the annals of Weird Hollywood comes the unmasking of a leading Hollywood Republican.

—The Huffington Post You don’t often get to say “Jewish Holocaust denier,” so let’s take a moment…now that we know the backstory, why did Cole become Stein?

—The Wrap I did not sleep last night. David had to know this would come to light at some point. This is a horrendous thing that David did. As you may be able to tell, I am quite shaken by this.

—Gary Aminoff, Vice Chairman, Republican Party of Los Angeles County



1. The Acceptable Level of Tell-All Book Dickishness

2. The Meta-Ideologue

3. The Jewish Revisionist

4. So Just What the Hell Do I Believe, Anyway?

5. Public Enemy

6. The Idiot’s Creed

7. Sarah May and My First Death

8. Both Sides Now

9. The Beast and My Second Death

10. A Time of Peace


11. The Soup Nazi Changes My Life Forever

12. The Red Devil

13. Alone Again, Unnaturally

14. Scatty

15. Friends of Abe

16. Table for Jew?

17. Pros and Cons

18. The Republican Party Animal

19. Other Losses

20. Devil Does Your Dog Bite?

21. Big Fucking Babies

22. My Third Death 23. “Get Him!” Epilogue Appendix A


It’s 3 p.m., May 10, 2013. I’m at my favorite bar in Culver City. It’s generally a quiet place. Couches, tables, no loud music. It’s my favorite “first date” place. And I’m waiting on a reporter from the JTA, the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. She’s late. I go outside, in part to stretch my legs, and in part because I don’t want to start drinking yet, and it’s not really possible these days for me to be in a bar without drinking (that’s not an attempt to make a charming, Dean Martin-style quip. I actually do have a very serious alcohol problem). So I go outside to wait.

No sign of her. I only know her appearance from a small thumbnail picture next to one of her news articles, and it was way too small for me to make out the details. So pretty much any white thirtysomething woman walking toward the bar could be her. Oh, damn. This one walking up right now is SO cute! Please let it be her. Up until two weeks ago, I’d been living a life filled with free drinks and pretty girls. A pretty girl would really lift my spirits right now. But the attractive woman goes straight past me. That’s how my luck’s been running these days.

I go back inside. Typically, professional reporters are on time. So I don’t know if I’ve been hoaxed, or set up for a beating (which has happened before, many years ago). I need a drink. The first interview I did after I was “outed” as the notorious “Holocaust denier” David Cole had been with the Guardian (the large-distribution UK paper). And that reporter had picked up my tab. Now I’m going to have to start my own damn tab.

“Gimme two glasses of Pinot Noir,” I say. I want vodka, but it’s best to start with wine so I can stay lucid. I gulp the first one down at the bar, and begin walking back to my table with the other glass. “Wait a minute—is your name David?” The bartender has no idea of the hidden import of that question. Yes, my first name is David. I have no clue what my last name is anymore.

“A woman called for you. She said she was running late. She’ll be here in about fifteen more minutes.” Well, so much for only having one more glass. I order another, and take both to my table.

Twenty minutes later, she shows up. She’s sporting a permanent grimace, reminiscent of Martin Short’s “Ed Grimley” character from the 1980s. It had been eighteen years since my last “hostile” interview. I considered the interview with the Guardian the previous week to be “hostile,” but only in the sense that it was about the fact that my former colleagues viewed me as a monster worse than pedophile Hitler strangling a puppy. Considering that my only offense was having taken controversial positions on World War II history in my early twenties, I almost found their anger funny. Definitely overblown, and somewhat funny. But the Guardian reporter was not hostile on a personal level; he was actually very kind and gentlemanly, and he wrote a fair piece. In fact, several of his sources from my former Republican Party allies were angry with him after the piece came out, because he didn’t paint me as pedophile Hitler strangling a puppy.

But this reporter, the JTA one, was giving me odd vibes. It was the lateness, and the grimace, and the fact that as she was typing she was wolfing down a plate of hamburger sliders she ordered from the bar, looking part of the time at her ancient laptop, and part of the time at those messy, greasedripping burgers and fries.

I don’t like watching people eat in a sloppy fashion; it repulses me. I don’t even like to see people eating with their hands, period. And now I’m distracted, more so than usual. As my mouth is on autopilot, speaking of things I can talk about in my sleep—politics, Auschwitz, the fashion model who destroyed me, and other related matters—my mind is elsewhere, thinking about how much stank must lurk between the keys of that filthy old laptop, from years of grease and food bits embedded by the dirty fingers of this person to whom napkins are apparently an undiscovered invention.

I’ve held my tongue about the Holocaust for eighteen years. And now, there was a part of me that just, on principle, didn’t want to hold my tongue anymore, about anything, no matter how trivial. I wanted to blurt out, “That keypad must smell like shit, you snarly-lipped Ed Grimley-looking fuck.” But I held my tongue, and stayed on auto-pilot.

It’s easy for me to go on auto-pilot.

I’ve done over two hundred interviews in my forty-four years. From 1989 through 1995, I did lots of “hostile” ones. They were practically all hostile. I was David Cole the evil “Jewish Holocaust denier.” But that was eons ago. I’d grown soft. Since reinventing myself as David Stein, the GOP “Party Animal” writer, strategist, and event organizer, I’d grown used to softball interviews. Fellow conservatives and libertarians interviewing me for their radio shows, TV shows, blogs, podcasts, whatever. Easy stuff. The Guardian interview brought back a lot of memories, and I’d actually been planning how I’d handle the one with the JTA differently. Two rules: don’t be a fucking idiot and talk for three hours (as I did with the Guardian). You’ll give the reporter too much to work with. Stay focused on the important points, and then say your goodbyes. Second rule: restate your one most important talking point again and again and again. If you hammer the reporter with the one point that means the most to you, the one thing you want to communicate, it’ll make it hard for her to leave it out of the piece (not impossible, but hard).

And I had my one point. Funny enough, it’s the same point I want to communicate to you, in this introduction. I don’t want to be here. I’d been living a wonderful life as David Stein. I didn’t want it to end. And now I have nothing, and I’m not particularly enjoying it.

The grimacing reporter asked me a bunch of questions, and I peppered my remarks, every ten minutes or so, with a reminder of how much I didn’t want to be doing this, I didn’t want to be David Cole again. Even as she stood up to leave, without paying for my drinks, I reminded her one last time of that main talking point.

And that’s why the piece was killed. The JTA didn’t want a sad reluctant Cole/Stein. The story of a man left with nothing to show for eighteen long years is perhaps the type of story that might engender sympathy for the affected person. And sympathetic is not how the JTA wanted its readers to see me. They wanted a gloating smarmy sociopath reveling in his situation. I couldn’t give them that, and I can’t give you that.

I’m writing this book because my few remaining friends tell me I have an interesting story to tell.

So why not tell it? My dad killed Elvis, I was in the national media as the “Jewish Holocaust denier” by the time I was twenty-one, I appeared on the highest-rated TV shows at an age when most people were attending keg parties at frat houses, I had a bounty put on my head by a violent extremist group, I was beaten to a pulp for my views, to avoid getting killed I publicly recanted everything I said in my youth, I faked my own death, and I resurfaced as one of the biggest GOP “party organizers” on the West Coast, hobnobbing with the likes of Dick Cheney, Condi Rice, John Boehner, Clint Eastwood, and many others, before being “outed” as my former self.

Yeah, it’s probably an interesting story. And if you don’t like it, please recall the point I made again and again to the grimacing JTA reporter—I don’t want to be here. I’d prefer having my old life back.




I’m not going to say I’m a good man. I’m not going to say it, because I’ve always felt that it’s not up to us to define ourselves as good or bad. Most people tend to think they’re good at heart. Most people rationalize away the things they do that are thoughtless, petty, cruel, or injurious to others. Every person I’ve ever met who’s said about themselves “I’m a good person” has been trying to convince themselves as much as they were trying to convince me. But what I will say is that I’m a good-natured man. That’s a different animal. Whatever thoughts might be going on inside my fevered mind, I always come off as easygoing and cheerful.

It was my good nature that made me successful running a political event-organizing group. It was my good nature that helped me mediate disputes, deal with character clashes among members, and generally keep things moving smoothly in a field populated by egotists, individualists, agitators, provocateurs, and the occasional dumbass.

When I began working with best-selling author and KABC talk show host Larry Elder in 2012, he would repeatedly tell me that the reason for our partnership was not my writing skills, which he admired, nor my filmmaking/editing abilities, which he always put to good use, but rather my good nature. “You always seem to be happy and loving life,” he would tell me.

Larry is a lawyer as well as a brilliant political thinker. He has a mind like a steel trap. So it was a feather in my cap that I fooled the shit out of him with that whole “happy and loving life” thing.

I’ve taken a long route to make a small point: I will most likely come off as an asshole in this book. The question that faces anyone who writes a “tell-all” autobiography is, what do you tell?

What’s off limits, and what’s in play? How much of a dick do I want to come off looking like?

If you’re going to write a book like this properly, everything has to be in play, as long as the author has the ability to be as tough and revealing when it comes to himself as when it comes to the assorted characters he’s interacted with. That’s usually the hard part, but not so much for me, as I love to tell stories in which I come off as a bastard or a fool.

I have the benefit of playing the “reluctant author” card, as I would not be doing this book had I not been outed. The “reluctance” card can buy me the ability to be a bit more dickish, especially against the people whose machinations put me in this spot.

It’s a good hand to play. But just how much dickishness-entitlement does it win for me? A lot. As long as everything I write is true.

During my years as “Jewish Holocaust denier” David Cole, I was often accused of spreading “hate,” to the extent that entire college campuses would hold “anti-hate rallies” if I spoke on campus.

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