Read A View From a Broad Online
Authors: Bette Midler
Tags: #Actress, #Biography & Autobiography, #Entertainment & Performing Arts, #Movie Star, #Nonfiction, #Performing Arts, #Retail
A View From a Broad (14 page)
I will never forget it! It was on the occasion of Ernie’s eightieth birthday. He rang me up and said, “Soph! Soph! I just married me a twenty-year-old girl. What do you think of that?” I said to him, “Ernie, when I am eighty I shall marry me a twenty-year-old boy. And let me tell you something, Ernie: twenty goes into eighty a helluva lot more than eighty goes into twenty!”
Oh, I will never forget it! It was on the occasion of my eightieth birthday. My boyfriend Ernie bought for me a tombstone, and on that tombstone he had inscribed: H
ERE
L
IES
S
OPH
. C
OLD AS
U
SUAL
. Not being one to take that kind of thing lying down, I went out and bought Ernie a tombstone, and on that tombstone I had inscribed: H
ERE LIES
E
RNIE—STIFF AT
L
AST
!
You know, I will never forget it! I was in bed last night with my boyfriend Ernie and he said to me, “Soph, you got no tits and a tight box.” I said to him, “Ernie.
Memo to Miss Frank:
To avert the embarrassment of last night’s debacle which, as you know, could very well happen again, may I suggest you xerox the following two letters?
Letter No. 1 (30 copies)
Mayor’s Office
City of_________
The Honorable Mr, _____________ Mayor of _____________.
Dear (
First name; use diminutive
)
I was overwhelmed with your floral tributes, and terribly flattered by your beautifully worded wishes of goodwill. Unfortunately, I’m afraid time does not permit us any kind of rendezvous, even the kind you so colorfully described in your note. What a bounteous and vivid imagination you possess.
In my long and varied career in this business we call show, it has been my pleasure to receive more than a few temptingly scripted notes of this type—curiously enough, the great majority of them from mayors. While those other two “M” girls—Liza and Shirley—seem to specialize in heads of state, I find myself sitting on the knees of the city fathers. Metaphorically, to be sure. Those girls’ liaisons are mostly ministerial. Mine are mainly municipal. My run of political suitors tends to be not so much urbane . . . as urban. Ah, well, such is the luck of the toss. Metaphorically, to be sure.
I must, however, regretfully decline your tempting entreaties. Someday you may thank me for this. I will alert you as to when.
In any event, allow me to thank you once again for thinking of me and to tell you how sorry I am that my busy schedule does not afford the time for you to come to my hotel and bury your nose in my armpit.
Cordially,
Bette Midler
Letter No. 2 (2000 copies)
To the Editor,
name of newspaper or magazine
Dear Sir
Of all the outrageous, disreputable lies that you have printed about me in the past, this last pronouncement of yours (Volume _______ Issue _______) is the most outlandish yet and cannot, and will not, go unchallenged! How could you stoop so low as to imply that there is some sordid liaison between myself and Mayor (
fill in appropriate name
). I have no liaisons, sordid or otherwise; the entire concept is simply too French for my taste, for despite your unending efforts to paint me as a wanton, sex-crazed floozy, I am at heart a simple woman committed to the simple virtues of fidelity and discretion. Why will no one believe me? Why will no one see past my cleavage to the pure heart that beats below? Am I destined always to be everybody’s favorite libertine when Ovaltine is really where I’m at? Have a heart, fellas. Give the old Diva a break. Everywhere I go people keep winking at me. And why? Because of the kind of stories you keep printing over and over, week after week. I am upset. The Mayor is upset. We won’t even speak of the City Council.
Gentlemen, there is a great and compelling beauty in truth. Trust it. Use it. Or I swear to God I will sue you for every ______ (
fill in local currency
) you are worth.
Trembling on the brink of a major lawsuit, I remain,
Yours truly,
Bette Midler
“. . . what’s the matter? What’s wrong? Where are you taking me? Why am I in Immigration? I do not want to immigrate. This
must
be a mistake. Why do you keep staring at my passport like that? So I’m not a redhead anymore. Didn’t you ever hear of peroxide and lemon juice? What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Where are you taking me? . . .”
FRANKFURT, GERMANY
W
hile I was in Germany, I thought it would be best not to think of certain things, but I had no choice. As part of my show I had been singing the following little ditty:
Hitler had only one big ball.
Goering had two, but they were small.
Himmler had something sim’lar,
But Goebbels
Had no balls
At all!
Well! What was I to do? Leave it in? Take it out? I thought about it and thought about it. Would my leaving it in be considered a hostile gesture?
Was
it a hostile gesture? Did I
feel
hostile? Or would the fact that I felt free to sing it in Germany be taken as a sign that I believed the “new” Germans could deal with it because they weren’t responsible? That bygones were bygones? Then again, did I really believe that bygones
should
be bygones? I didn’t know what to do.
I talked about it with a few Germans I came in contact with who could speak English. They all seemed to feel that it would be best
not
to sing it. The audience was coming to have a good time. Why bring up a bad dream?
Well, that seemed reasonable enough to me. I resolved to leave Hitler out of it.
But as fate would have it, as soon as I hit the stage, nervous as a cat and ruled, as always, by some imp of the perverse, the first thing that came out of my mouth was—you guessed it—“Hitler had only one big ball, etc., etc., etc.”
No one was more shocked than I. But once I started, what could I do but go on? And once I went on, I went on and on. And not alone. I had the audience sing it with me. First slow. Then at a brisker tempo. Three thousand Germans and one very freaked-out Jewess singing “Hitler Had Only One Big Ball” at the top of their lungs right in the middle of Munich.
I still have no idea how the Germans felt about it. Surprisingly, the reviews never mentioned it, nor did any of the Germans I spoke to after the show. I guess they were just being kind. Which
is probably more than I had been in singing it. It was so odd. But then, Germany was odd in many ways.
I’m used to attracting some fairly outrageous crowds—in fact, I pride myself on it—but I have never seen anything as extreme as what I got in Germany.
I think the women were even more amazing than the men. More severe, and certainly much tougher. With platinum-blond ducktail hairdos, long, long squared-off nails and no expression whatsoever. Someone once told me that the bear is the most dangerous animal of all because he never changes his expression. So you never know if he’s happy or about to attack. I thought a lot about that in Germany. It’s true that in the theater they were very polite. They laughed loudly, applauded warmly. But as soon as the outburst was over, their faces would return to mannequin-like composure. Very Helmut Newton.
The men tended to have a bit more expression, but also a lot more leather. And they came in irons of every variety, from metal-studded chokers to handcuffs. Sitting in my dressing room and listening to the clanking of metal as the audience came in, I thought I was about to perform for a chain-link fence.
I must admit it was a little alarming. Group conformity scares the pants off me because it’s so often a prelude to cruelty towards anyone who doesn’t want to—or can’t—join the Big Parade. I saw a particularly horrible example of that when I was growing up in Hawaii, and I’ve never been able to get it out of my mind.
“. . . platinum-blond ducktail hairdos, and no expression whatsoever. Very Helmut Newton.”
There was a boy in our sophomore class named Angel Wong. Even in Hawaii, where intermarriage is so common, a Chinese-Puerto Rican was an unusual hybrid. Unfortunately, the combination plate that was Angel Wong wasn’t exactly the best of both worlds. Angel was about four feet six inches tall and painfully skinny. He had huge black completely crossed eyes and quite an overbite. Furthermore, one leg was slightly shorter than the other, so he walked with a strange little limp that made his head bob up and down like a chicken’s. Angel, in other words,
did not come up to standard,
and was, thereby, a perfect target for every
joke, practical and verbal, that kids could dream up.
Angel did have one thing going for him though: beautiful hands. And he put those hands to very good use. He was the best bass fiddler our high school ever had.
Unfortunately, the sight of Angel carrying around a bass-fiddle case twice as big as he was proved irresistible to some of my more sadistic classmates.