Roseannearchy

by Roseanne Barr

  The nicer I became, the less fear I felt, and the less fear I felt, the better I was at singing. I realized that no one could stop me from doing these things. I realized that no one can stop a person from getting better, or improving. I enjoyed every minute of the whirl I took into a world of creative madness on that show, getting out of coffins and diving into vats of candy. One show, I came on wearing a teddy and the Powers That Be refused to air the show out in Portland. That was exactly what I wanted to happen, and I threw a fit on air, saying that I knew I was the only teddy-wearing woman ever censored from appearing on television! I want that known, too.

  I was so sad not to be able to sing with Janis Joplin or Elvis, but I did sing with his daughter, Lisa Marie, and I did hire Janis’s best friend to channel our girl back here so that I could ask her if she meant to kill herself or not, and she said, “No, it was a really fun experience that just ended badly.” Of course, the greatest thrill of all was singing backup and dancing right beside my idol, James Brown. Mr. James Brown’s eyes just about bugged out of his head when I let him see some of what Ms. Barr can do. It was the greatest moment of my life when Mr. Brown looked over at me and said, “Oh, I get it, you’re an all-around entertainer! I thought you were just a comic, but now, oh now, I gotcha, Mrs. Barr!” I smiled and said, “I learned from the best, and that was you, Mr. Brown.”

  Not one of the many subsequent shows that the network put on to replace mine got even half the audience I delivered. I had a 3.8 score, which would now be a monster number, and was then, too, but they measured wrongly. They didn’t factor in VCRs or any newer methods of media. I was hearing from many college students that they couldn’t stay awake until 2:00 a.m. to watch my show live, so they recorded it every night. I am thrilled to hear that the old Nielsen method has finally been reworked and new methods employed to measure the audiences.

  The truth is that the show, which all of cable TV ripped off or borrowed from in some way, had plus-size beauty contests, plus-size talent contests, plus-size queen-for-a-day shows, plus-size prom dresses, a “Date My Daughters” segment, Judge Roseanne, rehab shows, multicultural holidays, hemp cooking shows, lots of God talk, and lots of conspiracy theories. I got used to seeing ideas I thought of get picked up and copied, and I was actually thrilled about it. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I was very, Very, VERY flattered by everyone in television. Of course, since then I’ve been reminded of another version of that old saying that’s made the rounds for a long time: “Imitation is the sincerest form of show business.”

  I also must say one thing about myself as a singer, and that is, I sure did get a lot better! Many singers cannot say that. Many singers wouldn’t sing again ANYWHERE after they had a really bad show, like I had once, but I am no quitter. I slew all of my fears when I realized that I could start completely over again, as I wish I had done on that field in San Diego, but was too afraid to just say, “STOP! I need to start over!” After about a decade or so, I regained the pure joy that singing had always been for me, in my real life, not just in fantasies.

  As incredible as I know this sounds, one day I got a call from the wonderful Mr. Tony Bennett, and he invited to me to sing with him at the Pantages Theatre for four United States presidents—Ford, Carter, Bush the elder, and Clinton! I walked onstage confident, and I sang the best I have ever sung. When I looked out at the presidents, Mr. President Jimmy Carter smiled at me and gave me the thumbs-up! He was the only one of the four for whom I ever voted. I have the framed Los Angeles Times picture in my home of Tony and myself singing together that night. I must say, I did quite well, and I had fun! I must also say that I cannot even remember what song we sang because I was totally dissociating the entire time. I walked off the stage and went directly to a Secret Service agent, who was taking a break and having a smoke behind the curtain, and I said, “Sir, would you be so kind as to give me one of those fucking cigs? I’m about to faint!” I had not smoked for years but began again immediately after that song. I smoked for three or four days before the nervous fires burned out.

  Now I realize that I am that Star-Spangled Banner myself, in a way. Tattered and torn after one perilous fight or another, I am still here and still standing on the side of freedom. I don’t have to be the very best singer on earth; I can just sing for the joy of it. No pressure.

  I sing almost every day now. God enjoys it, so who am I to deny Her?

  Chapter 27

  The End

  Have you noticed how every tale about a little girl or boy on an adventure in a mysterious place, where it’s never quite clear if things are real or imagined, seems to return home with a lesson learned? I guess it’s fitting that mine should, too. Whether Dorothy comes back from Oz and decides there’s no place like home or Alice comes to her senses with vivid memories of Mad Hatters and Cheshire cats (whatever that meant), the story is always about self-discovery. It was like that for me, too. There was always a twist or turn to amaze me—what with Hollywood, big-time TV, running around the world and sometimes not knowing if I was running toward something or away from it. You may be surprised that somebody doing all that running can stay so pleasingly plump and then some. But I’ve had quite a voyage—one that was as crazy and exciting as money and a ticket to Tinseltown can provide.

  Although I have to say that the best part, when I look back, was probably the leg of the journey before I got rich and famous. It was the breaking-out part that was the best—the part that started with me taking the saucy little jokes I cooked up at my kitchen table and serving them up to the yahoos in the bars, the lesbians in the church basements, and all the rest of the folks who looked into the funhouse mirror of my humor and either laughed or looked away. And then, finally, there I was, sitting onstage beside the great Johnny Carson—the wizard who sat in front of the curtain. That was the total fulfillment of the dream of the little fat girl from Utah, who had sat with her dad on a broken-down couch, basking in the silvery glow of the television in an otherwise empty living room, on that weird little street in that most enchanted of cities—the city where I lived under at least two or three spells before I even got to la-la land.

  Let’s give credit where it’s due, though. My dad opened the first door by hollering, “Comedian!” whenever a craftsman of that hallowed guild would appear on the tube in the comedian’s uniform, the suit you just figured was navy even in black-and-white, and begin to spin his little tales that told the real truth about everything—that there is nothing to do but laugh at it all! Buried somewhere in those short stories of cultural persecution, nagging wives, bad breaks, fat mothers-in-law, pain-in-the-ass bosses, heartburn, hangovers, guys walking into a bar, or dogs that would only talk to them when nobody else was around—somewhere in that briar patch full of haunting laughter, just for a second, I saw the grinning rabbit of happiness. He’d flash me a big toothy one and say, “Come on, kid—this is where you belong. Take your soul, full of sadness, alienation, and anger; add a dash of wry; swish it around; and serve it hot. Yell it back in the world’s face and make people laugh while you poke the big guys in the eyes for them.”

  Watching comedians on that little screen, I realized where my path led. But before there could be deals with agents and publicists and attorneys, there had to be a deal with someone even more evil and devious than they. No, not me, not quite, but the Devil himself, or at least the one who worked in the branch office of my bedroom in Salt Lake City, and, of course, in the private inner world of this kosher, Mormon, fat, dark girl with no ass and a brain that would not stop asking questions of The God in Heaven or of The God in Hell.

  Yep, the day came, years and years later and not so long ago, when I summoned old Lucifer himself, and much to my surprise, He showed up and granted me an audience. This time it was not a little girl with a head full of dreams who wanted some of His time and the benefit of His connections. Nope, it was a battle-tested veteran of the ego wars. I was more of a match for Beelzebub after navigating all the ups and downs that co
me with a big-time show-biz career, fame and fortune, and running the gauntlet from being hailed as the Next Big Thing at one end of the Tunnel of Love and Hate to being dumped at the other end and told, in so many words, “You’re played out, bitch!”

  So how does one undo a satanic contract, you ask? Well, you must first mix the herbs, hair, blood, and rum together in just the right combination, and then into the mirror you must gaze, jumping through all of hell’s hoops to anthropomorphically conjure Lucifer in order to get face time with Him. He’s not easy to reach—what with being guarded by the millions of souls who once worked in PR and are now His minions in hell, and having a schedule that keeps Him very, very busy here in Hollywood, as you might well imagine. However, Satan accepted my invitation to lunch, perhaps because I made it known from the start that I would, of course, pick up the check, or simply because He loves Spago as much as I.

  At last, the preappointed day arrived. I began to dress for what was perhaps the most important meeting of my subconscious life. I thought about wearing all black, but it seemed so boring to me. I wanted to establish a power look right from the beginning, so I chose an all red outfit—a skirt with little red beads at the hem, a low-cut red bustier, red high heels, red nails and lipstick, and red chopsticks stuck at a jaunty angle in my updo bun, the one I had worn to the Emmys that year.

  Are you ready for this, dear reader? I arrived first, and sat down and ordered a cocktail. I wanted to remain clearheaded given the task I had at hand, so I drank only two Belvedere martinis, filthy, with three olives, while I sat there waiting. His people had told my people to tell me that He would find me. It seemed to me that every man in a suit who walked into the restaurant could have possibly been Him, but when none of them looked my way, I finally just gave up anticipating Him at all.

  At first, I had no doubt that He would show up, but as the moments ticked away, I was no longer sure. Perhaps this was just one of the games He played with people like me, letting us just sit and wait all alone until it dawned on us that we had been stood up, passed over, and ignored by a powerful source—the worst of all realizations for anyone in Hollywood, being stood up in public. I began to doubt my powers of persuasion. I thought, Maybe my bullshit didn’t work on the Trickster Extraordinaire.

  My face was beginning to feel hot, and I wished I had worn black instead. I picked up my phone to see if I could get a last-minute replacement guest, just so I wouldn’t be sitting there all alone in red, sticking out like a sore thumb. That is a terrible thing for a famous person, sticking out like a sore thumb in public in Hollywood, alone! Everyone and their brother, after stalking you for a moment or two, while getting their pitch together, will commence pushing their screenplay or idea for a “comeback vehicle” on you, and that is almost a fate worse than death.

  As if the situation couldn’t have gotten any worse, my ex-husband Tom Arnold walked in! I was so horrified and in shock that I wasn’t able to pull my eyes away from him in time to avoid his eyes catching mine. He approached my table. “You look thinner than I thought” were his first words to me. Beat. “I thought I would start out with a joke! Zing!” He laughed, shooting me with an imaginary gun.

  I was so uncomfortable that I prayed Satan would come to the table right away. Tom stared down at me, waiting for me to say something. “Hello,” I finally said begrudgingly.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked.

  I wanted to say no but said, “Sure.” I sold my soul again in order not to be seen sitting there alone. Calmly, I said, “Please, have a seat.” Tom sat down and didn’t say anything for a bit. He just sat there quietly. I had never seen Tom sit so still. There was no face pinching, hair twirling, lip smacking, or rocking back and forth at all. “You really aren’t doing coke anymore?” I asked.

  He paused and sat back. “Roseanne, it’s me. Cut the crap. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I didn’t want to talk to you at all. In fact, I am waiting for someone very special and I would actually like you to leave.”

  Tom glared deeply at me. “No,” he said. “It’s ME—Satan.”

  My stomach tied up in knots. Here I was face-to-face with the Master of Lies. I thought for a second and said, “I guess I expected You, being the Devil, not to be so ‘on the head’ with Your incarnation, more disguised. I thought there would be more nuance.”

  “Nuance is for hacks,” He said. “What exactly is it you want, Roseanne? I am very, very busy at the moment, and since I already own your soul for all of eternity, I can’t imagine what this is about.”

  I said, “I won’t take much of your time, Satan. I just needed to go over a few things with you.”

  He seemed to like that I was respectful of His time and loosened up a bit, suggesting we order something to drink. I expected that Satan would order a Manhattan or a Bloody Mary, or, like in the song, a piña colada, but was surprised to find that ice water was His drink of choice, and He could barely get enough of it!

  As we sat, perusing the menu, we began to overhear snippets of conversation about Hollywood business deals and box office openings, which were soon eclipsed by the drunken trivial gossip, loudly spoken by non-Jewish second wives in their late twenties, about what assholes their Jewish husbands were, but how generous and caring as well, and what surprisingly good fathers they make at age one hundred.

  I muttered, “There but for your grace go I, sir.”

  He laughed and said, “You would never have found a rich Jewish guy to marry you! They like thin and sexy young blondes, not fat, pushy Jewish broads!” And we both had quite a laugh at that.

  “You are pretty funny,” I said, starting to shine his ass.

  “Coming from you, that is quite the compliment!” he shined back.

  “Hey, it’s really you—you came!” I said, surprised at my own enthusiasm.

  “You noticed,” He said sarcastically. His voice reminded me of that deep one that you hear on spooky movie trailers.

  “It’s been a long time,” I said, gathering my wits as I took a deep breath and sniffed a little to see if brimstone had an aroma. It did, I think, and it wasn’t pleasant. Or maybe the devil had had Mexican food for breakfast. Either way, He spoke next.

  “Actually, it hasn’t. You might be surprised how many times I’ve been hovering just over your shoulder, whispering a tip or two and some encouragement at special times—you know, like when you were reading people the riot act or serving them a boatload of shit, when a little talking-to or a heart-to-heart might have done the trick.”

  “That was You?” I asked. “I thought that was just me getting in touch with my inner bitch and getting people back for all the times I’d been hurt and talked down to on my way up.”

  “Yeah, that was Me, every time you’d look past all the good things life had brought you and seize on some little slight to use as an excuse to blow your mind and scare somebody with your industrial-strength temper and hollerin’ chops. I’ve always been impressed with the way you could rummage around in the haystack of happiness till you sniffed out the needle of negativity, and then use it to pop the bulging balloon of bratty bullshit that you liked to spray all over everybody within raging distance. Hey, I was even there helping you F things up with your family. Did you think you did that all by yourself?”

  “Oh my God!” I said, hating to hear it as the wave of recognition and embarrassing, creepy memories washed over me.

  “Uh, do me a favor,” He whispered. “Don’t use the G-word in my presence, okay? It’s way politically incorrect when you’re in a meeting with my end of the religious symbolism industry. Now, what did you want to talk about? I’m busier than ever these days, what with all the politicians and priests and lawyers and famous cheating husbands I have to, ahem, counsel.”

  “Do you mind if I order first?”

  He nodded, compliant. We decided to try the beet tower and the fatted calf, still listening in as the “girl talk” from the table beside us got louder and drunker and the de ri
gueur flirting with the obviously gay waiter began. We rolled our eyes at the waiter pretending to be a top when he was obviously a bottom in order to seduce the unhappy, bored, and aging gold diggers who might help him get an audition with one of the many agents they knew.

  “That guy, you might be interested to know, is going to make it pretty big, and will be dating Sharon Stone in about eighteen months. He has a red carpet in his near future,” Satan said.

  Finally, I screwed up the courage to spill the beans. “Satan, here it is, Guy. I want out of the contract,” I said. “You didn’t hold up Your end of our bargain. I may have been a little girl at the time, but now, at fifty-eight, and almost beginning to approach middle age … I must say that I remember the major deal points quite clearly.”

  “That doesn’t take a genius,” He said snidely. “It was mostly a standard boilerplate ‘fame and fortune in exchange for your soul, or what’s left of it after it’s been jammed through the fame-and-fortune meat grinder’ contract. We call it ‘Form Six sixty-seven.’ There are no loopholes, although I must admit, your addendum with the ‘stay-fat-and-still-be-able-to-pull-men-under-your-spell’ clause was pure genius! Most of my female clients opt for the ‘stay-thin-even-with-the-occasional-binge-eating-episode-minus-the-upchucking’ amendment.”

  “Hey,” I interrupted Him. “Form Six sixty-seven? What does Form Six sixty-six cover? That’s the most famous one, right?”

  “You don’t want to know,” He said with a dismissive flick of His hand, as if brushing off something distasteful. “Let’s just say it involves ‘men of the cloth’ and leave it at that. We’ve gone through stacks of those. As it is said, where’s the last place you’d look for the Devil? Answer: in church! Enough said.”

  “Oh my God,” I said again.

  “Hey, what did I just say about the G-word?” He said. “Anyway, what’s this about Me reneging? You had your big whirl around the block in the Look-at-Me-Mobile, while everybody watched, year after year, and according to the agreement, everybody was either full of admiration or burning with jealousy or both. What did I miss?”