The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente]

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The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente] Page 23

by Kirstie Alley

They should give me one, I thought. I’ve been hyping Aston Martins on Twitter and to friends like I’m their spokesperson. Truth is, I have just always adored them. The first one I drove was in my TV series Fat Actress and it was love at first gear.

  I looked ravishing, I must say, and Jeffrey was dressed to kill in a cool black suit. As we pulled up to the movie premiere, I said, “Jeffrey, what the hell am I doing? I see premieres all the time! Let’s drive!!!” We sailed past the theater with the red carpet, press, photographers, and celebs and he drove and drove and drove, blasting the radio, hair flying in the wind, laughing like teenagers. We just drove!!

  Jeffrey’s the dude that can sit silent for hours or converse like a long-lost girlfriend. This night he just drove!! I had him pop me by the after-party for the premiere, but even that couldn’t compete with the drive. So back into the Aston I hopped, and off we went again, this time all over the city, with Jeffrey yelling, “This is freedom, man, this is freedom!!”

  There are other things that made Jeffrey the best driver in NYC. He always has tons of violet candies in between the bucket seats in his grand candy basket, filled with every candy you could dream of. And gum, cigarettes, and phone chargers. It feels like Halloween in there!

  Jeffrey has another phrase, my favorite phrase: “That’s fucked up, man.” All of my friends who know Jeffy know this phrase. If I’d leap in the car a little intoxicated and say, “God Jeff, I drank too much,” he’d say, “That’s fucked up, man.” If Mona told Jeffrey, “My ex is breaking my heart!” he’d reply, “That’s fucked up, man,” and he was always right! It IS fucked up to be stood up or drunk or anything else we complained about. In Jeffy’s car, whatever’s been done to you that you don’t like, he will agree, “That’s fucked up, man.” He doesn’t give you his opinions or tell you about what you should do or not do. He just empathizes with your grievance.

  He’s also hysterically nutty and funny. Everybody loves Jeffrey. He is now so sought-after by Hollywood royalty that I have to call a week before I get to NYC. His other drivers are cool, but its Jeffrey we all want behind the wheel.

  He’s also like this invisible guardian. One night while I was doing one of the dumber things I did in NYC, making out with a baseball player in the lobby of the Greenwich Hotel, I could peripherally see Jeffrey scouting for the paps. And probably checking to see if I took the guy up to my room and was in danger of ending up on Snapped or 48 Hours. He just sort of invisibly strolled by, but it made me start laughing to see him out of the corner of my eye because I could hear him whisper, “That’s fucked up, man.”

  Almost daily there were pictures of me on the cover of something or other with my latest boy toy. It was so far from reality that I sorta started to get off on it. Younger men have always been into me—ever since I was 16. My brother’s 12-year-old friends would fall for me.

  But my preference has never been younger men, so when I’d see paparazzi hiding around the corner I began to ham it up a bit. I’d give ’em a look of shock that I’d been caught with my pants down. I’d stand a little closer to the guy or kiss him when I got in the car. I was having so much fun with my fake lovers that their parents were being called by the tabloids!!

  Teddy was my “lover” for three weeks. The reporters would ask Teddy’s mother, “How do you feel about your son with an older woman?” She would decline to answer. His dad would yell from the background, “I think it’s great!”

  When Jeffy picked me up in the a.m., he would present me with the latest articles and photos of me with my newest lover. The funniest was this rapper named Shancie whom Lil’ Romeo introduced to me in LA during DWTS. Shancie and I went dancing at the Colony on a few occasions with Romeo and the rest of the DWTS cast.

  But this particular story said that Shancie had broken up with me because if he didn’t, his mother was kicking him out of living in her basement. Oh lord, I couldn’t stop laughing, and neither could Jeffy.

  Although affairs with young men sound good in print and in movies or on Sex and the City, I can’t imagine having a life with a man 20 or 30 years my junior. Jeffrey will testify that I do have more in common with 30-year-old men than with my own age bracket, but I couldn’t marry them. I have a theory that men over 45 are mostly dead. They are either way too serious and significant about life or they bore me to death. Oh lord, they become serious about everything. Thirty-something-year-olds are in the prime of their lives creatively. They are planning their futures, and they are awake and vocal about what they want to do. They are usually game for anything, and they have endless energy. They are interesting.

  Those six weeks were pretty ridiculous for many reasons, but an uptown girl can’t tell all her tales. They were also fulfilling. Everything I did by day turned out productive. I got the Poise account. I got three play offers, two Broadway and one West End London. I got a TV pilot for ABC and landed a book deal with Atria.

  Everything I did by night was memorable—and ridiculous and well, sparklery.

  I have no regrets. It was splendid because it was unique for me. But I did worry for a moment when after my last night out, after hitting the Boom Boom Room, SL, and 1 Oak, I found myself sitting with Kelly on the fire escape of the Tribeca loft I was staying in, smoking a cigarette (I hadn’t smoked in over seven years) and drinking a Beck’s as the sun rose over Gotham. I was three sheets to the wind. “Ya know Kelly, I don’t know what I’ve been doing for the last ten years,” I slurred, “but I should have been doing this, why don’t people live like this every day of their lives?” And somewhere from New Jersey I could hear Jeffrey say, “Because that’s fucked up, man.”

  There is no time for cut-and-dried monotony. There is time for work. And time for love. That leaves no other time.

  —COCO CHANEL

  The Art of

  Men I Have Not Hit On

  BURT REYNOLDS taught me how to be good on a talk show. He took me from my Kansas one-word answers to being worthy of watching on TV. I was going to be on Johnny Carson for my first guest appearance. Burt was directing and starring with Parker in a movie in Atlanta called Stroker Ace. I think he was married to Loni Anderson at the time, and if not, they were a couple. I mentioned I was going on Carson and was nervous because I was in such awe of Johnny. He sailed right into, “Here’s what you do with Carson, well, with any talk show host, but specifically Carson. You walk out there and flirt a little and give him a compliment. Then ALWAYS give him the first joke! After he has the first joke and the first laugh, go crazy, tell funny stories, flirt with him, and find a way to throw in that he’s hot. Be yourself amplified. It’s a piece of cake, try it.”

  That next week, I went on the Johnny Carson show. I walked out and said, “UH OH, I didn’t realize you were so handsome.” Then he blushed and cracked a joke. The audience went wild with laughter. I then told a story about being on the back of a Harley-Davidson and threw in, “I wish it had been you I was straddling.” The appearance was a hit! I was “in,” so to speak, in the guest-star supercircuit. That advice worked like a charm with Johnny and has with each host since . . . even Ellen and Oprah. After all, it’s only good manners to let them have the first laugh and give them the first compliment. It is their show. Thanks, Burt.

  CARL REINER

  is a comedy icon and a renowned actor, film director, producer, writer, and comedian. He has received nine Emmy Awards. I had the pleasure of being directed by Carl in Sibling Rivalry alongside Bill Pullman, Scott Bakula, Sam Elliott, and Carrie Fisher. He also directed me in a movie called Summer School, starring opposite Mark Harmon (or “Hormone,” as I fondly call him). He was a memorable director, and a kind, gentle, funny soul. He’s also a very deep man. He asked me questions about my personal philosophy and shared a bit of his own. Carl is brilliantly funny; you will meet no one more quick witted. But the thing Carl taught me that I most remember was how to make a leading man look like a sex symbol.

  One day on the set of Sibling Rivalry we were chatting along. What pure pleasure it w
as to just sit and listen to the stories of his life’s experiences. We got onto the subject of leading men, and he gave me these pearls of wisdom: “It is up to the leading lady to make the male lead a heartthrob.” He continued, “It works the other way around, also, but more so with actors than actresses. If you act like he is the most handsome, sexy man alive, he will be. You must look at him adoringly as you would your own lover. In interviews you must talk him up, fawn over him, drool if you have to, but always treat him as though he is the object of your affections. The world will follow your lead. Every woman in the universe will fall as in love with him as they think you are.”

  Boy, now didn’t that make sense? I’d wondered growing up why not-so-movie-star-handsome men had been so attractive. Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Jimmy Stewart, all nice-looking men, but far from the likes of Clark Gable or James Dean. It was true, those actresses like Bacall and Hepburn had adored those actors so thoroughly on screen, and they themselves were so stunning that it made us fall in love right along with them. (They also adored them offscreen, but those are their stories.)

  Thank you, Carl, what an honor to have worked with you twice and listened to your captivating stories and viewpoints on filmmaking. And thank you for showing me how to get the world to fall in love with my leading men. It did us all an enormous service.

  JASON WEINBERG

  has been my manager/publicist for 20 years. We met back when he was a baby. I was filming a movie in Toronto called Radiant City. I had . . . a what? Everybody join in: “a slight crush on my costar,” Gil Bellows. One night at my favorite Toronto restaurant, Joso’s, Gil and I were joined by this black-haired, dark-eyed dude named Jason. I assumed he was an actor. He looked like a cross between Andy Garcia and Al Pacino. We were chatting away, and when I asked him what films he had done, he started laughing. “No films—I’m a publicist.” I couldn’t believe it! What a waste of a good mug!

  Jason and I hit it off immediately. It evolved into a 20-year relationship that has been nothing less than extraordinary. Jason was this Whiz Kids math genius and chess wizard in his hometown of NYC. He is one smart cookie! He is also the best publicist/manager on the planet. Jason always remains patient, calm, and professional. When I’m losing my shit, every other day, he soothes me and makes it all okay. Unlike most publicists, he never gossips or talks about his other clients. I can’t tell you how RARE this is.

  Our success together has been uncanny. The best part is the friendship we developed. Although I’ve tried to convince him for 20 years that he’s not gay (so that I can marry him), it appears that he might be. He’s lived with his partner, Merrit, for ten years and they share twins, my godchildren Harry and Jasper.

  Jason prefers remaining behind the scenes, so I won’t go on about him, other than to say he now owns a management company called Untitled Entertainment and represents every diva in Hollywood. We prefer to think of ourselves as actresses but if the shoe fits . . . I’m just lucky that I was the first actress in his stable.

  PRINCE

  I met Prince when I was sitting all alone in the middle of an enormous arena. I’d come to participate in the Special Olympics. The rumors were that Prince was very shy and never approached people, at least according to those in Hollywood.

  He walked right up to me. I looked up, and there he was. “Hi, I’m Prince,” as if I wouldn’t recognize him, “and this is my father.”

  “Hi, I’m Kirstie,” I chimed in.

  “I know who you are,” he dreamily replied.

  Prince and I went on to become sweet friends. He visited me on the set of Cheers and on occasion would drop in to my Encino house. I met up with him at Paisley Park when I was filming Drop Dead Gorgeous in Minnesota. We had no trouble communicating with each other, and it was never frivolous conversation. We each spoke of life’s most complex mysteries. We talked about religion, business, and families. He is the most interesting person I’ve met to date. I needn’t speak of his talent because it’s evident. What you might not know is that he is electric. His being radiates and lights up the room. I mean that literally. He lights up a room like a firefly in a jar.

  We’ve spoken on the phone over the years, and I find him as fascinating as the day he said, “Hi, I’m Prince.”

  We were an unlikely duo by standard observation, as I am anything but mysteriously captivating, but somehow we clicked, and what a fine click it was.

  He asked me to be on one of his albums and in his video. I did. I was. He asked me to present an award to him at some VH1 or MTV event. I did.

  All I’ve ever wanted from him was to simply hear his viewpoints on life. They are unique and funny. He is forever funny.

  Prince taught me that I was unique, just by being the only “me” in the universe.

  I love him.

  MICHAEL WISNER

  You probably don’t know him, but he saved my life. In the mid-1980s, I got terribly ill. I kept working and filming, but I was so sick that I couldn’t walk across a room without becoming winded. My neck was in excruciating pain. My body was weak and frozen. I could lie in an almost scalding bath and only after hours would my body warm up inside. I developed tremors in my hands; sometimes I lost all peripheral vision. After two years of countless doctor’s visits, expert opinions, and specialists, I was hopeless. No one knew what it was. They knew what it wasn’t after hundreds of blood tests, MRIs, X-rays, and such—it wasn’t MS, it wasn’t ALS, it wasn’t cancer, it wasn’t leukemia. So after two years the expert consensus was—it wasn’t anything. A few suggested I was mentally ill and suggested antidepressants. I let them know I wasn’t depressed. I was DESPERATE because I was suffering, and there was no apparent cause!

  That would have driven anyone to drugs, but I’d already taken the cocaine train, and I wasn’t jiggy with the drugging-up mentally ill route, plus, I could FEEL that it was physical. A friend suggested I go see this Michael guy. He was an expert in toxins. Hell! What did I have to lose? Michael looks like a clone of Robert Redford, so I instantly perked up. He sat me down, luckily, because I couldn’t stand very long, and asked me to tell him every symptom. Jeez, by then I could reel them faster than 30 Hail Marys. He looked me square in the eye, “Have you been exposed to termite spray, methyl bromide?”

  I didn’t know what methyl bromide was but I said yes, I’ve lived in three houses within the past two years and they were all tented for termites before I moved in.

  “Look at this,” he said, while handing me a large book. It was some toxicology handbook or something. There, listed under methyl bromide poisoning, was each and every symptom I’d just rattled off. I almost fainted from the effect of finally knowing what had happened.

  He recommended I redo the Clear Body, Clear Mind Scientology detox. He also introduced me to Alka-Seltzer Gold. It’s like mainlining potassium, and it quelled the tremors and cleared a lot of the pain. He said, “We use this with our ‘glasshouse’ patients, the ones who are supersensitive to environmental toxins.”

  I did the detox and drank the Alka-Seltzer Gold, and within four weeks I was up to 80 percent of being my normal self. Within four months everything was perfect.

  Michael and I joined forces with several environmental groups and with their help got methyl bromide banned in the United States. Michael went on to help thousands, including many of the first responders of 9/11, ridding their bodies of the poisons that were slowly or swiftly killing them.

  I’m eternally grateful for my good friend Michael for discovering what was destroying my body and my happiness. He remains to this day my guardian angel.

  WALLACE AND GILBERT

  are lobstermen in Maine.

  When Parker and I first arrived on the island, we had the pleasure of having them caretake our house and somehow take care of us. You don’t meet men like this anymore, even in Maine. They are a dying breed. They taught me what hard work looks like.

  Wallace had been the caretaker of famed New York City interior designer Sister Parish. Both Wallace and Gi
lbert are master carpenters, and they restored our 22-bedroom Maine cottage. They also caught lobsters full-time. Is that how you say it? Caught lobsters? Anyway, suffice it to say they worked their asses off.

  They reminded me of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. Once I wrote, directed, and starred in an independent film in Maine. I titled it Babies and Butter. It still hasn’t been cut together, but it was a swell film. My friend Scott from Connecticut played an enormous lobster. I had a costume made in LA, and believe me, it was really authentic. The story line was that something or someone was stealing all the babies and all the butter on the island, and no one could figure out who the culprit was. It turns out this giant lobster had been observing how we Maine socialites were ignoring our children, leaving them to be raised by nannies and such. He was not impressed. So every night he would creep out of the water and kidnap the babies. We finally found them all hidden in the fern patches in the woods. They had huge slices of bread. Huge, I tell you! And he had given them HUGE bowls of butter and jam to spread on the huge slices of bread. All the babies were laughing and frolicking (in the story that is; we had 10 babies in that shot and when one would start to cry, they would all cry). Anyway, Scott played the lobster, I played the widow who fell in love with him, and Wallace and Gilbert played the mean townspeople who tried to kill him and cook him. There was a wild chase around the island with Wallace and Gilbert riding in the back of a truck with shotguns. Gilbert is a lunatic, so he played the part easily. Wallace is shy and soft spoken. He probably still wants to boil me for forcing him to be in the movie.

  Wallace and Gilbert were always there for us. Doing clambakes, bringing me bouquets of flowers, building new fireplaces, taking us on boat rides, and helping us lug our stuff back and forth to Camden. Wallace still works for me at my house in Maine. The other day he brought me an enormous bouquet of peonies and 10 Walla Walla onions. For over 20 years, Wallace and Gilbert have taken care of us and made sure we felt like Maine was our home. They are among my favorite men on the high sea of life.

 

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