A View From a Broad

by Bette Midler

  “Ah, but for us sex has always had its time and place. Love-making is an art and, like a great painting, should have a frame around it. You have lost that notion in America. It spills over into everything.”

  Well, I couldn’t disagree too vehemently with that.

  “You know,” the salesman continued as if talking to a child, “In France we always make love. We never have sex. We can’t. We haven’t got a word for it. And besides, how can you have sex? Perhaps you can make sex or even do sex, but have sex? It’s very strange.”

  “Well,” I replied, “just think of it like you have a meal or have a laugh.”

  “I’d rather not,” he said. “And now to get back to the baskets.”

  I was wondering if we ever could, when suddenly Miss Frank emerged from Lingerie, loaded down with what seemed to be hundreds of packages of red and black panty hose. “Oh,” she said as she approached, tottering under her load, “this store is wonderful. They have everything.”

  “But how did you get them to actually sell you anything? What did you say?”

  “Say? Who said anything? I pointed, like I always do. Now hurry up; we’re late.”

  “But I didn’t buy the basket yet!” I whined.

  “You’ll have to do it tomorrow. Come on.” And so saying, she threw half her load into my arms and began to walk towards the exit.

  I looked back over my shoulder at the salesman, who was still holding up the basket and, for the first time, smiling. At first I thought it was a smile of triumph. But then I wasn’t sure. There seemed to be something warmer. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

  Of course, I never got back to Les Galeries, but when three months later I returned to Los Angeles, a package was waiting for me. It was from Les Galeries, and stuck on top was a little envelope addressed to Miss Midler. I opened up the envelope and found inside a small black-and-white snapshot of the salesman I had encountered there. On the back a little note was scribbled:

  * * *

  Dear Miss Midler,

  We French are an odd lot. And, I know, often disliked. But lest you mistake, as many do, our love for intellectual debate with cold-hearted arrogance, I am taking the liberty of sending you this.

  Yours truly,

  Jean-Michel

  * * *

  Astonished, I opened the package and there it was: the dark cane basket. And on the bottom of the basket lay a little card in the same handwriting as the note. For Boys’ Bikes Only, it said. And I know Jean-Michel meant it nice.

  AT LE THÉTRE PALAIS •

  Lafayette, we are here!

  Ou est le docteur? Le gendarme? Je désire à téléphoner à mon consulat. Ma chambre est trop petite; trop grande. Avez-vous une chambre à deux lits? J’ai perdu ma valise. . . . Ooh! Excusez-moi, but I only got to Page Two in my phrase book.

  Ah, but it is wonderful to dig our spikes into the beloved soil of La Belle France. Truly, mesdames et messieurs—les tits, c’est moi! And Paris! Paris! City of Light. City of the tough customer. City of the First Class Subway Token. What a thrill to épanger these cobblestones. The moment I got off the plane I knew we belonged here.

  Check the demoiselles a ma gauche. And I do mean gauche. Look at these girls. Talk about Gaul. You see, it really is divided into three parts. Ladies and Gentlemen, a hearty Parisian welcome to three items I picked up on discount at the Common Market—Les Harlettes Formidables! Show them Paris when it sizzles, girls! Aw righty, girls. Enough sizzling. Strike a Gallic pose. (HARLETTES DO.) Not garlic—Gallic. Oh, my, c’est difficile de trouver des domestiques, n’est-ce pas? Mais ooh, là là! We are thrilled and delighted to be here in the town where good taste was born. And—judging from the front row—died not moments ago. Really my dears, you are the Poor People of Paris, And this place—the Théātre Palais. It’s so . . . French. Honey, zee have played some toilets in our time. This isn’t exactly a toilet. It’s more unto a bidet. . . . However, I have found in my travels that just as it is not so much the salad as the chef, it is not so much the theatre as the show. Ladies and gentlemen, was offer you this evening Service Compris! Yes, was are going to do it all for you tonight. Ami to begin, a touching little tune I’m sure you all remember . . . “La Vie en Rose,” Not to be confused with La Viande Rosé, or The Red Meat . . . an early but extraordinary film by Godard which subtly limns the superiority of Communist cows over Fascist pigs. Ah well . . . as Napoleon said while scuttling back from Moscow.— “The cheese stands alone n’est-ce pas?” Or words to that effect. It loses in the translation. Much as I myself am losing even as we speak. . . .

  MESDAMES ET MESSIEURS, JE VOUS PRÉSENTE

  • MADAME SOPHIE •

  I will never forget it! I was in the woods last night with my boyfriend Ernie and he said to me, “Soph! These woods sure are dark. I sure wish I had a flashlight.” I said to him, “So do I, Ernie. You’ve been munching grass for the last ten minutes!”

  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: HERE LIES SOPH. COLD AS USUAL. 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: HERE LIES ERNIE—STIFF AT LAST!

  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 despi
te 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

  • AT THE GERMAN BORDER •

  “. . . 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? . . .”

  • JAHRHUNDERTHALLE •

  FRANKFURT, GERMANY

  THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE

  While 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.

  One day, during a break in orchestra rehearsal, some of the bigger boys, led by Jojo Sagon, a Filipino with a chip on both his shoulders, picked Angel up, threw him into his empty bass-fiddle case, and locked him in. They thought the whole thing terrifically funny. When our teacher, Mrs. Kiyabu, called everyone back and, noticing that Angel was missing, asked where he was, the boys opened the case, to everyone’s great amusement.

  Yes, the joke was extremely successful. Even Angel smiled a little when he was finally let out of the case, although I remember thinking at the time that it wasn’t a smile of amusement exactly. For the rest of the day, Angel didn’t say a word to anyone, which just confirmed everyone’s feeling that Angel was at heart aloof and unlikable and deserved whatever he got.

  Angel didn’t go home that afternoon or that night, nor was he anywhere to be found the next morning. His parents, who together could barely speak a word of English, came to the school to find out what had happened, but in a stirring display of school unity no one would tell them the truth.

  Finally, about a week later, Angel was found, hanging from a eucalyptus tree about ten miles out of town. On the trunk of the tree, he had tacked up a little sign: I’M TIRED OF BEING THE PUNCH LINE.

  I thought a lot about Angel in Germany, where not so long ago I wouldn’t have come up to standard. In fact, I was thinking about him when Miss Frank came bouncing into my room one morning and threw a little guidebook on my bed.

  “Get up!” she said in that tone only mothers usually use. “We’re going.”

  “We are? Where?” I asked, squinting my eyes in the sunlight that was suddenly flooding the room.

  “To Salzburg, of course,” said Miss Frank as if we had planned it for days. “It’s beautiful. And it’s in Austria.”

  So the cagy woman was reading my mind again. I watched as she busily laid out the clothes she decided I should wear. I thought about the punishment she always said was coming. Well, I still didn’t know about that. But I knew as long as I had Miss Frank, I surely had my reward.

  • CONFESSIONS OF A HASH EATER •

  “I don’t take anything. I’m high on life.”

  • CONFESSIONS OF A HASH EATER
•

  I had often heard it said that God created the world, but the Dutch created Holland. Well, at least God rested on the seventh day. The Dutch never do. I don’t ever remember seeing a town so on-the-go as Amsterdam. In fact, the Amsterdammers are as industrious when they i play as they are when they work. Maybe when you live on land that by natural right ought to be sea, you take everything very seriously, even pleasure. In any case, the Dutch go at their fun with intense determination. And for the weekend of the 16th of October, they had determined that their fun would be me.

  The fact was that I was better known in Holland than anywhere else on the Continent, and expectations were running high. There was too much to live up to. I like to whip the crowd up myself rather than have them all whipped up before I even get there. When an audience is that excited, there’s no place left to take them. And then what’s a poor girl to do? Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I ate hash.

  Mm, boy, was that a big mistake! For despite any rumors to the contrary, I am, except for an occasional salt pill, essentially drug-free. I used to do a little routine in my act that went like this: First I’d say in a real Scarsdale voice, “Harry! Where does she get all that energy from? She must take something, Harry. What do you think she takes?” Then I’d say, very dramatically, “I don’t take anything. I’m high on life.” I can hear it in the balcony now!—"Where can I get some?”

  It was a dumb little bit, and it was corny. But it was also true. Only once before in my career had I gone onstage stoned, and that was in St. Louis, almost three years before.