Kirstie Alley - The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine al Dente)

Contents

This book is dedicated to my father, who spoiled me for all other men, thereby wrecking my life. I love you...

GLORIA SWANSON

Introduction

E LEANOR ROOSEVELT, Golda Meir, Mother Teresa, Rosa Parks, Harriet Tubman, Helen Keller, Catherine the Great, the Virgin Mary: all of these women were powerhouses worthy of respect and admiration. Yet none of them influenced my life to any great degree. Lets take it down a notch: my mother, my sister, my female neighbors, cousins, schoolteachers, piano instructors, directors, producers, and acrobat coaches didnt influence my life in a major way.

My grandmother influenced my cooking, and the girl across the street from us wore cool, almost-white lipstick that Ive copied over the years, but other than that, almost 99 percent of my lifes influences have come from Men.

Not necessarily good influences, but influences nonetheless.

This is odd because I get along swimmingly with women. Im probably considered a womans woman. The majority of my best friends are chicks. Women rarely cause conflicts in my life, probably because I dont have sex with them. If I were a lesbian this book might have been titled The Art of Women or The Art of Vaginas .

Women have rarely caused me heartbreak and have taken a backseat in my career. From a young age I was surrounded by women who were, well, bitches. My mother was mean, my sister hated my guts, and my piano teacher thought I was a boy.

At around age three, I just sort of wrote women off as troublemakers.

There was one exception: my aunt Mary, with her jet-black hair, smoldering blue eyes, and lips like Elvis. I copied everything she did, from her red nail polish to her genuflecting and black mantilla. (She was Catholic, so I became Catholic.) She had a pet raccoon, so I later raised six. She wore White Shoulders; so do I on occasion. She smoked cigarettes and left her lipstick imprint on each. I smoked, too, and made sure everyone could differentiate my cigarettes from the rest in the ashtray by the lipstick stain.

I adored Mary; she was extraordinary in every way. She had a tarantula in her swimming pool one summer. She was like Jane Russell, buxom, sexy, and all woman. She was the perfect role model.

She died of lung cancer when I was 13. She was the last woman who had any magnitude of influence over me.

This book is about the Men in my life and how they have influenced it. Men, Men, glorious Men! I actually get silly and dizzy just saying the word Men. I hate and adore them. I need yet reject them. I was born boy crazy, and it turned to man crazy by the time I was 15. Men are these curious creatures who total a little over half of the earths population. They are troublesome, complex, brutal, and gentle. My life would have been unlivable and drab without them, unbearable really. Men are not at all like women, and women who treat Men like they are women are doomed. Even supergay men cannot be treated like women; after all, they are Men, just Men who love Men.

Ive come to realize that Men are actually an art form. There is definitely an art to Men: the loving of them, pleasing them, sexing them up, cheering them on, controlling them, making them feel important, giving them the right amount of attention without smothering them, taking care of them when they are sick, blowing smoke up their asses when they feel weak or vulnerable, and blowing them when you dont want to without them knowing you dont want to. These are just some of the tasks women must be able to perform in order to handle the Men in their lives artfullyskillfully, gracefully, but mostly covertly.

The stories in this book belong to me. They are mine. They denote how Men have influenced my life, not the other way around. They reflect my experiences of love, loss, evil, joy, revenge, and triumph. One interesting phenomenon was revealed as I began writing about the Men in my life: they are not just happenstances any more than the brushstrokes of Manet or John Singer Sargent are accidental. They are works of Art. Men are malleable. They arent dissimilar to paintings. They can be colorful or dull, overworked or minimal, interesting or boring, lively or dead. They can emote light and happiness or darkness and loathing. Some you want to keep in the family, some you want to put on the auction block. People may be in awe of your painting. Others just cant see what you see in it. They come in all ages and sizes, some are erotic, some are classic, a few are magnificent, but many are landscapes.

Whatever form Men have taken in my life, they have culminated in a giant collage in my soul. They are my treasures, my heartaches, and my gifts. They are my Artwork. After 60 years of life, I continue to strive to perfect The Art of Men...

W. C. FIELDS

The Art of
Retarded Young Men

M IDWAY THROUGH filming Look Whos Talking Too with John Travolta, we were night shooting in an airport in Vancouver; it was about 2:00 a.m., and it was freezing. I couldnt wait to wrap and get back to my cozy hotel room. Turns out I was one month pregnant, and it was really hard to stay awake. I recall being so tired that if Id fallen into the gutter and a Nazi put a Luger to my head and threatened to blow my brains out if I didnt riseI would have told him to pull the trigger.

Just as we were filming the last shot of the evening, an airline captain approached me. He informed me that his 20-year-old retarded son had recently been in a horrible car accident that had almost taken his life. He had been badly burned and had broken both legs and an arm. He told me his son was my number one fan and that hed brought him to the set to meet me. He inquired as to whether it was possible, right after we finished shooting, that I could come into the hangar and take just a minute to meet him. Suddenly me being pregnant and freezing my ass off didnt have much relevance. A retarded (it wasnt politically incorrect to say that word back then), badly burned, and broken lad had traveled all this way just to meet me. Of course I said yes!

When we completed the final shot of the night, the director yelled, Cut, print, wrap. John escorted me to the hangar, and I set eyes on the poor, retarded, bandaged young man sitting in a wheelchair. I took a deep breath because he was covered in gauze and splints and was more damaged than I had imagined. When I approached him he began to laugh and gyrate in his wheelchair back and forth. He was ecstatic to meet me. These are the times being a celebrity really pays offto bring that much joy to an individual is... joyous.

He put his bandaged hand outI took it. He said in his retarded way, I love you. I reciprocated, I love you, too. He pulled me closer. He was really strong! I love you, a little louder and more audible. I love you, too, I said. He then took both my arms and pulled me much closer. I love you, I love you, I love you, he said, and I proclaimed, I looove you soooo much in the sort of half-real, half-anxiety-ridden way youd act if a retarded boy was mauling you. He was holding me so tightly it was actually hurting me, but he was retarded, so I persevered.