Cybill Shepherd - Cybill Disobedience : How I Survived Beauty Pageants, Elvis, Sex, Bruce Willis, Lies, Marriage, Motherhood, Hollywood, and the Irrepressible Urge to Say What I Think

HOW I SURVIVED

BEAUTY PAGEANTS,

ELVIS, SEX,

BRUCE WILLIS,

LIES, MARRIAGE,

MOTHERHOOD,

HOLLYWOOD,

AND THE

IRREPRESSIBLE URGE

TO SAY WHAT I THINK

with Aimee Lee Ball

From wholesome beauty queen to saucy cover girl, from heartbreaking movie star (THE LAST PICTURE SHOW, TAXI DRIVER) to one of television's most loved comediennes (MOONLIGHTING, CYBILL), Cybill Shepherd is renowned as sassy, shocking and sexy. In CYBILL DISOBEDIENCE, she opens her heart with the wit and honesty of a star who's seen and knows it all.

A fun, dirt-flinging read TOTAL FILM

A blistering autobiography NEWS OF THE WORLD

Wild and wicked WOMANS OWN

Amazingly frank THE MAIL ON SUNDAY

Her finest piece of work to date DAILY EXPRESS

A riveting, candid, fresh and self-revealing book. LIZ SMITH

Gutsy. SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER

Nobody kisses and tells like Cybill Shepherd. NEW YORK DAILY NEWS

COPYRIGHT River Siren Productions, Inc.

rsiren@aol.com

All rights reserved

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA:

Shepherd, Cybill

Cybill Disobedience/ Cybill Shepherd with Aimee Lee Ball

p. cm.

Originally published: New York: HarperCollins

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This book is dedicated to my mother, Patty Cornelia Shobe Shepherd Micci, and my father, William Jennings Shepherd Jr.

Thanks for falling in love.

Los Angeles, California, Oct. 30, 1999

6:17 P.M.- In 123 minutes Im appearing onstage in my cabaret act at the Cinegrill of the fabled old Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. However, right now Im on the Hollywood freeway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. At this pace, one inch every five minutes, Ill just make it at eight-thirty in the year 2004.

7:12 P.M.- Turning off Highland onto Hollywood Boulevard, were rear-ended by a station wagon.

7:14 P.M.- I have no choice. Leaving my driver, Tom, to take care of that situation, I take off running, dragging behind me a rolling suitcase filled with my costume, makeup, and sheet music. Im wearing a black leather cap, black high-tops, black jeans, and a bodywear top that I hadnt exactly planned on publicly displaying in an area of town where this kind of cleavage can either get you arrested or hired. Heading west toward Manns Chinese Theatre, a greasy-looking wino calls out Cmon, baby, gimme some of that! Without breaking stride, I holler back, Normally I would, but right now I dont have time.

7:16 P.M.- Reaching the north corner of the intersection of Orange and Hollywood Boulevard, I look up and freeze in fear. My name is not on the marquee. This is not good. Could it be Im here on the wrong night? I dart through traffic and leaping safely onto the far sidewalk, quickly glance down at my star on the Walk of Fame. I notice a wad of gum on it. I try to kick it off. Now Ive got a glob of purple goo stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I yank off the shoe and hobble into the Roosevelt lobby.

7:20 P.M.- To my enormous relief, I see a placard that says Cybill Shepherd is performing here tonight. Carrying my shoe, dragging my suitcase, I hurtle across the lobby and pound on the elevator button. The doors open almost immediately, but the elevator is full. I jam myself, my shoe, and my suitcase in anyway, gasping for breath. A woman behind me squeals, Are you who I think you are?

I certainly hope so, I answer, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

7:25 P.M.- My assistant, Jason, anxiously paces at the door of my fourth-floor dressing room as I rush in and begin frantically unpacking my bag.

Your hairdressers stuck in traffic on the freeway, Jason says, taking in my disheveled appearance, trying hard to hide his horror. The eighteen-hour makeup that gives my face and arms a flawless resurfacing has leaked out over everything in my bag: brushes, rollers, makeup, hairspray. Its time for prayer, Please God, let my hairdresser get here in the next five minutes.

7:29 P.M.- The stage manager knocks: One hour, Cybill! Do you need anything? I want to say yes, I need my hairdresser to be here. I need my makeup to be scraped out of the bottom of the bag, I need my sheet music to be dried out, but I cant say any of that because my cell phone is ringing.

7:30 P.M.- Its my older daughter, Clementine, calling from the car. She and my younger daughter, Ariel, are stuck on yet another freeway taking our beloved black pug petunia to the vet. Obviously, Clementine and Ariel are going to be late for my show. I understand. They have their priorities too.

7:35 P.M.- My twelve-year-old son, Zachariah, rushes in from the adjoining room with a look of consternation. He has forgotten until this very moment that tonight is the biggest party of the year, thrown by his best friend. Can you please take me right now, Mom? Before I can answer, the doorbell rings. Its Cathy, my hairdresser. Right behind her is a woman Ive never seen before, who grabs me by the arm and gushes: Oh, Cybill, I cant wait for your book to come out. My marriage is falling apart, my kids are driving me crazy, and Im premenopausal too. I take one look around me--at my pleading son, my ringing cell phone, the accoutrements of my soon-to-be onstage self strewn all over the floor, and my only thought is But clearly Im writing more of a How-Not-to book.

8:20 P.M.- Mmmraahhh. Mmmmmmrraaahhhh. Im vocalizing. While Cathy teases my hair, I console Clementine on the cell phone about the state of Petunias kidneys, and the stage manager pops in with the ten-minute warning while I try to remember the lyrics to The Lady Is a Tramp.

8:30 P.M.- Please, Mom, cant you take me now, Zach implores as I slop on some makeup and throw on my clothes.

I love you, I say, trying to remember the lyrics to One Monkey Dont Stop No Show, but Mom has to work now and I cant go anywhere except onstage in about thirty-eight seconds.

8:33 P.M.- Outside the door of the Cinegrill, the stage manager hands me my microphone as I slip into my shoes. Ive mollified Zach. Hes upstairs doing his homework. Petunias kidneys have resumed functioning. And Clementine and Ariel are on the way. The band jumps into the intro of That Old Black Magic as the announcer intones, And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome... direct from polishing her star on Hollywood Boulevard... Cybill Shepherd.

PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER LIVED THROUGH AN EARTHQUAKE assume that one of its salient features is noise--the sounds of splintering glass, the symphony of physical destruction, the uncanny moaning of buildings as steel and wood and concrete are strained to some implausible degree. But thats quickly over. Far more shocking is the eerie quietude: the power failure that eliminates the humming of air-conditioning and refrigerators, the absence of music, the traffic that has come to a standstill. Its as if a mute button has been pushed on the world. Thats what its like when a television series ends. The lights go out, the people scatter, the magic has died. And the Cybill show did not go gently. I did not go gently.

Over a thirty-year career, I had died before--cacophonous, public, psychically bloody deaths engineered at the box office and hands of critics--but this demise was singularly painful. Id given my name and much of my identity to the series, blurring the line between real life and fiction, much more than is customary in television. ( Murphy Brown was not called Candice , and the character didnt grow up with a wooden dummy for a brother.) Every door on our CBS soundstage had a plaque with CYBILL inscribed inside a blue chalk star, just like the one used under the opening title that pans across the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Gunsmoke was produced on that stage for eighteen years, but there was no trace of iconic piece of American television history in the wings. As I drove off the lot for the last time, I knew how quickly my presence would evaporate, how soon the studio maintenance department would remove those plaques and the billboard-size CYBILL on the side of the stage.