The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine Al Dente)
Read The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine Al Dente) Online
Authors: Kirstie Alley
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #General, #Entertainment & Performing Arts, #Rich & Famous, #Personal Memoirs
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Contents
The Art of “Retarded” Young Men
The Art of Hopelessly Honest Fathers
The Art of Making Love to an Unfortunate Man
The Art of Shagging Next-Door Neighbors
The Art of Costars and Lunatic Directors
The Art of Knights on White Horses
The Art of Men I Have Not Hit On
This book is dedicated to my father, who spoiled me for all other men, thereby wrecking my life. I love you . . .
I’ve given my memoirs far more thought than any of my marriages. You can’t divorce a book.
—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. Let’s take it down a notch: my mother, my sister, my female neighbors, cousins, schoolteachers, piano instructors, directors, producers, and acrobat coaches didn’t 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 I’ve copied over the years, but other than that, almost 99 percent of my life’s influences have come from Men.
Not necessarily good influences, but influences nonetheless.
This is odd because I get along swimmingly with women. I’m probably considered a “woman’s woman.” The majority of my best friends are chicks. Women rarely cause conflicts in my life, probably because I don’t 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 earth’s 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.
I’ve 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 don’t want to without them knowing you don’t want to. These are just some of the tasks women must be able to perform in order to handle the Men in their lives artfully—skillfully, 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 aren’t 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 can’t 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 . . .
I like children. If they’re properly cooked.
—W. C. FIELDS
The Art of
“Retarded” Young Men
M
IDWAY THROUGH filming
Look Who’s 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 couldn’t 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 I’d fallen into the gutter and a Nazi put a Luger to my head and threatened to blow my brains out if I didn’t rise—I 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 he’d 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 didn’t have much relevance. A retarded (it wasn’t 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 off—to bring that much joy to an individual is . . . joyous.
He put his bandaged hand out—I 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 you’d 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.
The next thing I remember is that he put both arms fully around me and was squeezing me so intensely that I feared I would stop breathing. Suddenly he flipped out of his wheelchair, pushing me down on the ground, and was lying on top of me. I began to get nervous—I was pregnant—and he’d just been in a hideous accident with broken bones and third-degree burns. As he was face-to-face atop me he began chanting, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and started slightly humping my legs. My fear turned to nervous, hysterical laughter, and then I noticed this odd thing happening around me. The crew members were watching us—so was John—and so was the retarded kid’s dad. I began reaching out to them, mildly pleading for help, nervously saying “OKAY, OKAY, I love you, too, but I don’t want you to get hurt. Hey, you guys,” I said, reaching for the director and cinematographer, “need a little help here.”
But no one would help me. No one would reach back for me. I felt like I was in a bad episode of
The Twilight Zone
. John just kept smiling this bizarre smile; he looked like Chucky. Why wasn’t anybody helping us?? Why wasn’t anyone worried that either I would miscarry or the retarded boy would have to be taken to the emergency room . . . again??!! I really started to flip my shit, and I began tearing up. My eyes were welling and my mind was racing as I tried to pry the broken, retarded, burned, humping young man off me. My panic increased, “You guys! He’s going to get hurt! John! I’m pregnant! Help us! Somebody PLEASE help us!!!” Like a bad dream of being stuck in the middle of a satanic coven, the ring of camera crew, directors, John, the retarded boy’s father, and everyone else began laughing like jackals. I almost fainted.
Then . . .
The retarded boy leaped up and started ripping his bandages from his face! Was it a miracle?! Had this “retarded” young man’s love for me healed him???
No! It was Woody Harrelson. Fucking Woody Harrelson!
I hadn’t had a single clue. It was the perfect caper. He wasn’t even filming in Vancouver!! No, he had traveled all the way from LA, JUST to trick me. The entire cast and crew were in on the prank.
To this day Woody and I remain excellent friends—I would do anything for Woody—and he would do anything for me . . . or to me.
Whenever you find a great man, you will find a great mother or a great wife standing behind him, or so they say. It would be interesting to know how many great women have had great fathers and husbands behind them.
—DOROTHY L. SAYERS
The Art of
Hopelessly Honest Fathers
T
HE ONLY simple man I’ve met is my father—one of the last men standing who believes honesty, virtue, monogamy, and integrity prevail.
My father slept with one woman exclusively until he was 60 years old, until the day she died. He gives the word “monogamy” its original meaning. For him, marriage is black and white—there is no gray. You are in or out—you are faithful or you are gone.