bikini cut—and called it a day. I was shocked that I could buy only four pairs with a hundred dollars, but I left the store swinging my bright pink shopping bag.
Mission complete.
On the way back I envisioned Beverly and me bonding over her new panties and becoming the best of friends. When I reached the set, she was still deep into rehearsal. I stood outside the crowd of crew members waving the Victoria’s Secret bag, trying to get her attention.
She finally noticed me and waved a dismissive hand. “Put them over there with my things.”
I was devastated. My feelings were so hurt. She didn’t even say thank you! But I found out later from watching all the proceedings that when Beverly is working she is all business.
Beverly D’Angelo has a dear friend named Mela who travels with her everywhere. It was through Mela that Beverly and I finally bonded and became fast friends. I told Beverly all about my trip to Dallas and Miss Sand-in-Her-Vagina. We laughed and laughed.
Mela and I both used the laundromat down the street from the hotel as opposed to paying the exorbitant prices that the hotel charged for laundry. One time I noticed Mela loading the panties I had bought for Beverly into the washer.
“You do her laundry?” I asked, and pointed out the panties.
“Oh, those. Did you buy those for Beverly? You must have bought the wrong size. She gave them to me because they were waaaay too small.”
That afternoon I cornered Beverly and told her if I ever got famous I had my Johnny Carson story ready. It was going to be about the time I bought panties for Beverly D’Angelo and she told me one size in front of everyone, then pulled me aside and told me a larger size, which I bought. But then even those turned out to be way too small for her fat ass.
“You know how women are about their panty sizes,” I reminded her.
“You better not tell that story, and I mean it. I’ll never speak to you again!”
Later on that day, Beverly pulled me aside. She was dead serious. “I’ve thought long and hard about your little panty story. I am giving you permission to use it, but listen—I want you to start at a size two. Then I pull you into the makeup room and tell you a size four. Then you buy a size four but they are just a little too snug. Got it? That’s the story that goes on Carson.”
Now, that is how a diva should be!
The Tears of the Israelites
Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.
Henry James
I GREW up in a part of the country where the word “Jew” was often used as a verb. This is not something I am particularly proud of; it is just a fact. I heard the phrase “to Jew someone down” my entire life. I was in my early twenties galloping race horses at Belmont Park on Long Island before it was pointed out to me that this was highly offensive.
The thought had never crossed my mind.
I grew up in a religion that devoutly believed that the Jews had forsaken the Messiah and, sadly, all Jews were going to burn in an eternal lake of fire. I remember worrying myself sick about the poor Jews when I was a little kid. I also worried about the poor little children in Africa who had never even heard of Jesus. They were going to burn, too!
I remember that back in the 1970s there was a huge movement to get Jews to repent and accept Jesus as their personal Savior. It was called Jews for Jesus. Now, how silly is that? Judaism has been around a lot longer than Christianity. The Jews could have countered with their own movement. But I think the Jews were too smart to open that can of worms.
My friend Del Shores once told me a weird story. He knew a Jewish woman in Texas who answered her door one morning to find a neighbor lady standing there, anxiously wringing her hands.
“Honey, will you be my Jew?” she asked. “We’re having ‘Pack a Pew with a Jew’ day at church. We’re supposed to bring a Jew to church to sit in our
Mission complete.
On the way back I envisioned Beverly and me bonding over her new panties and becoming the best of friends. When I reached the set, she was still deep into rehearsal. I stood outside the crowd of crew members waving the Victoria’s Secret bag, trying to get her attention.
She finally noticed me and waved a dismissive hand. “Put them over there with my things.”
I was devastated. My feelings were so hurt. She didn’t even say thank you! But I found out later from watching all the proceedings that when Beverly is working she is all business.
Beverly D’Angelo has a dear friend named Mela who travels with her everywhere. It was through Mela that Beverly and I finally bonded and became fast friends. I told Beverly all about my trip to Dallas and Miss Sand-in-Her-Vagina. We laughed and laughed.
Mela and I both used the laundromat down the street from the hotel as opposed to paying the exorbitant prices that the hotel charged for laundry. One time I noticed Mela loading the panties I had bought for Beverly into the washer.
“You do her laundry?” I asked, and pointed out the panties.
“Oh, those. Did you buy those for Beverly? You must have bought the wrong size. She gave them to me because they were waaaay too small.”
That afternoon I cornered Beverly and told her if I ever got famous I had my Johnny Carson story ready. It was going to be about the time I bought panties for Beverly D’Angelo and she told me one size in front of everyone, then pulled me aside and told me a larger size, which I bought. But then even those turned out to be way too small for her fat ass.
“You know how women are about their panty sizes,” I reminded her.
“You better not tell that story, and I mean it. I’ll never speak to you again!”
Later on that day, Beverly pulled me aside. She was dead serious. “I’ve thought long and hard about your little panty story. I am giving you permission to use it, but listen—I want you to start at a size two. Then I pull you into the makeup room and tell you a size four. Then you buy a size four but they are just a little too snug. Got it? That’s the story that goes on Carson.”
Now, that is how a diva should be!
The Tears of the Israelites
Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.
Henry James
I GREW up in a part of the country where the word “Jew” was often used as a verb. This is not something I am particularly proud of; it is just a fact. I heard the phrase “to Jew someone down” my entire life. I was in my early twenties galloping race horses at Belmont Park on Long Island before it was pointed out to me that this was highly offensive.
The thought had never crossed my mind.
I grew up in a religion that devoutly believed that the Jews had forsaken the Messiah and, sadly, all Jews were going to burn in an eternal lake of fire. I remember worrying myself sick about the poor Jews when I was a little kid. I also worried about the poor little children in Africa who had never even heard of Jesus. They were going to burn, too!
I remember that back in the 1970s there was a huge movement to get Jews to repent and accept Jesus as their personal Savior. It was called Jews for Jesus. Now, how silly is that? Judaism has been around a lot longer than Christianity. The Jews could have countered with their own movement. But I think the Jews were too smart to open that can of worms.
My friend Del Shores once told me a weird story. He knew a Jewish woman in Texas who answered her door one morning to find a neighbor lady standing there, anxiously wringing her hands.
“Honey, will you be my Jew?” she asked. “We’re having ‘Pack a Pew with a Jew’ day at church. We’re supposed to bring a Jew to church to sit in our
Similar Books
