Celebrity Detox: (the fame game) (16 page)

Part of growing up, of growing old, is learning when to give up the wheel. At some point, you need to realize you shouldn’t even approach that intersection on your own. I don’t think I’m near that point yet; my timing’s still good, my hearing excellent. But it never hurts to practice. And if a part of that practice means lending Barbara an arm to lean on as she makes room in the driver’s seat, helping her see she can’t always see as well as she once could, and shouldn’t be forced to anyway, then that might even be a small honor.

And yet, for all
The View
gave me, it also took its toll. In the end, it helped me to see that I need to find my own space, in cyberspace perhaps, a place where I can carve my own segments, where words are free, even if their repercussions aren’t.

What I’ve learned from being a part of a corporation like ABC, is that you can’t be really free. You need to edit what you say on air because the corporation cares; they have sponsors; they have advertisers. The corporation shapes your corps, your body, and the danger is that you’ll eventually become a corpse. What I want for myself in the future is both connection and singularity, and it is this paradox, or contradiction, that may form the core of who I am, and fuel my work even as it confuses me. I’d like to be part of a team, yes, I would. But I’d also like to be radically alone, setting the standards, in charge and charging, defining and describing my own space, setting every rule and then breaking every rule I set, until I get tired. Until I get lonely. And then I want to go home. And then I want something simpler. Until I feel stifled by the sweetness and the strictures, and then I want my air back. It is hard, wanting your cake and eating it too. You can get fat that way. But, wow, the dreams you dream, the concoctions you cook, the breadth and depth of the banquet. I have been blessed.

When I was a child, my mother loved the two
Bs:
Barbra and Broadway. We played Streisand on the phonograph and heard her voice swell in our small suburban home. My mother died, and someday so will I. But I have her in my memory, and in the way I live my life, the things I love, and long for. Sometimes, when I go to see a Broadway show, I imagine my mother sitting next to me; she would be old now, in her seventies, but age doesn’t dull the thrill you feel when the curtain opens and the chorus begins. Broadway is a street that goes on and on, a kind of infinity, the show that never stops. And that is why my mother loved it, and why I do too.

The season has ended and I think the hardest part is over. Just the other day, Barbara asked me if Kel and I would like to see the newest Broadway show in town, all three of us, together. The truth is, Kel and I had already seen the show, but what did that matter? There was something shy, and soft, in the way Barbara asked me. Might I turn her down? Might I say no? Might I stand up, scare her, walk away?

From
The View
I will walk away; but from Barbara, I know I won’t. Out of this year many things have emerged, and most of them in five years will be utterly inconsequential, celebrity gossip, perhaps even forgotten. But one thing I think will remain the same, will remain solid, and that is the fact of a friendship formed, a tentative, testy, fretful friendship forged in both betrayal and a common core of hurt. My producer, Janette, told me that Barbara held my hand on the first day of
The View
’s new premiere last September—it seems so long ago—held my hand as we walked out onto the stage, and the audience cheered, hello, America.

Very little is for sure. The curtain’s closing now. We’re headed home. Picture this, if you can. The camera clicks. I am holding her hand as we go.

Blog 6/21/07

endings

i dont read ur stupid blog

u r insulting me

what will people think

goodbye is never easy

a senior in highschool

its sunny and i wanna stay home

be done

move on

remember the drama

yearbook signing

with bubble letters

and perfect hearts

dont ever change

i will miss u in homeroom

have a good summer

keep in touch

most people dont

its how life works

in the moment only

fully alive

amy winehouse inspires me

get her cd

music is essential

defining decades

eltons daniel

came out the summer my mom died

stoney silence

in the station wagon

five fingers

in a hand

aunt minnies ring

a family

a fist

gotta kill the questions

for a while

the end is always rocky

one must focus

2 nite

kels 40th

loved ones arrived and ready

to celebrate all she is

weenie n jackie

so laughter is assured

cheers

all

All of Rosie’s net profits from this book are be-
ing donated to Rosie’s Broadway Kids charity (
http://www.rosiesbroadwaykids.org
). For more information on Rosie O’Donnell and her chari-
ties, go to rosie.com.