called and bee-lined over to me at Abma’s Farm Market and in the salon and at church and in the new mega Stop & Shop (ugly behemoth eyesore…but I do love the ginormous selection…) to process the sad loss this past weekend of the multi-talented, Bea Arthur. My sister, Cath, was first, of course, because we are in a long-running competition to scoop one another and all of our friends on major celeb news and developments and Hollywood scandals…so I expected that. The rest of you fell into line subsequently…Kathleen and I 
worrying that after Jerry Orbach and Harvey Korman and Bea Arthur, was the full on murder of our childhood also imminent? (no, that already took place when Pa Ingalls died…damn, I am welling up again…let’s move on…). Oh, and of course upon hearing of Bea’s death, Amber and I went to work devising a new marketing strategy and spokesperson profile for our team’s soon to be released product, Winter’s Dawn (we are thinking Florence Henderson, by the way, ladies…thoughts?). But when I was sought out by my next door neighbor, with whom I usually only exchange pleasantries and Christmas cards, I knew something was up. So I wondered if it had to do with the fact that, just a few weeks back, in a fit of bored procrastination, I took the Facebook quiz: “Which Golden Girl Are You?” and I scored: Dorothy Zbornak. And though I kind of hoped for Blanche Deveraux (that saucy minx…), the whole Dorothy thing didn’t surprise me…Bea's Dorothy may have been the manly, unattractive loudmouth of the group, but she was also the wisest and most cultured and 
well-read and she loved to eat and, most appropriately, her barbs and putdowns blew all those other old bitties' a**es out of the water…you know it’s true…so, ok, I’ll be Dorothy…By the way…just an aside on the Facebook quizzes, which I despise and think are as stupid as hell, but which I take all the time…I am also: Carrie Bradshaw from “Which Sex & the City Character Are You?”…witty "It" girl, ok, I’m in… Violet in “Which Crayon Color Are You?”…definitely, nailed me completely…. Regina George, Queen Bee in "Which Mean Girl Are You?"...ok, I will accept some parallels.... Ross Geller from “Whic
h Friends Character Are You?”… whiny, brainy Jewish guy…uhhh, really?….Carl the Janitor ("I am the eyes and ears of this institution...") from “Which Breakfast Club Character Are You?”…What. The. F&@% ??? I sh*t you not…that was my result and I almost died… and lastly, no surprise, I am also Courtney Love in “Which Crazy B*tch Are You?” (…actually, truth be told, I scored a Suz Ritt in that one, but I demanded a recount….).
But I know the real reason all of you were calling and writing and stopping me about Bea…because 
we needed to process, that's all…we needed to share a moment of remembrance and appreciation for yet another great, talented American icon. Ok, so Bea is a 5 on the scale of 1 to 10 when we are talking icons...but still, she rates...and she is a part of our history...a fixture. So, as you might expect, this all made me think of all those other times that I was the recipient of a "celebrity tragedy" phone call.... like the time I was sitting in my brand new desk on my very first day in my very first PR gal job when Rob called and told me about Jerry Garcia...and I was at my second PR job, the fabulous Kratz & Company, when RJ emailed me to check on that new CNN internet site and read all about it -- Phil Hartman had died – and I stood up and announced the shocking details across the
office, over the cubicles and that creaky spiral staircase, to my Kratz BFF, Jim, and everyone gasped... oh, and that late summer night we were up in Greenwich enjoying a Labor Day Weekend steak night at HG’s club with Al and Kev, when Trish rang us up on our brandy-new 500-pound cell phone to tell us that Princess Diana had been in an accident...and we all know what a massive pop culture vs. political clusterf&%$ that whole thing turned out to be....the stuff juicy, delicious celeb scandals only dream to become. And we all felt the sting... But of course, I most recall that first time I was on the receiving end of "the call"...one's first time always has the greatest impact, no? Well, this one was a biggie....
It was August of 1977, in Courtney Walsh’s cellar, her mom doing the laundry while we played with the Easy Bake Oven…and the phone rang and Courtney’s mom says hello and it was apparent she was talking to my mom…and when she hung up she said to the two of us, then aged seven: “Your mom wanted me to tell you -- that famous rock and roll singer died…” and (let me remind you, I am seven) I say: “Do you mean Elvis Presley?” and she’s goes: “Yes, that’s the one!” and as my heart droppe
d and my bottom lip began to quiver, I thought: how could that happen? I just saw him in Viva Las Vegas on Channel 5 last weekend…he was singing and riding a Harley and punching guys out and getting the girl. He’s a star…how could he be dead? Even at age seven the denial just took over…. Mrs. Walsh seemed unfazed and went back to folding and Courtney just shrugged and then squeezed that nasty pouch of chocolate frosting onto our Easy Bake cake…but I was changed forever…I walked home so I could be with my mom…and process the moment with someone who got it…someone who also thought Elvis was the coolest guy ever. And I cried in her lap...because I didn't understand...
Ok…so I was a weird seven year old… but, you know, I am not alone in this thing...we all create these heroes in our minds…and 
we believe in the image. I was a kid…I thought Elvis Presley really was a handsome rebel from the wrong side of the tracks who always won barroom brawls and could sing like some kind of angel or deity (I was right on that account…), a guy who always did the honorable thing. And I totally bought the charming n'er-do-well act he had working with the ladies… In fact, I am quite certain his onscreen persona shaped my romantic tastes as I aged…you know, my pathetic yet incurable soft spot for bad boys and their secret, vulnerable little hearts of gold….all thanks to EP...
But what I didn’t know at age seven, of course, was that it was all a fantasy…that Elvis was flawed…a tortured artist. He was in pain and unfulfilled and insecure and over-medicating…and he was real. And back then no one wanted to know 
the truth...nobody wanted to know that this larger than life supernova megastar was actually human. You know, even now in this age of "all news, all the time" and constant information from the internet and gossip blogs about the latest panty-less starlet having a meth rage in front of the paparazzi while CNN runs the tape on a loop for 24 hours straight...even now we want to believe celebs are somehow immune from problems of any sort. And when something happens, when a "celebrity scandal" erupts...we know about it in real time anyway. So what a hidden blessing for Elvis that he made his final exit prior to this wild information age...you know, because it took a while for the true story of his wasteful death to come out...to be known by the masses. But because we had time to get used to the idea, we learned from the truth, right? We learned that our icons and superstars and celebs live private lives just like we do...and that their losses and screw ups and embarrassing deaths on bathroom floors (I still refuse to accept the toilet story, so hold your comments…) can teach us something about who we are and what we value in life...about those whom we make our heroes.
And though Bea was no Elvis, she was still a role model and tastemaker in some sense...feminist symbol and great thinker as Maude...and loving yet sharp-tongued geriatric BFF as Dorot
hy Zbornak...she represented a whole new kind of woman to we little girls born in the '70's...and she may very well have been the first high-profile woman we knew who taught us to have opinions and individual thoughts and to be true to ourselves regardless of the ramifications and to always be there for our best girlfriends (well, other than Mary Richards and Rhoda Morgenstern, of course...)...and that solving your romantic/money/family/professional/philosophical problems while shedding a few tears over a cheesecake is never a bad thing... So I can see why so many of you wanted to mourn her with me...makes total sense...
So these days I use the Elvis "death by polypharmacy" story as a cautionary tale and life lesson for Ellie, Tim and Will...and I am pretty certain I have disgusted and frightened them enough to assume they will never seek fame, never allow others to own more than 10% of their image and likeness and will never, ever take anything stronger than Advil for more than 3 days. See...I told you that we learn a lot from the c
hoices and outcomes of our fallen idols...
So last night I took the Facebook quiz "Which Tragic Ame
Photos:
1. Idols: The Golden Girls...
11. Trailblazer: Bea...
1 comment:
Excellent post, Suz...And of course, like everybody you get me thinking...
The Phil Hartman/Chris Farley tragedies were my "Elvis" deaths at the time because their contribution to countless hours of my adolescence are only rivaled by "Mike and the Mad Dog" and of course, Seinfeld. (and still, the innocuous quote: his name is Matt Foley. Now, he's been down in the basement drinking coffee for about the last 4 hours" makes me laugh and I know why.)
The only time I've felt that way since was when A.) Reagan died. (which was more a celebration of a life) B.) getting a call this summer when I was on Route 70 in Brick Twp when Tim Russert passed away. I felt like I was punched in the gut with the latter. Church, Sunday papers, coffee, Russert. That was my Sunday morning (sans a Giants home game). When people die nowadays who have come to prominence in a 24 hour newscycle, we know all about them, meth binges, philandering, and all. With Russert all of our instincts were validated. And that's what made it harder to process.
Cobain was big, but it was hard even though while I watched Kurt Loder and Tabitha Soren religiously when MTV actually was a beacon of . It was also hard to appreciate the magnitude of Cobain's artistry and influence until now.
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