Good Stuff Page 8

  FAME—THE PRICE

  It’s awkward living with public misconceptions about my father. What does one say when asked if one’s famously charming, debonair, five-times-married, crooned-over father is gay? Hmmm … a grin escapes me. Can’t blame men for wanting him, and wouldn’t be surprised if Dad even mildly flirted back. If so, it manifested as witty repartee as opposed to a pat on the ass. That’s a sign of healthy, secure sexuality. Isn’t it remarkable that in this day and age anyone would seek to impugn Dad’s character with a hint at homosexuality. Being gay is neither here nor there, but hiding oneself from family and friends … not so good. When the question arises, it generally speaks more about the person asking. Of course, Dad somewhat enjoyed being called gay. He said it made women want to prove the assertion wrong. When asked if Dad was gay, Betsy Drake had the best answer: “I don’t know, we were always too busy fucking for me to ask.”

  The gay rumor normally seemed funny to Dad. All but once. I don’t remember the exact situation, but I do remember Dad raising his voice. A blessedly unfamiliar occurrence. Chevy Chase made some joke about Dad being gay. Why? Whatever Mr. Chase’s personal baggage, it’s just sad when curiosity turns from speculation to jab. Particularly within the ranks.

  Perhaps Dad’s maverick nature coupled with his grace were simply difficult to categorize. Perhaps Dad had what Virginia Woolf described as an “androgynous mind.” She asks “whether there are two sexes in the mind corresponding to the two sexes in the body and whether they also require to be united in order to get complete satisfaction and happiness … a great mind is androgynous. It is when this fusion takes place that the mind is fully fertilized and uses all its faculties.… The androgynous mind is resonant and porous; it transmits emotion without impediment; that it is naturally creative, incandescent and undivided.” Well, that’s a mouthful. Easier to just call him gay. Perhaps if minds were more androgynous there would be less prejudice, less bigotry, and less hatred.

  All the homosexual speculation begs another question. Did Dad ever experiment sexually? I don’t know. Have I ever experimented sexually? Have you? If experimentation makes one gay, then my guess is that most of the world is gay.

  When did it become okay for us to snoop, to pry, to prod, to invade privacy? Dad was an actor, not a politician. I’m not sure it’s okay to interlope behind the closed doors of politicians’ lives, either, but there seems to be a more relevant argument for it. Politicians espouse some moral position in ruling. Their lives should therefore mirror their assertions, and it’s valuable to know if they’re debasing themselves by holding a double standard. With actors, at least, shouldn’t we be able to judge by how we’re affected? If performances move us, isn’t that enough? By prying, we only reveal our trustlessness. We don’t trust ourselves to feel. When we feel, when some example helps us go deep and stirs up some pain, we want to slaughter the icon. In so doing, we curtail the growth that might emerge from grace. Interloping became sanctioned when we started buying tabloids, in any form.

  I’ve always had a “yech” response to tabloids. Where’s the love? It’s one thing to project onto stars … that’s part of the game. It’s expected the way a therapist or teacher might expect to be distorted to meet any given student’s needs. But tabloids seem to be more of a cultural thermometer. What are we getting away with as a society? What are our most minute and grandest flaws and who can we “catch” at them. Who looks grossly fat? Who’s got cancer? Who’s heart is broken? Who had a bad hair day and needs to be outed for it? It’s as if we’re testing our own ability to cope with freedom. Famous people have earned a certain freedom, and with it comes the temptation of excess of every sort. There’s the money, the power, the drugs, the sex, the alcohol, the food, the shopping, the possibility of excessing. So … let’s put a magnifying glass on these people and see if they implode. Well, of course some do, some have, and some will.

  I’m grateful to actors for putting themselves up there on the big screen for us to gawk at. I learn from movies. Isn’t being an example on-screen enough? Can we learn through stories, through parables? Take them to our heart and be grateful that someone has the courage to get up there for us and be emotionally truthful, so that we heal ourselves? Or learn by example what path to avoid? An actor is an actor. They’re telling us a story. That’s it. Their lives should be their private territory, unless they want to talk about it.

  If it takes übercontrol to forge a successful name and career, then it’s a dark trick that once there, one must relinquish that image for public consumption. Several years back a soft drink company used old film clips of Dad’s image to promote their sugary crap. Dad hated soft drinks. Particularly this one. When I was five or so years old, he poured a glass of that particular dark brown carbonated sugary soda and placed my baby tooth in it. Then Dad and I watched my tooth disintegrate. Dad spent his life creating himself, honoring his values, and in five minutes some soft drink company found it permissible to use Cary Grant’s image to sell their chemical poison to the world. That’s a fiasco. In 2007, Jimi Hendrix was being used to promote a new energy drink. Jimi, I don’t know if you drank cola and I don’t really care. I still promise never to buy the ill-begotten product that they purport you represent.

  As a child, on the odd occurrence, I was sad to see my parents unfairly lambasted by the press. Later it made me angry. Now my skin has thickened a bit. The motto “Soul of a rose, hide of an elephant” works especially well in Hollywoodland.

  Willie Watson, circa 1973. Not a false bone in her body.

  My favorite nanny, Willie Watson, put it best with her sage advice about people: “Don’t you pay them no nevermind. You let other people do what they’re going to do. You mind your own business.” That heals almost as well as her Southern chocolate cake with powdered sugar in the frosting.

  PAPARAZZI. Hmm. Mom and Dad always kept me as far away from photo hounds as possible. Mostly, I had an easy time around it. When the freewheeling press descended it was like some bizarre flood of light in the face, cameras sticking into the car windows, people calling our names … a wave of frenzied flashes. The only time it became gravely disconcerting was after Dad’s death. Finals time at Stanford and, two weeks after his death, I chose to get on with the program. There would be plenty of time to let it soak in. Plenty of time to mourn. Keeping up with my work and focusing on school would help me cope. Stay with my classmates. As I did my dailies around campus, the paparazzi trailed me a few times by car. Having had stalkers in my life, being followed is just creepy. The first time I tried to ditch whoever it was who was following me, the person in the passenger seat aimed his large telephoto lens at me. My heart skipped a beat. Thinking it was a gun, I ducked under my own steering wheel. Luckily I didn’t crash in the middle of El Camino Real. I raced back to my apartment, where they snapped a picture of me in the driveway. Must say, while Mom and Dad were at the helm, they made every effort to shield me from unnecessary exposure. They cherished my privacy and my right to choose.

  My father had a zero tabloid mentality. Dad was into the thoughtful detail, the refined idea. The exact opposite of shock for shock value. Okay, bold colors are fun. If life needed a bit of a pick-me-up, CG could add splash in his wardrobe instead of filling his brain with muck. A Chinese red button-down shirt perhaps. Pow! Pizzazz! Immediate gratification of the urge to splurge.

  Perhaps Dad’s reputation is as glowing as it is because he chose to celebrate life, and celebrate himself as a lucky participant in life, instead of expecting life to celebrate him. Dad didn’t want a funeral. “Funerals are for the living, not the dead. The dead are dead. If you would like to do something for me, please scatter my ashes over the ocean. Place me into infinity. Have Kirk go along, if you please.” Same theory and practice for weddings. “It’s an intimate action, it needs an intimate ceremony. Is my aunt’s second cousin’s nephew part of the marriage? If so, waaaatch out!” We never once had a big birthday party for Dad. He didn’t want one. Christmas, okay … livitu
p! It’s a group thing … everyone’s included. At my birthday parties, Dad insisted that we give each guest their own gift to open. “What … they’re all just going to sit there and watch you open your presents? Fat chance department!” Rarely was Dad taken to task by the press. When he was, he ignored it. Dad received and still receives almost entirely glowing reviews of every sort. He got what he deserved.

  The challenge of being Dad’s daughter has very little to do with stardom. It has to do with making the most of my life, of myself. Dad believed in one life, no reincarnation. You do what you do and then you’re gone. Make it count.

  DECEMBER 1, 1968 · DADDY’S BEDROOM AT

  9966 BEVERLY GROVE DRIVE

  Nap time. Daddy has a bit of a cold.

  JG: Do you love me, Daddy?

  CG: I love you very much.

  JG: We won’t be able to go to sleep if…

  CG: We have everything we want. We have food and a good book … and I have you and we have love.

  Jennifer picks “magic fur” off her Winnie-the-Pooh doll and rubs it on Daddy’s head to make him feel good. Daddy rubs the magic fur on Jennifer’s head, too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mom & Dad—Mad at the Cookies

  JULY 7, 1966 · ABOARD SS ORIANA

  Mom, Dad, and infant Jennifer.

  Mom: Come on, darling. Put this leg over, darling. That was a good girl.… She turned over.

  Dad: Oh my gosh, she’s doing it. She’s crawling.

  Jennifer breathes with effort as both parents encourage her along the cabin bed’s eiderdown comforter.

  The early days. Viewing the earliest photos, the precious few with Mom, Dad, and me together, melts me. We’re all happy. Well, I’m an infant … so it’s hard to tell exactly how I felt as the pictures were taken, but the process of viewing them is certainly a happy one. We were still a family. An American dream. My father, a handsome man, my mother, an astoundingly beautiful woman, and me. They both look so joyous. Their focus, however, in all of the pictures, is on their baby. Never on each other. There’s something about having your parents on either side of you, together. I’ve never really understood that. I can see it here.

  One of my favorite pictures of Mom, circa 1967. The summer hat, the dignified gaze … gorgeous.

  Something in me has always felt that my parents came together to make me. Vanity? Perhaps. Of course, they had love for each other. However, it’s doubtful that either of them truly believed they’d stay together. Mom and Dad were and are headstrong beings. Both, in my opinion, need to rule the roost. While their ideals were similar, their personal expressions were quite different. The disparity has left me with a fairly open mind, and one that can tolerate the friction necessary for growth. Though their mixed beliefs were challenging to sort out as a child, I’m now happy for their dissimilarities.

  Mom and Dad divorced when I was about a year old. Both parents encouraged me to love the other: “Don’t be afraid to love your mother” and “It’s okay to love your father.” We never discussed their marriage. Their love. Their good stuff. I see it in the pictures and hear it on the tapes, but miragelike, it’s untouchable. Dad’s handwritten description of an early snapshot of the three of us reads, “Sunday evening, July 10, 1966. In Cabin of SS Oriana before a gala champagne carnival party.” That sounds fun. Who wouldn’t have fun at a “gala champagne carnival party”? Especially looking the way they looked. I’m a little nugget bundle wrapped in blue velour. Mom’s a stunner in her sequined gown. It certainly appears that they’re keeping the romance alive. What was on their minds? Your guess is as good as mine. In a pre–Jennifer era photo, Mom sits under an umbrella on the patio at 9966, at what looks like teatime. She has a bob haircut and wears a Jackie O–style sleeveless dress. Oh, to be a fly on that wall. To see them court each other. Granted, Mom and Dad had their hard times. They divorced. But what brought them together? I missed that part. We can be so stupid in love. It’s like diets. It’s hard to stop after one potato chip, so we don’t eat any. During my thoroughly preposterous teen dieting phase, Grandma would taunt me with her mouthwatering rugelach. “What, you don’t like the cookies?” “No! Of course I like the cookies. I love the cookies. But I can’t look at the cookies for fear of eating eight of them, so let’s grind them up in the disposal.” I couldn’t simply like the cookies. Mom and Dad couldn’t simply like each other. Their chemistry was a disservice to their friendship. Mom and Dad were mad at the cookies.

  As a child, my time was split between Mom and Dad. Mom had more time with me, but due to her thriving career, I spent plenty of time at Dad’s. If Mom went away for a few months to do a movie while my schooling needed to continue in L.A., I stayed with Dad. Sort of complicated, but it all worked out. The weeknights that Mom was in town, I spent at her house, but Monday afternoon and evening were with Dad. That’s where the root beer float tradition comes in. In my sixth-grade year Dad and I discovered that the Malibu A&W stand had terrific root beer floats. Every Monday he’d pick me up at Carden Malibu School on Las Flores Canyon and drive PCH up the coast to A&W. The A&W stand had a huge plaster man on top of it. The man was twice as large as the stand. When the stand changed to a Mexican place the man got a sombrero, but I still see him as the A&W guy. If you drive down PCH, he’s still there. Dad and I would get our root beer floats and then sometimes just sit in the car talking and enjoying our treats. Other Mondays we’d drive over to the Colony Mart and amble along window-shopping. I might pretend to really want something in the window of the shoe store. A pair of “corkies,” the cork-heeled wedge platforms that my parents forbade me, were perfect Dad bait. Maybe I could get him all riled up about the preposterous style, or the danger, or the ludicrous thought of me wearing corkies at twelve or thirteen. Of course, I never cared about the shoes. It was all about getting a rise out of Dad.

  In many ways my parents flipped roles. Dad played more of the traditional mom; Mom, the traditional dad. When I was at Dad’s, he took full charge of my care. We had a house staff, but they never took responsibility for me. Dad awakened me each morning, drove me everywhere, ate meals with me, discussed life with me, and tucked me in each evening. Don’t get me wrong. He didn’t stifle me by watching my every move. I had plenty of time alone. Being an only child, time alone is built into the deal. Mom had a full-fledged movie career when I was a child. Still, what I saw was Mom, the person who made sure I wore my retainer at night, or Mom, the woman who made me drink my milk … and if I was lucky added Quik powdered chocolate to it. What I didn’t see was Mom, the woman who had just worked sixteen-hour days for a relentless director, or Mom who was just nominated for an Academy Award. I remember visiting movie sets and seeing her countless letters from others. Being a star is quite a balancing act. Dad had done his time on sets, now it was time to play at home. So as Mom was out “bringing home the bacon,” Dad and I made bacon at home.

  In large part, Mom and Dad were comically different. Mom eats fruit, nuts, vegetables, fish and chicken, zero red meat, and little wheat or sugar. Dad was into anything fatty and swore off fruit almost entirely. Mom is a hippie at heart. She listened to rock and roll, pop, Aretha and Stevie, and dressed in tie-dye, denim, and boots. Dad was the noted, timeless classicist. Horowitz or Sinatra, flannel, cashmere, and loafers. Mom’s known for her happily raucous, attention-getting laugh. Dad modulated his voice to keep attention away.

  Okay, they shared some similar quirks. Dad had his own candy stash. Mom did too. The difference was, Mom hid all the candy from herself. Actually, she had a lock put on the cabinet and gave me the key. Being a self-disciplined child and because Mom allowed me sugar, I never went overboard with what we called the kaka cupboard. The only thing off-limits was giving her the key. This wasn’t always easy. On the flip side, Dad’s sweets were his and his alone. You didn’t go in the goody drawer without permission. Mom’s kaka cupboard and Dad’s goody drawer. They were both literally trying to control the cookies.

  While Dad held demure soirees a
t 9966, Mom threw beach bashes at 98. Mom’s parties meant lots of people, music, and mayhem. It was one of the few occasions when Mom cooked. Barbecue spareribs were her specialty. That and curried chicken salad. I liked to help Mom cook for parties. One year, upon completion of three virtual vats of our famous chicken salad, we discovered that Mom’s finger was missing its Band-Aid. Merde. We never found it. Nevertheless, watchful-eyed, we served the curried treat. Luckily, no one reported the bonus Band-Aid. My guess is that the poor soul must have imbibed Mom’s magical melon concoction prior to eating. Mom would halve a watermelon, scoop out the insides, fill it with various liquors, and add melon balls to the solution. This generally produced wild bongo drum sessions in the living room. Mom’s good on drums. Her signature lioness curly blond locks flew as she beat out the rhythm. The living room turned tribal at music time. I was tambourine queen. As if we stepped right out of the musical Hair. “Let the sun shine” and all that.

  Mom was never a moderate gal. Why have a bite of ice cream when we bought a quart? Dad wore moderation like the tuxes that suited him “just so.” I suppose I fall somewhere between my mother and father. Constitutionally, I’m ill-suited for debauchery. When I smoked, I smoked one or two cigarettes a day. Mom’s atypical, but effective, response to my disgusting behavior: “Oh honey, that’s child’s play.… Really … how do you do that? I used to smoke at least a pack and a half. You must suck in one or two just walking around L.A.” That took the oomph right out of my sophomoric rebellion. These days, Mom drinks water from a wineglass. I love that about her. She always ordered her Perrier “in a wineglass, please.” Mom’s got wicked style.

  The rhythm to my parents’ postdivorce relationship was staccato. They fought. If they weren’t fighting, they were at best curt with each other. And if they weren’t fighting, it was generally because I stirred up adolescent trouble. When there was a Jennifer issue, they joined forces and coalesced. It was obvious in the timbre of their voices on the telephone. I knew they were hearing each other in a new way, thankful for each other’s parenting. They were in tune. It was sweet. What wasn’t cool was being outside the loop. Being in trouble meant being out of the inner circle, even if they were “getting along.” But for a moment, I could hear and somewhat feel them being together.