of expression that I saw exhibited at home, both positive and negative, inspired me to want to express myself. My parents were locked in their own battles of interplay so intensely that Warren and I needed to seek out our own turf for expression. Mine, at a very early age, was dancing class but escalated later into the expression of acting and writing.
So the development of my discipline in early life was in direct ratio to the emotional need I felt to express myself. My “discipline” was not difficult for me. On the contrary, it was my support system for being heard: because my parents were clearly the stars of our household, co-starring with each other, Warren and I were the supporting players constantly working for a chance to star ourselves. Considering the refined, high-level art of manipulation exhibited by my parents with one another, it was inevitable that Warren and I would go into a business where, we could confidently apply what we had learned. Show business was a profession made to order for us. And self-expression became as necessary as air.
It wasn’t that they didn’t allow us to express ourselves in the home. Not at all. It was more thatthe level of their expression overpowered our capacity as children to express ourselves. They were our teachers by example and inspired us by triggering our sense of survival. We were forced to step into the spotlight just to assure ourselves that we were real. And our desires to be recognized were lovingly acknowledged and supported—that is, whenever Mom and Dad took a little time off from their own starring drama.
As I said before, I believe now that all of it was karmically preordained by the four players involved. And that interested me more than anything I had explored in a long time.
“Well, I really like your book, Monkey,” said Dad. “I don’t think the metaphysical stuff will be any problem. But I do see another problem.”
“Oh?” I asked. “What is it?”
“The love affair with that British politician. He’s still married, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he’s had several other affairs since me.”
“Well, I think the people are going to want to know about that, because after all, his wife is still around.”
“You really think that will cause an uproar?” I asked.
“Well, it’s something to think about. By the way, who is Gerry?” Daddy asked with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“Margaret Thatcher.”
Daddy’s stomach undulated as he laughed.
We talked long into the evening about how and why I had written the book. Karmic overload came around midnight. We all went to bed. As I was falling asleep, I heard Mother say to Dad, “Ira, I wish you had heard what Shirley was talking about.” Daddy seemed astonished.
“What are you talking about, Scotch? It’s you I can’t hear because you don’t want me to.”
Leaving them to their own karma, I fell asleep,wondering if Dad had been right about the “Gerry” relationship.
The week the book was published in America, Margaret Thatcher called an election in Britain. An enterprising English journalist based in New York City read it, saw an opportunity to have some fun, and spiced up an otherwise dull election by sending his editors in London the juiciest chapters relating to the love affair I had had with a Socialist M.P. who wore a newsprint-stained trench coat and socks with holes in the heels, and had lost the tip of one finger. The story hit the front pages of every newspaper in London and the campaigning English politicians were called upon to hold up their five fingers and remove their shoes, the implication being that if they did qualify as my British lover, they’d get votes, not lose them.
Gallant M.P.’s claimed sadly they didn’t qualify, but wished they had. One said he’d chop off a finger if it would help. Another said he was happy it was only the finger missing. Another said it must have been a Tory, not a Socialist, and his name was Marble because that was clearly
So the development of my discipline in early life was in direct ratio to the emotional need I felt to express myself. My “discipline” was not difficult for me. On the contrary, it was my support system for being heard: because my parents were clearly the stars of our household, co-starring with each other, Warren and I were the supporting players constantly working for a chance to star ourselves. Considering the refined, high-level art of manipulation exhibited by my parents with one another, it was inevitable that Warren and I would go into a business where, we could confidently apply what we had learned. Show business was a profession made to order for us. And self-expression became as necessary as air.
It wasn’t that they didn’t allow us to express ourselves in the home. Not at all. It was more thatthe level of their expression overpowered our capacity as children to express ourselves. They were our teachers by example and inspired us by triggering our sense of survival. We were forced to step into the spotlight just to assure ourselves that we were real. And our desires to be recognized were lovingly acknowledged and supported—that is, whenever Mom and Dad took a little time off from their own starring drama.
As I said before, I believe now that all of it was karmically preordained by the four players involved. And that interested me more than anything I had explored in a long time.
“Well, I really like your book, Monkey,” said Dad. “I don’t think the metaphysical stuff will be any problem. But I do see another problem.”
“Oh?” I asked. “What is it?”
“The love affair with that British politician. He’s still married, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he’s had several other affairs since me.”
“Well, I think the people are going to want to know about that, because after all, his wife is still around.”
“You really think that will cause an uproar?” I asked.
“Well, it’s something to think about. By the way, who is Gerry?” Daddy asked with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“Margaret Thatcher.”
Daddy’s stomach undulated as he laughed.
We talked long into the evening about how and why I had written the book. Karmic overload came around midnight. We all went to bed. As I was falling asleep, I heard Mother say to Dad, “Ira, I wish you had heard what Shirley was talking about.” Daddy seemed astonished.
“What are you talking about, Scotch? It’s you I can’t hear because you don’t want me to.”
Leaving them to their own karma, I fell asleep,wondering if Dad had been right about the “Gerry” relationship.
The week the book was published in America, Margaret Thatcher called an election in Britain. An enterprising English journalist based in New York City read it, saw an opportunity to have some fun, and spiced up an otherwise dull election by sending his editors in London the juiciest chapters relating to the love affair I had had with a Socialist M.P. who wore a newsprint-stained trench coat and socks with holes in the heels, and had lost the tip of one finger. The story hit the front pages of every newspaper in London and the campaigning English politicians were called upon to hold up their five fingers and remove their shoes, the implication being that if they did qualify as my British lover, they’d get votes, not lose them.
Gallant M.P.’s claimed sadly they didn’t qualify, but wished they had. One said he’d chop off a finger if it would help. Another said he was happy it was only the finger missing. Another said it must have been a Tory, not a Socialist, and his name was Marble because that was clearly