Farewell Boris, my darling. You were a world leader after my own heart, in fact, at times, after all of me. And not without some success, I might add. Boris, Boris, Boris, if only I could remember what the hell we did together on those long Siberian Nights, I'm sure I'd never forget it. If I didn't know it was impossible, I'd think those nights had been six months long. Not that I'm complaining. Boris, vodka fresh-squeezed daily, and a small band, for six months? This were paradise enow.
I first met dear Boris through Ron & Nancy Reagan. Oh Ron was never my sort of Hollywood actor. You must remember that I was the one who gave Delores Delgado's Oscar to Jane Wyman, so when Jane wisely left Ron, she got me in the settlement. And needless to say Nancy Reagan and I didn't see eye-to-eye on much of anything, even if she'd lain down on the damn floor long enough to look me in the eye. And that great stick she had up her ass most all of her adult life would have made her lying down on the floor an impossibility anyway. Say what people will about me, I have always been limber! At many times, down right limp. (One of my later husbands never believed I possessed a skeleton at all. He should talk. That man had an exoskeleton!)
Anyway, it was determined by the RNC that, due to my longtime relationship with the Headless Indian Brave, I was very popular with Headless Voters, and though not a large constituency, except in France of course, they were considered far more likely to vote Republican than voters who had heads.
Consequently, Nancy reluctantly invited me to a White House State Dinner at which I was seated next to Boris Yeltsin. In fact, Nancy had Boris and I at a folding card table in the kitchen, while she and Raisa performed a bowdlerized, polite version of Legends in the East Room before an audience of international diplomats. Boris and I hit it off together instantly. Next thing I knew, we were on a jet together heading for the Polar Ice Cap, and the next thing after that that I clearly recall, Bill Clinton was president, and I had developed a taste for arctic moose. We committed every Yeltsin in the book, and then wrote a second volume.
Now, on a different subject, check out this doll:
You can see as clearly as I can, that this is a Tallulah Morehead doll, albeit depicting me in my everyday-around-the-house casual skivvies, my equivalent of your dirty-T-shirt-and-ripped-jeans ensembles, like what you're wearing while reading this, those of you who aren't naked. I recognized it as perhaps the last remaining "Tallulah Morehead Doll", given to children of the 1930s & 40s, and credited with inspiring an entire generation of female sluts and alcoholics.
However, Little Arley Berryhill of Albuquerque, New Mexico, who made this exquisite creation, as well as many other similar-yet-each-unique gorgeous dolls, insists that this doll is "Divine Decadence", a doll he created before reading my occasionally-beloved autobiography, My Lush Life, and becoming my slave-for-life. (An unfortunate-but-common side-effect of reading my book. I'm having it looked-into.) Well, Arley is my slave now, so the point is moot. You can see, and even purchase, more of Ashley's charming work at his website:
I had to warn little Arley however, about the danger of living on the dolls. My dear friend Kneely O'Hara had a problem with the dolls. She started out as a respectable blind child until Mrs. Mel Brooks taught her to say "Wa-wa" whenever you pumped fluids over her fist. (Which has resulted, over the years, in many messy misunderstandings, and the birth of Sean Astin, so I guess that was a lucky break for Middle-Earth.) Then she started popping the dolls, and the next thing we knew, she was overacting with Ted Casablanca by a swimming pool, flushing Lillian Roth's wig down a toilet I was trying to throw up into, and shrieking so pointlessly that she never even noticed her roommate getting knifed by the Manson Family.
Ah, the 1960s. If you remember them clearly, you weren't there.
Anyway, most dolls don't mix well with alcohol, and I don't mix well without alcohol, so I've never lived in the Valley of the Dolls myself, although I spent one summer in a rustic cabin with a superb view of the Valley of the Dolls, laid out below me, which is a switch from my usual arrangement.
I am however, dear dear friends with one doll, namely Clementine, The Living Fashion Doll, who is a big TV star in Britain. A lovely young gentleman who is something of a merest whisper, Mark Mander, functions as Clementine's amanuensis, and by an odd coincidence, bears a certain facial resemblance to Clementine herself. Mark recently performed on the BAFTA Awards show with The Scissor Sisters. This is little Clemmie in all her glory.
You can learn all about Clementine and her amazing adventures at her lovely website, Clementine the Living Fashion Doll.
It's funny, both Arley and Mark are my slaves, both were enslaved by my book, which is more of a mansnare than it is a work of literature, both make and fabricate dolls, figurines, puppets (In fact both have Jim Henson's puppet gulag on their resumes.), and are not really husband material, at least for me anymore. Why do I attract puppet makers, and creators of magnificent women's clothes, but only for miniature women? I adore them, but a man who wants to turn this old lady every-which-way-but-loose (I'm loose enough on my own.) once in a while would be nice as well.
Anyway, these boys are talented, creative, and they paid money to read my life story, so check out their work. It's you who will be receiving a favor.