A View From a Broad by Bette Midler

bleached-blond women are traditionally treated as Magdalenes, and a bleached blonde with black roots, a swollen breast over her shoulder, and no baby in sight is likely to be treated even worse). I finally gave the book to Miss Frank to carry and managed to hide my deformity by wearing my Karl Lagerfeld camel’s-hair coat backwards until the offending members returned to their former, nonengorged state.
    I was relieved when I finished it and neither Miss Frank nor I had to carry the goddamned book around anymore. In the end we managed to put Wars to pretty good use, though. What was not biodegradable can probably still be found floating among the debris of the great sewage systems of the world where toilet paper is just a hope of the future, although chauffeurs, of course, are not.



• A VISIT TO THE LITTLE MERMAID •
    T he most amazing thing happened to me while I was in m Copenhagen. I wanted very much to lay my eyes on the Little Mermaid, who had, after all, been my inspiration for Dolores.
    The Danes had gone simply wild over Dolores, sensing that the nutty fruitcake in the wheelchair was, in some crazy way, a tribute to their national heroine. It seemed only fitting that I pay the little statue a visit.
    The day we left on the short drive to the harbor where she sits, gazing out toward Sweden, was gray and gloomy. On the horizon, thunderheads were gathering, threatening rain. Or worse. The weather was so bad, in fact, that Josef suggested we turn back and see the lady some other day.
    But there was no other day for me. On the morrow I would be leaving for Paris and the French Experience, so it was, quite literally, now or never.
    “But she is so much more lovely in the sunlight” Josef insisted. “Perhaps it is better that you don’t see her at all than see her in so unbecoming a light.”
    “That’s all right,” I told him. “I know all about unbecoming light.”
    So on we drove through the gray-green town. Large drops of rain splattered like broken eggs on the windshield. The sky grew darker and darker as chilly gusts of wind nearly shook the car off the road. I thought of The Little Match Girl and The Red Shoes and shivering Jews crossing in the night to the haven of Sweden, just a few miles across the Öresund.
    By the time we reached the small green slope which leads down to the water’s edge where the Little Mermaid sits so patiently, loud claps of thunder split the black and swirling air.
    “We must park here and walk a bit,” Josef said. “Are you sure you want to go?”
    “I must,” I told him, gathering up the collar of the same brown coat I had worn backwards and forwards throughout all of Europe.
    We climbed out of the car and walked towards the water, our heads bowed against the stinging wind and rain.
    “Tell me when we get there,” I shouted at Josef above the breaking thunder.
    “All right,” he said. And then, in a moment, “We’re there.”
    I stopped walking and lifted my head. Not more than ten feet from where I stood was the Little Mermaid. I hope she’s not angry with me, I mumbled, thinking of that loudmouthed wretch Dolores.
    Just then a huge, mean-looking cloud blew in off the sea and hung over the shoreline, enclosing the Little Mermaid and me in a misty envelope of silence and chill. All around the base of the statue green-black waters began to swirl and foam. It became so dark I thought someone had put out the sun. It was eerie.
    I was just about to turn and run back to the car when a clap of thunder exploded directly overhead, and at the very same instant, a bolt of lightning as bright and fierce as anything I’ve ever seen struck the defenseless statue right on the noggin. For one incredible, breathtaking moment, the Little Mermaid glowed pure gold.
    I turned to Josef, my mouth hanging down to the ground, but in his perfect politeness he had already returned to the car so that the Little Mermaid and I might be alone for a while. He had missed the entire event. In