posted on October 22, 2003 05:31:26 PM new
I just heard he's taking 11 different medications for 10 different symptoms he's suffering from - all of which are a result of him being beat up by Liza, who's about 5'1". Should he get the 10 million he's asking for - part of which is for pain & suffering from the attacks, even though he called her a fat, alcoholic has-been?
posted on October 22, 2003 05:47:34 PM new
An "unrelenting pain in his head" is worth 10 million? I'll bet Liza would describe his pain in another location...
October 22, 2003 -- THAT explains it. From the wreckage of the Liza Minnelli-David Gest love nest, urban archeologists have unearthed a secret Diary of Fabulous Love, co-written by the "It" couple.
Stained with crumbled Mallomars and Metamucil, riddled with shards from broken bottles of Absolut and chocolate Slim-Fast, this diary answers a question that's keeping a stable family man like Michael Jackson up at night, asking his preteen playmates - what went wrong?
March 16, 2002. Liza writes:
Dear Diary,
Hooray! Gesty and I are finally, officially Wifey and Baby!
Such a beautiful ceremony - I cried and cried. Didn't even mind when David wrestled me for the Maybelline! His eyes are gorgeous enough without pilfering my stash.
I told Liz Taylor to shut up about him, already. Her marital track record sucks worse than mine. And she hogged the hors d'oeuvres. Get your own sausage, honey!
Baby and I ended our first night of wedding bliss in the most romantic way - David hid my Skyy, and I b!tch-slapped him.
Aug. 28, 2002. David writes:
Diary,
She's out of control. This morning, she tries to make a phone call without my permission. What's next? Pick out her own clothes? Hey, I know Luther Vandross!
Last night, I commanded her to cool it on the Grey Goose. So she b!tch-slapped me. I took seven Vicodin and called it a night.
Nov. 28, 2002. Liza writes:
Dearest Diary,
Thanksgiving was divine! Just Baby, me, 146 of our nearest and most marvelous. And Mr. Cristal. He sure knows how to chase away those goblins.
But David was in a nasty mood. He said something really hurtful about Mia Farrow. She so hates to be reminded about that ungrateful adopted daughter she allowed to scrub her floors. I hear Woody's got money problems now. Didn't seem to cheer anyone up.
I had to calm David down best as I could. I b!tch-slapped him as usual.
June 10, 2002. David writes:
D,
London is a nightmare. Not only is she drinking nonstop, she ate Chinese food. Makes her breath smell like moldy garlic.
And she's hitting me. Really bad. Me! I'm a personal friend of James Ingram! My head hurt so bad from the b!tch-slapping, I took 12 OxyContin and turned in.
March 4, 2003. Liza writes:
OK, Diary,
I have to come clean. David and I are having a few teensy, weensy problems. I mean, I have gone from a dress size of Whale down to Sea Lion with his help. But the more he nags me about drinking, which, I swear, I've practically stopped, the more I want to dive off that wagon. It's his fault! So I b!tch-slapped him. What would you do?
June 2003. David writes:
Last night, she wailed my butt like a little girl. You should see the red marks. She's so mean. I'm a battered, pill-popping husband. Me. I'm also a personal friend of Raoul Felder. I'll make her pay.
June 2003. Liza writes:
David was so bad, I just had to teach him a lesson. Hurts me more than him.
Do you think our marriage can be saved?
"I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it." - A Few Good Men
[ edited by wgm on Oct 22, 2003 06:14 PM ]
October 23, 2003 -- HAVING been a bridesmaid at Operation David and Liza, did their newest headline - "battered husband" suing for $10 mil - surprise me?
Listen, this is a whole colony of p.r. freaks. His court papers say she's addicted to alcohol. Trust me, he's an addict, too. The guy's currently in publicity withdrawal. To David, being without a front page is like Liza without fake eyelashes.
And then there's his lawyer. Raoul Felder was already on TV last night talking about how he can't talk about it. The man never saw a camera he didn't like.
Immortalized nightly in the Broadway musical "The Boy From Oz," mentioned on the current Vanity Fair cover, spokeslady for MAC cosmetics, signed for a TV show, Judy Garland's daughter was born to the spotlight, the limelight, the bright lights. Her name, even when attached to a traffic summons, cops six inches of space in a newspaper.
Now, did I ever believe this marriage would go longer than, maybe, two or three scrapbooks? Nobody did. Nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody.
The timeline:
Spring 2001. Tony Awards. Liza fighting health problems, career problems, substance problems, financial problems, weight problems, social problems.
Before the show, all the celebs milled about. Liza didn't mill. She sat alone in Radio City's private VIP suite. Bad makeup, bad hair, pink blouse hanging out of black slacks.
How do I know? Because I sat with her.
Summer 2001. A house party. She's away from my view drinking wine. Another night I take her for dinner. Mohammad, who always worked for her, hands her to my driver who assists her into the car. She's shaky. Another night, my kitchen. Sweating, devouring milk and Mallomars. Another night, my terrace. Testing her voice. Asking nervously, "What do you think?"
Enter David Gest. Producing the Michael Jackson extravaganza at the Garden. He wants Liza to sing "New York, New York." My friend, jeweler Nicholas Varney of Bergdorf's, and I sit in her apartment helping accessorize her for the show.
Fall 2001. She and David become a couple. I don't believe it. He was not my favorite. They become an even tighter couple. I don't believe it. He's still not my favorite.
Winter 2001. Her hair is again styled Liza-like. She's got those great eyes going again. She's newly skinny. She's like crabgrass - everywhere. At parties, events. She's posing, dancing, singing, starring. She's happy. She's excited. She's into drop-dead wardrobe; her own sparkly jewelry. She's being photographed, quoted, booked, she's in demand. She tells me: "I'd forgotten what it's like to be so hot."
Then The Wedding. Lingering kisses. I love yous. Bride and groom in his-'n'-hers eye makeup. Matron of Honor Elizabeth Taylor forgetting her shoes. Best man Michael Jackson in a beaded suit much like one I have. Big-time celebrities. Bridesmaids told to wear black, which sort of presages the death of the union. A David Gest production.
Look, I love Liza Minnelli. She's the sweetest, goodest, greatest, friendliest, nicest. That's besides her talent. I'd go down the mouth of a cannon for Liza Minnelli. So I had to think differently about Svengali David. He'd brought her alive. If an alliance with Mephistopheles made her happy, I'd have to be happy for her.
This odd guy was still not my cup. But, I reasoned, many super successes I meet are odd. Maybe it takes that to make super success in this world, I don't know.
I do know he conned everyone when things started going awry. He threatened to sue for stories she went off the wagon. The restaurant confirmed it. Gossip leaked out she had enough of him. He pitched stories about they're so in love that they're adopting a baby. He's brilliant. Manipulative but brilliant.
He watched what she ate, what she drank, whom she saw. He saved her, but he controlled her. There's a limit to how much you can contain an explosive force. Liza's a power. A megawatt. She also has an addiction big time. Hell, life isn't easy. Lots of us have some addiction. Mine's food.
But, even in rehab, she spoke to me on the phone. She called him "baby." She said how grateful she is to him. How much she loved him.
A TV special on them asked if I thought David was gay. I answered, "I don't know. I've never been in bed with him."
So can I know exactly what went wrong between them? I wasn't in their bedroom. But, then, I'm not sure even they were in their bedroom.
What I know is, guys who don't give off that macho aroma can be highly controlling. Their way of keeping you. They can't hold you with sex. They tell you when you look lousy, they select where you go, they're the doorkeeper as to whom you see. When you're healthy and feel you're no longer needy, you chafe under that control.
I also know he called a few times when she was having her bouts. Her last stay in the Caron Foundation, he said to me: "I can't take this again. I absolutely cannot go through another time when she goes off. I can't survive it. It's too tough."
He hinted at darker things. Things like he lists in his court papers. Things like her allegedly belting him or throwing things at him. He said: "I have plenty I'm going to say at the right time." I printed one line he said to me and that was: "Trust me, things are going to get ugly."
So, yesterday, he took a slingshot, loaded it with rocks and let go. Must be something with guys named David when they see a giant.
"I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it." - A Few Good Men
