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Authors: Rosie O'Donnell
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am not a public pooper. I never have been, I never will be. So my entire digestive system was now in a tizzy because I had nowhere to poop at work. I just don’t understand; it’s like they think we’re camping.
Finally, I came out of the stall and saw her. Her hair was gray, and it was eight inches above her head and she had it in a clip, and her eyes were a little off. “How are you?” she said. She had no idea she was a poop preventer. “I’m Phyllis,” she said. “Look at you! Back on the show! Looking great!”
We hugged, Phyllis and I. I indulged her. I took it all in, steadied myself on the surfboard, hoping all the while that I might make it through this new rise—fame.
CHAPTER 6
Letter to My Brother
E ddie:
There is no way I can stay on this show. It is everything I am not. It’s called
The View
, but that’s a misnomer; it’s really a view, one view, ABC’s view, and I’m not a parrot or a puppet.
When I had my own show I expected 100 percent from myself. And I expected 100 percent from my staff too. But
The View
show has already been set up in a way where the staff is not inspired or rewarded.
It’s a difficult situation, because I got hired to do a job, I came, I did the job, I delivered, but I’m still not accepted here. I’m never going to be accepted here. It’s not my show; it’s nine years of someone else’s show; it’s a culture I don’t understand and it’s one I don’t agree with either. I can’t grow here. I have to grow. What other choice does one have? You either grow or you die.
The director. He’s able to make music look really good. Sometimes he’s spectacular, to a level that awes me when I watch it. And yet, he’s inconsistent. Everyone is; I know I am, for sure. How is it, I wonder, that a man who is able to do such spectacular work sometimes gets such murky shots? I’ve counted his cameras. I’ve watched him closely. He is tense, tightly wound. Art has to come from someplace quiet. Even when it’s raging, when it’s rageful, it comes from some still place inside you, someplace hard to get to, harder still to stay. I wish he could find that quiet place.
Listen, Eddie. It’s hard. And that’s why it’s no one’s fault. They’ve been making doughnuts at this factory for nine years. And people have been buying the doughnuts and everybody was happy with the doughnuts. So I’m not one to say, “You can’t make doughnuts that way.” But it’s not the kind of doughnut I make, and it’s not the way I make them. I’m gonna tell Barbara after Christmas break that I’m not going to sign on next year because I can’t. But I’ve had a great time, and thank you, but let’s not turn this into a negative because it isn’t.
In the middle of the show yesterday, the lights went on, like it’s last call at a bar. Every light in the studio went on, bright. I said, “Whoa!” For about ten seconds the lights were on. Afterwards I wanted to say, “What was that?” But I wasn’t sure anyone would answer, or, if they did, tell me the truth. Oh, a glitch in the computer. A DC power surge. Could be this. Could be that. Thing is, Eddie, it seems to me that no one really cares.
I wonder why I care especially because it’s not my show, which is maybe the point, and problem.
I just want it to be what it can be. I want the fucking IFBs out of everyone’s ears, everywhere, not only here, but on every network; make TV live, truly live. All of us doing talk shows, acting, delivering the news: whatever the medium, it’s important to make TV what it can really be. And to do so requires those who sit on my side of the screen to hear, to listen, to stay present.
And Barbara. At some point, a person gets tired. It’s inevitable, the aging process, I can feel it in myself. My eyes aren’t what they once were. Barbara Walters is almost twice my age and she’s been doing this for nearly half a century; at some point it becomes necessary to step back. I hope when the
Finally, I came out of the stall and saw her. Her hair was gray, and it was eight inches above her head and she had it in a clip, and her eyes were a little off. “How are you?” she said. She had no idea she was a poop preventer. “I’m Phyllis,” she said. “Look at you! Back on the show! Looking great!”
We hugged, Phyllis and I. I indulged her. I took it all in, steadied myself on the surfboard, hoping all the while that I might make it through this new rise—fame.
CHAPTER 6
Letter to My Brother
E ddie:
There is no way I can stay on this show. It is everything I am not. It’s called
The View
, but that’s a misnomer; it’s really a view, one view, ABC’s view, and I’m not a parrot or a puppet.
When I had my own show I expected 100 percent from myself. And I expected 100 percent from my staff too. But
The View
show has already been set up in a way where the staff is not inspired or rewarded.
It’s a difficult situation, because I got hired to do a job, I came, I did the job, I delivered, but I’m still not accepted here. I’m never going to be accepted here. It’s not my show; it’s nine years of someone else’s show; it’s a culture I don’t understand and it’s one I don’t agree with either. I can’t grow here. I have to grow. What other choice does one have? You either grow or you die.
The director. He’s able to make music look really good. Sometimes he’s spectacular, to a level that awes me when I watch it. And yet, he’s inconsistent. Everyone is; I know I am, for sure. How is it, I wonder, that a man who is able to do such spectacular work sometimes gets such murky shots? I’ve counted his cameras. I’ve watched him closely. He is tense, tightly wound. Art has to come from someplace quiet. Even when it’s raging, when it’s rageful, it comes from some still place inside you, someplace hard to get to, harder still to stay. I wish he could find that quiet place.
Listen, Eddie. It’s hard. And that’s why it’s no one’s fault. They’ve been making doughnuts at this factory for nine years. And people have been buying the doughnuts and everybody was happy with the doughnuts. So I’m not one to say, “You can’t make doughnuts that way.” But it’s not the kind of doughnut I make, and it’s not the way I make them. I’m gonna tell Barbara after Christmas break that I’m not going to sign on next year because I can’t. But I’ve had a great time, and thank you, but let’s not turn this into a negative because it isn’t.
In the middle of the show yesterday, the lights went on, like it’s last call at a bar. Every light in the studio went on, bright. I said, “Whoa!” For about ten seconds the lights were on. Afterwards I wanted to say, “What was that?” But I wasn’t sure anyone would answer, or, if they did, tell me the truth. Oh, a glitch in the computer. A DC power surge. Could be this. Could be that. Thing is, Eddie, it seems to me that no one really cares.
I wonder why I care especially because it’s not my show, which is maybe the point, and problem.
I just want it to be what it can be. I want the fucking IFBs out of everyone’s ears, everywhere, not only here, but on every network; make TV live, truly live. All of us doing talk shows, acting, delivering the news: whatever the medium, it’s important to make TV what it can really be. And to do so requires those who sit on my side of the screen to hear, to listen, to stay present.
And Barbara. At some point, a person gets tired. It’s inevitable, the aging process, I can feel it in myself. My eyes aren’t what they once were. Barbara Walters is almost twice my age and she’s been doing this for nearly half a century; at some point it becomes necessary to step back. I hope when the
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