WELCOME

I am going to write a book. I am not certain anyone other than defamation lawyers will read it. But its not a bad process and I have had some bizarre and fascinating experiences. So, why not? To get started I have to refresh my facility with the keyboard and the English language which I abandoned the day I realized that people were going to use f… and s… interchangeably with sure and heck, hello and goodbye.

My daughter Jamie (who started the idea of this blog) says that I have to have a thesis. So I guess its that Life is Good- even when it sucks and that it is attitude that makes the biggest degree of difference in whether you survive or succumb. Honesty is better than pretense. People are basically good. And a little – but some people are really big assholes- thrown in for a reality check now and then.

In effect I am practicing on you.

Oprah, the book

Kitty Kelley’s new book: Oprah has a diva snit in Washington antique store; “does not do stairs”

Oprah at the opening of her Leadership Academy for Girls outside Johannesburg in January 2007. (Siphiwe Sibeko/Reuters)

The image of Oprah as America’s benevolent earth mother is about to take a serious hit, thanks to — who else? — biographer Kitty Kelley, whose book on the talk show queen comes out Tuesday.

“I was astounded that the woman who seems so open and uninhibited is really so choked by secrets,” said Kelley, who interviewed more than 800 people and spent four years researching the book.

Kitty Kelley in September 2004. (Gino Domenico/AP)

In a short excerpt obtained by the Reliable Source, Oprah comes off as a demanding diva unwilling to lift a finger — or foot — if she doesn’t feel like it.

About five years ago, she contacted Georgetown’s L’Enfant Gallery, known for high-end antiques, because she owned works by portraitist John Kirthian Court and wanted to see more. Gallery owner Peter Colasante bought three paintings ($60,000-$80,000 each) and had them shipped from Portugal to his shop for Oprah’s consideration. He received strict instructions for her short visit, along with a partial schedule: “2:17 p.m.: Oprah’s limousine arrives at L’Enfant Gallery, 2:20 p.m.: Oprah walks into gallery….”

On the appointed day and time, two limos pulled up and Oprah went into Deborah Gore Dean’s shop across Wisconsin Avenue. After waiting 30 minutes, Colasante walked over and found his famous client berating Dean. He told Oprah and her entourage (secretary, pilot, hairdresser, makeup man, guards) that he had other appointments scheduled and she needed to honor her timetable.

“Oprah does not walk,” she told him, referring to herself in the third person. “Who is this guy?” Then she started screaming at her staff, but finally agreed to cross the street and come through his front door.

“I just don’t feel it,” she told him. “The vibrations aren’t right.”

“You’ll feel them once you see the paintings we’ve assembled for you,” he said, pointing up the stairs where Court’s art was hanging.

“Oprah does not do stairs,” she said.

Things went rapidly downhill from there: Colasante’s partner hissed that maybe Oprah could use the exercise (unclear who heard), and she stormed out in a huff without buying anything.

How accurate is Kelley’s version? Dean, who declined to be interviewed for the book, said she doesn’t discuss her clients. Winfrey spokeswoman Lisa Halliday declined to comment.

“Kitty got it just right,” Colasante told us this weekend. “I was somewhat dumbfounded to see this side of Oprah. I’ve been in business 37 years, and I’ve never seen anyone behave that way before — least of all anyone well-known, who are generally pussycats. We had a wonderful time with Barbra Streisand.” (He eventually sold two of the three Court paintings.)

No telling what else Kelley has unearthed or who gets to hear it: Her book has an initial printing of 500,000 copies, but she said some major news organizations have refused to schedule interviews for fear of Oprah’s power and displeasure.

But Kelley told us she’s still a fan. “I love her — she is a biographer’s gift. I started the book the same way I ended up, with a great deal of respect for her.”

// <![CDATA[// By The Reliable Source  |  April 12, 2010; 1:03 AM ET

Oprah Berates Deborah!

I have had the great honor to meet and sometimes work with many famous people.  Time spent on your home to me is private time. I think that, like a hairdresser, you ought not to say anything about them.  And they should enjoy your confidence.

There are times however that you are baffled that a very famous person would take the chance of being rude.  We all expect a public figure to be nice.  And most are very accommodating.  And frankly I have seen several of them hounded by people and be so nice that I had to step in and drive off the nattering pests.  One day, a lady ran into my store and knocked Laura Bush off her feet with a shoulder nudge to tell me, “Laura Bush is on the block.”   Thanks for the heads up!  Obviously, Peter Colasante was offended by Oprah.  And he has a sense of humor.

I have only a few things to add to this story.

She was, on that day, a little frustrated that my printer was not spewing out her choices as fast as – maybe a printer at Harpo Productions might.  Her head sort of bobbed up and down as the printer chugged and lurched line by line.

I do not consider Oprah Winfrey to be my client.   Anthony Browne, her decorator, was my client.  And it was an honor to work with him.   And I was very grateful for the business and thrilled that the pieces were going to Oprah.   He is a true genius and everything he ever did for her was lovely.  There are lots of stories.  But in the years that we sold Oprah Winfrey antiques, through Anthony and on her own, he never said one personal thing about her.  Because, he realized- its not about her.  It’s about the rooms.  He was fortunate enough to have perhaps the only client in the world where money did not dictate decisions and he used it to its maximum potential – for her benefit.

I guess we’ll read this book and find out that Oprah isn’t Oprah on TV.  I think that would be impossible anyway.  The several times that I have met her were – private.  She did not travel with a pilot and security and all that.  She doesn’t want to get into a lot of conversations with people all day- so she keeps her friend Gayle and/or her hairdresser/assistant in constant conversation- so that she can’t be bothered.  Its a neat trick.  I use my husband the same way at parties.

Last, we need to understand that when we see or meet someone famous; we are looking to them to validate us in some way. We want them to like us.  In her case, people want her attention, time and money- all day, every day.  Some just want more than others.  So when she doesn’t speak to you or rejects your products or ideas- it is far more devastating.  If the famous person is brusque, it hurts your feelings.  Where if a normal person said the same thing- it would mean nothing to you.

If you buy this book, keep that in mind.  And take every story down a peg.  Grain of salt.

Unless there is a quote from her in the book about how wonderful I am- then believe it!

And if you are a celebrity or you are married to a celebrity- THINK.  Not everybody is going to keep your secrets.  Be nice but more importantly- be fair.  Help people like you. – Deb

HUMOR WILL OUT

Saturday, April 10, 2010 HUMOR WILL OUT I attended Georgetown University as though it were a social function. I arrived fashionably late to every class and stayed too long usually under the influence of Lancers Rose. My mother used to say, “your freshman year you majored in Brian and this year you’re majoring in Steve”. I was terribly offended at the time, but looking back she saw it for what it was. Well, my junior year, I majored in Eric Purcell. Lordy, what a character. He had charisma that the other sons of New jersey lawyers and accountants had yet to develop at 19. He was the son of the famous chanteuse Monique van Vooren. Who was a totally charming, kind, and highly intelligent and cultivated woman hiding in a body that stopped traffic even in her seventies. She was known by the company she kept and she maintained her fame (a staple in the upper east side diet) by allowing people to speculate how she got her money and how many men she had bedded. I knew how she had made her money. Monique was entrepeneurial in her ability to save a dime. She walked everywhere in Manhattan. She’d be a living mannequin for the fashion designer Giorgio San Angelo who had to love her figure in his drippy, gauzy rhinestone bedazzled gowns. So he dressed her in samples- she would return them after being Page Sixed. And then she would walk 2 extra blocks to get a ham sandwich a quarter cheaper. She was practically a math genius and her bright gray eyes were like a cash register every time she saved a nickel. You get very rich like that without sleeping with anyone. That I think she did for fun. You can only imagine what a son would be like. How his mind might work. I later realized that there was a screw loose. His unique vision of the world with him as the ceremonial center of it was chronicled in Madness Under the Royal Palms. But despite what apologists for him speculate, his mother did not make him crazy. Many young men have sexy moms, famous moms, outrageous moms- they develop a sense of humor. They survive by separating the foibles of the mom from the mother in the mom. And those that can’t just simply leave home and marry the opposite sort of woman. Eric chose to stay in the maelstrom of his mother’s career because there he received attention and he loved attention. In my junior year, I gave him all my attention. He of course was busy trying to get even more attention from all available corners of campus. He was safe to do this as I was hardly ever there. I worked. In fact I had two jobs. Somehow I had given my mother the idea that I was spoiled and she in turn had decided one day that I should pay my own tuition. She also gave me a Mercedes 450 SL so I could get to my jobs on time. At the time, this seemed practical. Heck, this seemed like a good deal. I always had an excuse to not go to class and a Mercedes The down side was not apparent for awhile. My daughter Jamie will get a bus token and a pencil sharpener when she goes to college even if she has to work. I still managed to attend enough parties to look like I was in school. My friends were the International Set. The more down to earth all American kids did not seem attracted to my eccentricities. My friends majored in tennis and French with a strong devotion to Mask and Bauble the university theater group. Eric was good looking enough to get the good roles he wanted and he was very dramatic at all times- emoting off stage as well as on. Eric in the dressing room juggling all his affairs and attractions- male and female was enough drama to earn University credit. And he attracted a Style of girl- a girl with style. There were no dumb girls at Georgetown University, the worst that could be said of you was that you were plain- or American. Eric used to say when he was angry, “you’ll never leave Washington DC” like it was Topeka. And hey, I live in Baltimore – so much for the Amazing Krezkin. One evening, there was a very sophisticated International style party. Eric and I had split by then and he had moved on to a real life Baroness- the lovely Cornelia von Uexkull . She kept softly apologizing to me in muted tones as though she had just taken my drink my mistake or something else I might have wanted.  I think she thought I really had cared for him and that she hadn’t at all once she had the experience of it.  She wanted to give him back.  Apology accepted.  But no returns. Then in the doorway appeared what could only be called a vision. A tall thin girl in head to toe cream. Her long blonde hair matched her cashmere sweater which melted onto her leather jeans and boots. She had on a floor length cream fur coat vest which matched – and I am not kidding- the afghan dog on her hip. She floated into the room like a bubble. The room stood still. There was no noise. I heard the sigh of the Baroness and knew she was staring down at me from her full 6 foot height empathetically. Who was this new woman? And why is everybody looking at me and then her and then me? That’s when I saw Eric- standing behind her like a prince consort. My first reaction was why the baroness wasn’t getting the action. Why me? Aren’t I now one person removed from being on the griddle? Then I noticed that the vision was gliding toward ME. I realized at that moment that the color she was emanating- dog and all- was the light golden color of champagne- good champagne, with little tiny diamond bubbles. And it was heading toward me- Lancers Rose. Interestingly, Eric had disappeared from the dynamic. He was now unimportant to the moment at hand. Closer she came gliding, gliding, halt. A pale white sinewy hand raised, peeking out of the cashmere- rising from her side, the index finger making far more of an effort than the lagging other fingers. “I am Diandra Luker de Bourbon”. Panic. How to escape? Then it hit me- Aristocrats, baronesses, and sons of chanteuses- what am I doing here? And my Tennessee roots hackled up- I looked at her square in the face and said “Well hello honey, my name is Deborah Dean de Dubonnet”. Everyone laughed – even my friend to this day, Diandra.   Humor will out!

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