In June of last year, as Joan Rivers was about to turn 80, Simon Doonan penned a loving appreciation of her and her important role in our culture. The article is reprinted below.
This Saturday, Joan Rivers, the woman who has rejuvenated her visage so successfully that nobody on Earth has had any notion of her real age for decades, will celebrate her 80th birthday. And I, for one, am outraged. The fact that this occasion has not been declared a national holiday is a shonda of epic proportions. (Expect more Yiddish in the coming paragraphs.) Joan is, quite simply, a national treasure.
We all owe Joan a massive debt of gratitude. Without Joan, life in our celebrity-obsessed society would not be worth living. Joan is our guiding light. She has shown us all that, even though we are force-fed endless drivel about self-important A-listers from morning till night, there is no reason why we have to take that crap lying down. She gives us carte blanche to rip those freebie-crazed red-carpet deities to shreds at every opportunity. Without Joan and her complete lack of respect, we would all be stuck in a perpetual episode of Inside the Actors Studio.
I became aware of Joan’s passion for no-holds-barred celebrity debunkery back in the ’80s. Around this time June Allyson had somewhat recklessly elected to become a high-profile spokeslady for a well-known brand of adult diapers. It is no exaggeration to say that every time one turned on one’s telly, one was subjected to an endless stream of saccharine incontinence-themed testimonials from the gravelly voiced Ms. Allyson. Joan to the rescue. In her nightly monologue, La Rivers would invariably lob a grenade or two at old June: “Sheesh! It’s so humid in New York today, June Allyson is wearing two pairs of Depends. … Oh, please … grow up!!”
June’s only consolation must surely have been that, regularly mocked though she was, at least she wasn’t Elizabeth Taylor. At that point in her career Miss Taylor, and her fluctuating weight, were getting the lion’s share of Joan’s loving attention: “Liz Taylor! Can we talk? Now she has to put Vaseline on her hips to squeeze through the Golden Arches. Grow up!”
Not all of Joan’s celeb mockery was so brash. Joan has always been capable of exquisitely subtle barbs. I vividly remember Grace Jones riding onto Joan’s stage, posing, growling, roaring, snarling, and sucking in her cheeks (both sets) while straddling a Harley and wearing a bizarre, hired-assassin leather new wave outfit. “Just a simple girl with a dream,” deadpanned Joan.
Joan and I got acquainted in the mid-1980s when I was working at Barneys in downtown Manhattan. At this point Ms. Rivers was a major TV star and a major customer. We were wardrobing her for her nightly chat show—she favored Chanel, Valentino, Geoffrey Beene, and Karl Lagerfeld—but, unlike the freebie-crazed celebs of today, she always ended up buying most of the high-priced designer schmattas. Cheap she is not.
Joan was at the store constantly for fittings. It was during this time that I got to study this bitchy broad up close … only to find out that she was anything but. Joan Rivers is shockingly thoughtful, polite, and kind. Quel paradoxe! The viper-tongued vixen is actually a total softie who was idolized by the Barneys staff. She remembered names, birthdays, traumas, hysterectomies, dead pets, live pets. If anybody got pregnant or kicked the bucket, Joan was the first to offer congrats or condolences. Look up the word hamische in the Yiddish dictionary: Next to it you will find a picture of Joan Alexandra Rivers, nee Molinsky.
In 1990 I decided it was time to pay tribute to our favorite customer by creating a Joan Rivers holiday window homage. I commissioned a life-size caricature from artist Martha King. Also in this diorama was a replica of Joan’s beloved Yorkie, Spike. The other major prop was a June Allyson wreath constructed entirely of Depends adult diapers (fresh and unworn). It was quickly edited from the window when I realized it was not producing any laughs, because it resembled a depressingly lumpy life preserver.
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