2003-10-20 13:24:53 UTC
It would be wrong of me not to say anything about Oprah Winfrey's nutty hour
with Barbra Streisand last week.
If you missed it, Streisand wore a white wool cowl-neck sweater that came up
just over her chin. It looked like the collar from a Rembrandt painting. I
don't know if she was hiding twaddle, or the weapons of mass destruction, or
The thing about Barbra is, and I'm not really a fan, that her voice is
perfection. When she sang — live, no lip-synching, to a backing track — she
had the magic that has made her so unbelievably popular.
On the other hand: She calls Deepak Chopra by his first name, and calls him
when the flowers on her terrace mysteriously change color. She is told, and
believes, she has willed this to happen. She is absorbed by the death of a
9-year-old dog, for whom she held a funeral, but was not too aggrieved that she
didn't run out and get a clone-like replacement.
Winfrey, who herself straddles a fine line between empathy with her audience
and her desire to be a megastar living in Bel Air, was incredulous. When
Streisand finished singing, Oprah said from the audience, "I've owned this
studio for fifteen years and I've never seen a white microphone."
The singer replied she had had it sprayed white so it would match her sweater
and the dog (the new one was brought to her on stage) and wouldn't detract from
Now that, my friends, is a diva.
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