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She was, by far, the greatest star.
And everyone knew it.
Now Barbra Streisand has added “author” to her resume.
My Passion for Design is billed by Viking flaks as a book that “focuses on the architecture and construction of her newest home, the dream refuge she has longed for since the days when she shared a small Brooklyn apartment with her mother, brother and grandparents.”
Actually, it’s a 288-page exercise in excess, of self-indulgent pleasure, a glossy and slick photographic smear against the unemployed, the working class, the ordinary Joe.
Streisand has more money than you and I ever will have, and she makes sure you and I know it. Most of the photos were taken by Babs . . . of a zillion-dollar home that looks uncomfortable and actually resides only in the pages of AD. She offers a tour of her basement which is more of a strip mall, complete with stores that have only one customer.
She writes about polluters and those who destroy the environment, yet has no problem telling us she cut down dozens of trees to make room for a pool. If I didn’t see her name and photo on the dust jacket, I would have bet her Tiffany lamps that this book was a cruel hoax, a pitiful year-end practical joke.
Streisand promises “a portion of the proceeds” from the sale of the book will be donated to the Barbara Streisand Women’s Cardiovascular Research and Education Program at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.” A portion? At $60 ($500 for the “deluxe edition,” signed and numbered with a DVD tour directed and narrated by guess who!), she should give all profits to needy causes.
I love her talent, but I have lost my respect for the woman. This isn’t pretty or funny, girl.
It seems Babs will do anything for self-promotion; perhaps she should have monitored the person she hired at Cedar-Sinai as closely as the person she sent to China to color correct the book’s page proofs as they came off the printing press.
Babs recently held two contests: Make a donation to her heart fund and win a chance to Tweet her a question (which she would answer, then follow you on Twitter). Inquiring minds could email someone named “Falco” and get the winner’s name.
The second contest: Make a donation and win an autographed copy of the book!
I sent “Falco” an email asking for the name of the Tweeter winner.
This is what I got back:
“Thanks so much for the email. Please consider yourself entered in the sweepstakes. I predict you win and I’m only saying that to you. That’s not true…I’m saying that to everyone.”
I sent a second email, reminding “Falco” of my original question and suggesting how rude the first email was, making people think they would win the contest.
Falco’s second response:
“I’m the absolute worst and as unprofessional as they come. So sorry for the mistake.”
The person Babs Twatted? “A winner has been chosen and here is our very short list of winners: Vicky Roberts.”
Oh, to be able to be the way we were.