This week brings us a new Judy Garland book upon which one should look down with a high-browed disdain for salacious gossip. I’ll definitely remember to do that later, once my hands aren’t so busy plonking down hard-earned coin as I buy the book TODAY.
Oh, Poor Judy. And yes, ghastly Judy. According to the NY Post Article and Vanity Fair, we didn’t know the half of it. The incessant and hysterically public breakdowns, the rage-filled complacency of her constant suicide attempts. This book promises some strong stuff and Holy Rainbow, Toto–it delivers!
Stevie Phillips, who wrote the memoir, Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me, worked for Garland for four years. She deserves both a medal and a lobotomy for having done so. Or perhaps a double of each, since Philips then turned around and worked for Liza, too. She must be the Catholic Saint of Enablers.
Old school star dish doesn’t get much better than this. I promise to be thoroughly, heartily ashamed of myself. But first–page one. . .
Also linked: My earlier Judy obit, written last year.
Dana Dunbaugh Burnell 