Roseannearchy: Dispatches from the Nut Farm
BESTSELLING AUTHOR AND TELEVISION STAR ROSEANNE BARR IS BACK—WITH A VENGEANCE—AND THE RESULT IS ROSEANNEARCHY.
Roseanne Barr is a force of nature. Whether taking the sitcom world by storm, challenging accepted social norms, or battling the wild pigs inhabiting her nut farm in Hawaii, she is not to be trifled with. In this return to the printed page, Roseanne unleashes her razor-sharp observations on hypocrisy, hubris, and self-perpetuating institutions of questionable value—as well as menopause, pharmaceuticals, and her grandkids. And she’s as controversial, original, and funny as ever.
Raised half-Jewish, half-Mormon, and 100 percent misfit, Roseanne made a deal with Satan early on as the price she paid for stardom. But now she’s looking to refinance the loan of her soul—this book represents her final exorcism of fame.
Displaying her brilliance and sharp wit, Roseanne discusses the humor of everyday life with musings on more serious topics, such as class warfare, feminism, the cult of celebrity, and Kabbalah. Bold, brash, and insightful, Roseannearchy shows that she can still skewer any subject under the sun and why The New York Times describes her appeal as “the power of a whole planet, pulling everything around it inexorably into its orbit.”
blew my mind, and continues to do so. I’m a mystic, and find myself excited at the theory of physics that says the universe itself functions as a sort of mirror of consciousness. Of course, this does not surprise me at all, as I have always known that to be true. If a Roseannethropologist comes along someday, and figures out how and where I was shaped by the odd world I found myself in, and how I did some shaping of that world myself, she’ll have plenty of ground to uncover. Your Domestic
to bring my daughter and grandson Ari out to visit me on the nut farm in Hawaii for Thanksgiving. He informed me that he would get back to me. The nerve! He went on to say that his family would do as he wished them to, and not as I wished them to, since he is the papa and I am only the grandma, and that I should learn how the world really works in that regard. I became enraged and said to him, “It might work like that over in Russia, where people have to line up for bread every day instead of
famous” flattery befitting a queen was no longer forthcoming from Tom. Now, thanks to his stilted sober judgment, it was actually my disgraceful behavior on the baseball field that had prevented us from reaching his goals. In his mind, he was dragging me around behind him, and not the other way around at all. In the last part of our marriage, as a way of throwing Tom and me a bone, a competing agency who wanted us to leave Wilhelm Moreless and join their client list asked Tom to read for a new
walked away before I got my punch line out, which should have upset me, but I was used to being interrupted by Tom, from the beginning of our relationship, whether it was a phone call on the day I was reunited with the daughter I had given up for adoption eighteen years earlier (to leave her and help Tom get to a hospital before he bled out through the nose after a cocaine bender) or a hundred other equally dramatic interruptions. Every one of which I excused. So when he whispered to me out of
And by mature, I mean tired and lazy. I know I used to drive people around me a little crazy sometimes (which is like saying Stalin used to get grouchy and mess with people—an understatement, to say the least). In addition to tormenting my poor, witless husbands, I put a lot of unnecessary mileage on my ticker. Not good! And I know there were days when my children probably felt that living with the awful realization that I wasn’t dead yet almost wasn’t worth the effort they didn’t put into