It is said that death typically comes in threes, so when the breaking news events of yesterday unfolded where within hours we learned of two prominent celebrity passings it was probably to be expected, if highly inappropriate, that right after the news from Butler, Pennsylvania broke a couple of my more incideniary social media connections posted quips to the effect “well, we came within a couple of inches of that being true today”. Now is not the time for that sort of snark and besides, it’s my understanding that that parable only applies to human beings.
Besides, I’d strongly contend that between Ruth Westheimer and Richard Simmons alone there was more than enough life lived by both to more than cover at least three ordinary lives, if not more. Between them they combined for 172 years on Earth. But besides sharing a day when they passed they also shared qualities sadly less prevalent among celebrities of this era–authenticity, accessibility, relatability, and infatiguable desires to promote their work and their passions relentlessly, in person, and with as much respect for passerbys at conventions as they seemingly had for the executives and handlers who brought them there in the first place. Ethics and menschiness of throwback eras, specifically the 1980s.
My first experience with Dr. Ruth Westheimer was her breakout Sunday night radio call-in on New York’s WYNY-FM, SEXUALLY SPEAKING. At just past 10 PM right after the DICK CLARK NATIONAL MUSIC SURVEY would conclude, the lilting flute of her theme music was an audio signal to stop multitasking and sit down in front of my stereo to be both shocked and educated. I had recently gotten my first apartment when her show expanded to its longform version, and I’d often have friends over who wanted to listen away from the judgmental ears of their parents. When she’d begin with her “HALLO!!! ZIS IS DOCTAH RRRRRUTH VESTHEIMER AND ZIS IS SEXUALLLLLY SPEAKING!!!” would begin, it was the closest we’d ever had gotten to the experience which I’m certain our grandparents had when old-time radio shows would begin. Her voice was remarkably similar to the bubbemeisters my grandparents would hang out at Hadassah meetings with, but none of those biddies would ever be as forthright and direct with the likes of Stacy from Roslyn or Christine from Teaneck who would haltingly confess something to the effect of “Dr. Ruth, my boyfriend keeps wanting me to have sex but I’m not ready, do you have any tips on how I might be able to satisfy him otherwise?” And then she’d cheerily respond with something to the effect of “Do you haff a banana?? Vy not practice on zat and zen you can learn how to pleasure him vit your mout!!” It was clear from the gasps and chuckles in the background that Stacy or Christine was listening with friends like we were and probably were exaggerating their stories just to see how far she’d go. But Westheimer would almost never back away because, heck, this was her business and her business was life and how to best live it. As THE NEW YORK TIMES’ Daniel Lewis so creatively recounted in yesterday’s obituary:
Talk shows abounded in the 1980s, but until she came along, none had dealt so exclusively and clinically with sex. Nor could anyone have anticipated that the messenger of Eros would be a 4-foot-7 middle-aged teacher with a delivery that The Wall Street Journal described as “something like a cross between Henry Kissinger and a canary.”
A talk show about sex? “Why not?” Dr. Westheimer asked. “Why not share a few recipes on the air. I am promoting sexual literacy in a time of unprecedented sexual freedom.”
It was inevitable that her popularity would eventually open doors for her on television, and unsurprisingly the female-centric Lifetime network gave her her first national exposure with a weeknight call-in show. It was counterprogramming at its best and she became as much of a face for the network and cable in general as anyone. She later attempted to move the show to syndication, and it was there I’d have the chance to meet and engage with her along with hundreds of others who were enraptured by her nonstop smile and willingness to pose for pictures. She used her newfound fame to promote intelligent, nuanced discourse through humor. As Lewis further recounted:
(S)he enjoyed a dispensation to say things on the air that would have been shocking coming from almost anyone else. Discussing her success with a Times reporter in August 1984, just as Lifetime cable television was introducing “Good Sex! With Dr. Ruth Westheimer” as a Monday-through-Friday program, she said humor was an important part of her approach: “If a professor leaves his students laughing, they will walk away remembering what they have learned.”
Even when her own show ran its course, she’d be a regular on other talk shows, and even turned up on game shows and children’s shows, endearing herself to new generations where her openness wasn’t quite as revolutionary but her effervescense just as endearing. As recently as last fall, as Lewis shared, Dr. Westheimer was named New York State’s first honorary “ambassador to loneliness” by Gov. Kathy Hochul. In that position, which she herself had proposed, Dr. Westheimer would “help New Yorkers of all ages address the growing issue of social isolation, which is associated with multiple physical and mental health issues.:.
Simmons reached his zenith of fame via his own daytime show earlier in the 1980s, developed by the same quirky Woody Fraser who launched the career of Mike Douglas, the formula for GOOD MORNING, AMERICA, and, sorry to say, the talents of Roger Ailes. Not since the early days of Jack LaLanne had a fitness-centric program appealed to housewives, many of whom were in dire need of some sort of health regimen. Only in this case, Simmons put many of those housewives on his program, and later his wildly successful home videos, to share their own stories in the same manner in which he’d relentlessly share his own. As THE ASSOCIATED PRESS’ Mark Kennedy wrote yesterday:
Simmons was a former 268-pound teen who became a master of many media forms, sharing his hard-won weight-loss tips as host of the Emmy-winning daytime “Richard Simmons Show” and author of best-selling books and the diet plan Deal-A-Meal. He also opened exercise studios and starred exercise videos, including the wildly successful “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” line, which became a cultural phenomenon.
“My food plan and diet are just two words — common sense. With a dash of good humor,” he told The Associated Press in 1982. “I want to help people and make the world a healthier, happy place.”
Simmons embraced mass communication to get his message out, even as he eventually became the butt of jokes for his outfits and flamboyant flair.
And just like Westheimer, humor proved to be a remarkable asset for him, as Kennedy continued:
Asked if he thought he could motivate people by being silly, Simmons answered, “I think there’s a time to be serious and a time to be silly. It’s knowing when to do it. I try to have a nice combination. Being silly cures depression. It catches people off guard and makes them think. But in between that silliness is a lot of seriousness that makes sense. It’s a different kind of training.”
I’d often see Simmons sprawled over the same Delta club I would frequent at LAX when I regularly would commute to Atlanta for meetings, unmistakable in his trademark sparkly tank top and satin gym shorts. Richard was also an incredibly busy self-promoter, regularly doing personal appearances across the country to promote his latest ventures. On one occasion Simmons was clearly not wearing underwear while he was yakking away on the phone giving some sort of interview and I couldn’t help but slyly remark “Richard? Are you trying to be Sharon Stone?” Picking up immediately on my BASIC INSTINCT reference, he broke into a wide grin and mockingly chided in his own high-pitched wail “SO DON’T LOOK!!”.
We eventually had seen each other often enough to exchange pleasantries, and on one memorable occasion I was in a particularly down mood, as my weight at the time was well over 200 pounds and I had recently put on another 20 or so after a particularly self-indulgent spasm of self-loathing. I knew a couple of his students at his Beverly Hills gym/spa SLIMMONS, and I told him how much he had changed their lives and was considering looking into a few classes but just didn’t know if I was ready for such a commitment. He graciously thanked me for telling him that and then surprisingly looked deep into my eyes, in the same way he would to so many of those housewives and asked “Are you ready to be happy?”
His directness caught me off guard. I began to well up and confessed “I’m not sure”.
He patted my hand and said “Someday you will be. And I hope I’ll be there to see it.”
By the time I eventually did somehow get to that point SLIMMONS had closed and Richard had left public life. My own journey had to go through other channels. But as I look back on how I felt when I somehow found enough self-love and self-control (granted it took a pandemic and a near-death experience to get me there), the kinds of emotions running through me were and are similar to those which Kennedy described Simmons cited as to what started his own journey:
Simmons was a native of New Orleans, a chubby boy named Milton by his parents. (He renamed himself “Richard” around the age of 10 to improve his self-image). He would tell people he ate to excess because he believed his parents liked his older brother more. He was teased by schoolmates and ballooned to almost 200 pounds.
Simmons went to Italy as a foreign exchange student and ended up doing peanut butter commercials and bacchanalian eating scenes for director Federico Fellini in his film “Fellini Satyricon.” He told the AP: “I was fat, had curly hair. The Italians thought I was hysterical. I was the life of the party.”
His life changed after getting an anonymous letter. “One dark, rainy day I went to my car and found a note. It said, ‘Dear Richard, you’re very funny, but fat people die young. Please don’t die.”
He didn’t, at least then and neither did I, at least yet.
I’m certain so many others had much deeper and more personal connections to these wonderful people. The fact that I have any at all, and as positive and enduring as they are, speaks volumes to the degree they both left impacts on just about everyone they encountered. That’s indeed a lost art, and makes their passings all the more poignant.
Godspeed, mensches.
Until next time…