Spring of Córdoba
^ yea this link is a killer
Nostalgia is a seductive liar.
don't look down
Zsa Zsa's is currently in hospital, and this article looks back at her life and loves (dailymail.co.uk):
You're perfect, yes, it's true. But without me, you're only you.
Ailing Zsa Zsa Gabor is rushed back to hospital
Hollywood legend Zsa Zsa Gabor is back to hospital after an emergency call from her husband.
The 93-year-old had complained of flu-like symptoms and body pain but it is believed her condition is not life threatening.
Gabor's husband Prince Frederic von Anhalt, told TMZ : 'I just called an ambulance. She has to go back to UCLA (Medical Centre).'
The Prince added that the former actress was unresponsive and clearly in distress.
However, the website is reporting that Gabor was rushed to hospital in an ambulance without emergency lights flashing - an indication her life is not in immediate danger.
The Hungarian-born socialite has been resting after returning home to her Bel Air mansion from hospital two weeks ago where she was given the last rites by a priest.
Gabor spent last month in hospital following hip replacement surgery after falling out of bed in July.
'Her health has been up and down ever since,’ said her publicist John Blanchette.
She and her husband decided not to opt for more surgery.
'She wanted to spend her final days at home,' said Blanchette.
The former beauty queen suffered two blood clots following the hip surgery.
She needed several hours more surgery to remove the clots from her upper body, one of them very close to her heart.
'It is a very difficult time for her family,' Blanchette said.
Gabor celebrated her 24th wedding anniversary to her ninth husband von Anhalt in hospital on August 14.
Gabor starred in more than 30 Hollywood films, including John Huston's 1952 Moulin Rouge and the 1958 film noir Touch of Evil by Orson Welles.
In recent years she also starred as herself in movies.
Most memorably she appeared in Naked Gun 2 And A Half: The Smell Of Fear in a scene where she gets pulled over by a police car and then proceeds to slap the red light.
The spoof is a parody of a real incident in 1989, when Gabor slapped a police officer who pulled her over for a traffic violation.
Her sisters, Eva and Magda, were also renowned socialites in the United States in the 1950s.
Gabor has been married nine times but only has one child - Francesca Hilton, by her second husband hotel magnate Conrad, Paris Hilton's great grandfather.
Love is people's life.
Bizarre Zsa Gabor: The ailing star's former Man Friday reveals the eccentric side of
As Zsa Zsa Gabor clung to life in a Los Angeles hospital this week after suffering a serious infection, the eulogies were already being written. But what is the truth behind the wisecracks and the coquettish smile? DAVID GERRIE is a British writer who found himself witness to her extraordinary lifestyle when he was hired as her personal assistant at the height of her fame.
To a young man who had left the grey skies of Britain for the sunshine of Los Angeles, it seemed like I’d finally found my ticket to the Hollywood high life.
It was 1977, and after a few months of touting my typing skills around Hollywood’s heavyweight talent agencies, I was being offered the post of PA to a bona fide celebrity.
Not just any celebrity, but Zsa Zsa Gabor, the epitome of big-screen glamour.
I’d been working for a public relations agency, and one day the woman who helped to run it called to say Miss Gabor was looking for a new assistant, and that she’d arranged for me to go and see her. I made the call to the Gabor *residence at the prearranged time, only to hear that famous Hungarian voice inform me in no uncertain terms she didn’t have a clue who I was or what I was calling about.
It should have been an omen, but I let it pass in my naive enthusiasm to be a legitimate *passenger on the Hollywood Express.
Once my interview was re-arranged, the long-suffering female executive at the PR company — who was all too accustomed to the many moods of La Gabor — looked me straight in the eye and said: ‘Don’t think it’ll be like any job you’ve had before.’
In the months to come, I wished I had taken greater note of that veiled warning.
Naturally, the PR boss could never have told me what was really in store for me — that’s not the way that town works. She could certainly never have explained that Zsa Zsa was a monster beside whom Joan Crawford looked like a Barbie doll.
Her ex-husband George Sanders may have said being with Zsa Zsa was like permanently swimming in vintage bubbly, but the truth is she is more cyanide than champagne.
An overriding narcissistic ego, an outrageous temper and a vindictive love of making defenceless people *suffer, combined with foul-mouthed racism and a scant regard for the truth, make her easily the most unpleasant person it has ever been my misfortune to meet.
Monstrous employers come with the territory in LA, but in the space of a few short months the woman supposedly loved by her audience for her chirpy bons mots brought me close to the edge of a nervous breakdown.
It started on a sunny weekend as I turned off Sunset Boulevard through the imposing gates guarding the exclusive Bel Air estate, and started my climb past the multi-million-*dollar mansions which line Bel Air Road.
Arriving at Zsa Zsa’s electric gate, her barrier against the real world, I nervously pressed the button on the entry phone to be greeted by the soft yet slightly menacing tones of her then-husband, Irish-American lawyer Michael O’Hara.
As the gate swished open and I drove up to the hilltop house, I could never have suspected what a prison it was to become.
As O’Hara ushered me into the *palatial lounge, with its commanding views over the pool and estates below, I had my first glimpse of Zsa Zsa, and, I have to say, she looked every inch the movie star — except there were many more inches to her circumference than recent publicity pictures suggested.
This was not a large house by Hollywood standards, but the couple told me previous residents had included Elvis Presley and Howard Hughes, and that those nice Reagans lived across the street.
I was told Zsa Zsa was looking for much more than a secretary — she was hoping I would be her confidant, public relations adviser and, more importantly than I could ever have realised, her buffer against life’s little inconveniences.
I was shown the trappings of the job. These included a comfortably *furnished office, with en suite *bathroom. Her files were chaotic and her contacts book filled with wildly out-of-date names and numbers entered in a random fashion.
I was told to take anything I wanted from the kitchen for lunch — an apparent perk, until I discovered there was a complete absence of fresh food; the fridge contained only an open can of dog food and a half-empty bottle of Dom Perignon.
I was later to find out Zsa Zsa’s notion of cooking — on the rare *occasions she attempted it — was to throw half-a-pound of butter into a frying pan before drenching whatever she was cooking in it.
But forget the food, I’d hit the big time! I floated down from Bel Air half an hour later in a dream, clutching my passport to the ‘real’ Hollywood — a key hanging from a pink ribbon which would open Zsa Zsa Gabor’s electric gate every morning as I showed up to do her bidding.
Within only a few days, reality kicked in. My new employer exhibited what many see as a clear sign of madness: a relentless desire to move paintings and furniture around on an almost daily basis. And there was an internal madness at work, too, in the way she lashed out with a stream of invective at people who couldn’t fight back.
Love is people's life.
The same source.
But one employee did, the result being that within weeks of working for Zsa Zsa, I found myself saving her life. Had I not stepped in, she would have been lying dead in a bloody heap, her head smashed in.
Zsa Zsa went through domestic staff — housekeepers, cooks, maids — like most people go through tissues. They either quit, unable to face her daily dose of insults and scorn, or she would find some pathetic reason to fire them. In this case, she had just hired an enormous black lady as a maid, who had incurred the wrath of Gabor over some petty misunderstanding.
From my desk, I heard raised voices. Then Zsa Zsa stormed into my office, and yelled: ‘Tell that f*****g n***** bitch she’s fired!’
With that, she turned and flounced off. But the maid wasn’t going to take that racist insult lying down.
I heard heavy footsteps pounding from the kitchen down the hall, towards my office.
Stepping out, nothing could have prepared me for the bizarre sight I was to see.
To my left, Zsa Zsa was once again hurling hurtful profanities at the maid. To the right, the maid was charging towards her, a massive glass ashtray held high above her head.
I was right in the middle of what looked like a lethal collision course. In a gesture of foolish gallantry, I stood fast in front of the maid, held out an upturned hand and said, *quietly but firmly: ‘Think what you’re doing. This could change your life for ever.’
Still panting from her effort, the maid stopped in her tracks and backed off. Within minutes, she was off the property. Zsa Zsa retired to her boudoir. I had just saved her life, and she couldn’t even say ‘thank you’.
I don’t know if she ever told her *husband what happened. If she had, he was equally unforthcoming, although I don’t expect he’d have been too worked up, for theirs was a true Hollywood marriage — one of mutual convenience.
The first time I took a phone call from him, I informed Zsa Zsa her *husband was on the phone, which provoked a tongue-lashing. I was never, ever, under any circumstances, to refer to him as ‘her husband.’ He was always to be called ‘Mr O’Hara’.
But, as I discovered, this show of surface respect was a mere sheen to garnish the gaping emotional vacuum which was their life together.
For all her coquettish public *pronouncements about how wives should please their mates — *‘Husbands are like fires. They go out when unattended’ — these two not only had separate bedrooms, but, to all intents and purposes, *separate lives.
O’Hara had a strict evening *routine. Returning from work, he’d go to his gym, then down an *enormous vodka and grapefruit juice before disappearing into ‘his’ section of the house. He had a fierce temper, once smashing his hand in a rage against a wall.
But at least he wasn’t as tight-fisted as his wife, who would cancel cheques for unpaid bills whenever she sensed she could save a few dollars.
There came a point when I could no longer explain to people she regarded as mere minions why their payments had been stopped, why she had deliberately written a cheque wrongly so it could not be cashed, or why she was just plain not going to pay at all.
In one instance, a delightfully innocent young Irish nurse had been hired, and thought she was doing fine. Behind her back, though, Zsa Zsa would bad-mouth her, and, in a moment of spite, called the bank to stop her final cheque when she had been let go.
The girl was depending on it to pay her rent, and wound up crying her eyes out on the phone to me, begging for an *explanation. Behind me a Hungarian voice was saying: ‘Just tell her to f*** off. She’s fired.’
As for that PR executive who had offered me a guarded warning when I took the job: she was disabled, and while well aware of Gabor’s devastating rants, even she could never have guessed the disdain in which Zsa Zsa held her. Gabor regularly told me to:
‘Get that f*****g Jewish cripple on the phone!’
Not even Zsa Zsa’s supposedly beloved pet shih tzus were safe.
Her faithful retainer was a trusty and rather likeable Alsatian dog, but the woman who told the world how much she adored animals also had an addiction to these little fluffy dogs.
The Alsatian decided there was nothing more entertaining than to pick these yapping balls of fur up by the scruff of their necks and deposit them in the swimming pool. The trouble was, the water in the pool was a foot below the edge, so once the Alsatian had had its fun, the *little *darlings disappeared from sight and were condemned to a watery grave.
The only time I took a stand against Zsa Zsa and won was when she insisted I went with her on a *publicity trip to Alaska of all places.By this time, I had come to the end of my emotional tether and could stand no more of the almost hourly bile she now dispensed — so I quit.
Returning to my West Hollywood *apartment, I was besieged with phone calls from her ‘friends’ and associates, then a telegram from Zsa Zsa.
Finally, one morning my entry phone rang, and through the *intercom came the disembodied voice of Michael O’Hara. He’d parked his Mercedes, and was *standing forlornly on the street, shouting up at me how important it was to ‘Miss Gabor’ (he never called her Zsa Zsa to me) that I relent and accompany her.
Although I never did go to Alaska, I finally agreed to go back and work for her again after an entreaty from one of her genuine friends, who felt she needed my stabilising influence.
But the rot had set in. Some seven months after I first climbed that elegant driveway, I headed for the last time down the hill, *jobless, but feeling as if a vicious clamp had been removed from my head.
Still her rage had not ceased. I had stupidly agreed to pick my last pay cheque up from her *husband’s office. Finally, after days of delay he told me it was ready, but after I waited an age outside his office, I was curtly informed by his secretary that ‘Miss Gabor’ was withholding payment.
In a later conversation, the PR executive who fixed up the job told me La Gabor said I had lied to her, that I was really Jewish (no problem, but I’m not), that my real name was David Gittelson (don’t ask me why) and that I had stolen her *jewels. Laugh? I nearly did.
Today, 30 years on and in parlous health, Zsa Zsa is on her ninth *husband, Prince Frederic von Anhalt. So are they any *happier together than she was with O’Hara?
The PR who introduced me to her all those years ago told me: ‘I think Frederic is just trying to get back at her for all the *torture she’s inflicted on him over the years.
‘He keeps parading her out without make-up, in a wheelchair and leaves her stranded while she rants about affairs he’s *supposedly having.’
As for me, the only satisfaction I draw from all this is that if you ask people to name more than one film Zsa Zsa Gabor starred in . . . you’ll be met with a blank stare.
Love is people's life.