By Cybill Shepherd
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Extra info for Cybill Disobedience
When I was ten, we got a tabletop keyboard with a fake wood veneer and a songbook showing how to push preset “chord buttons. The spine of the book was permanently opened to the two melodies that got played ten times a day: “On Top of Old Smokey” for Terry, “Liebenstraum” for me. ) Less than a mile but light years away was my grandparents’ elegant three-story Tudor house on East Drive, with an S for Shobe on the awnings, harlequin print drapes at the windows, jewel-toned Oriental carpets, and crystal chandeliers.
Can I trust someone who doesn’t have as much to lose as I do? And who would that person be? Three decades ago I fell in love with a married man who turned his life inside out because of me. He would be one of the most significant people in my life, a mentor and lifelong friend, but I was deemed a “home wrecker”, someone who showed up unbidden with self-aggrandizing motives that bordered on the immoral and violated cultural bylaws. Forever after, it seemed, I was slated to be the bad girl. People said, “She has no right to_____,” and fill in the blank.
Far more shocking is the eerie quietude: the power failure that eliminates the humming of air-conditioning and refrigerators, the absence of music, the traffic that has come to a standstill. It’s as if a mute button has been pushed on the world. That’s what it’s like when a television series ends. The lights go out, the people scatter, the magic has died. And the Cybill show did not go gently. I did not go gently. Over a thirty-year career, I had died before--cacophonous, public, psychically bloody deaths engineered at the box office and hands of critics--but this demise was singularly painful.