Be Funny, Be Wry, Bea Arthur

Poor Bea Arthur, ravaged by a cancer unbeknownst to her quietly rabid fan base, and eventually lowered six feet under a career marked by stupendous comic timing and brilliant dry wit. Perhaps it was the manner in which she cut through absurdity with a flippant wave of the hand and cleverly pointed quip – shrewdly gaming the less sophisticated ruffian with a sarcasm-soaked dismissal – or that gravely voice more suited for a geriatric sex operator; but whatever the attraction (from those, which logic dictated, should not be attracted), Ms. Arthur had rightly steered a talent for droll retorts into a financially rewarding canon of work. Armed with a resumé of near legendary hyperbole, her towering frame projected the authority to uproot mighty sequoias from their base, to batter airplanes like King Kong with a single swat of her enormous hands, to trample the intellectually doltish with a Sasquatch-like stomp and husky laugh. New York born, she was virtually immortal and self-assuredly invincible; a Broadway diva, a sitcom star, an Amazonian gigantess, all without compromise.

This writer’s first exposure to Ms. Arthur was via ‘Golden Girls,’ the sitcom for incontinent octogenarians and young viewers alike. Every Saturday, the prehistoric and the adolescent could equally bond over well-crafted humor showcasing four mature women of varying temperaments and intelligence sharing a Miami home. As divorcée Dorothy Zbornak, Arthur was the perfect straight foil to Betty White’s dunderheaded Rose of St. Olaf, Rue McClanahan’s sassy tart Blanche Devereaux, and Estelle Getty’s brazenly unfiltered Sophia Petrillo. Although McClanahan’s unbridled sexuality – as spun through the lens of a post-prime southern belle cougar – was tempting for those trolling the upper end of the MILF spectrum, I’d have been much more comfortable (if, say, a shotgun were held to my temple), unclasping Arthur’s tightly hooked collars, thus resigning my life to buttoned-up blouses and matronly scowls. After all, beauty fades and dumb is dumb, but funny lasts forever.

Breaking from the usual dollop of self-serving egotism, The Bastard assumes a back seat when saluting Man of The Century (20th, that is) Bea Arthur. Comedy need not descend into the curse-laden or unrefined to extract hilarity. Sometimes the biggest laughs can be found in the most unassuming of androgynous beanstalks. Bea, may the light of heaven reflect eternally from your geode brooch.

And with this eulogy, dear reader, be sad. Be disheartened. Be dismayed over the loss. But be not dispirited, as memories be forever salvaged on celluloid. And for that, be thankful. Yes, be delighted. In fact, be singing. Do-be-do-be-do. Bea Arthur.