Days 75-76 -- Tuesday & Wednesday, July 14 & 15

On Tuesday morning, I drove out to Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale. Numerous stars from Hollywood's glory days are interred there and I wanted to snoop around a bit. I stopped and bought some roses on the way; I'd be visiting the final resting places of some of my favorite performers and I wanted to leave a token of my appreciation.

I saw the in-ground plaques of Errol Flynn, Spencer Tracy and Casey Stengel but only went 2-for-4 on the people I was really here to see. Humphrey Bogart's spot is a private one, restricted to those with a key or credentials supplied by the family, while Carole Lombard's resting place is also protected from the prying eyes of her adoring public.

I did find the eldest of my beloved Marx Brothers, Chico. He is interred in a mausoleum at the far end of the cemetary, not far, as it turns out, from his brother, Gummo. Also housed in the same structure are the remains of the wonderful Nat "King" Cole.

I was a bit surprised when I hung the small vase that held one of the roses I had brought, first beside Nat Cole's plaque and then by Chico's, to discover that I felt quite emotional. Though I never knew either of these men, such is the effect of celebrity: I felt I had. I loved their work (and still do); each continues to bring many hours of joy to their many fans long after their passing. I think it's something every creative person, deep inside, longs for: the immortality of the artist.

Having paid my respects and expressed my appreciation and admiration to Chico and Nat, I drove to South Pasadena, where I was to lunch with my old friend, Pam Korntoes Byrd. I hadn't seen her in ten years or more, since our days together in the University of Oklahoma Drama Dept.; she now teaches grade school, focusing on children from impoverished or troubled families. I am certain that she does a wonderful job, too. Her passion for the work is evident when she discusses the children and she has always had a good heart. It was good to see her.

I had dinner at Chin Chin's sidewalk cafe on Sunset, won ton soup on a cool summer evening with Patrushka, then the ten o'clock showing of Robert Altman's The Player. This was my second time for this film, Patrushka's first; it's a great one, a cynical, pessimistic, and, no doubt, wholly accurate look at Hollywood and its power struggles.

On Wednesday, I motored over to Westwood where, nestled in among office buildings and movie theatres, is the tiny Westwood Memorial Cemetery. I had come here to visit Marilyn Monroe's grave but many other people of prominence reside here permanently, too. Armand Hammer has a crypt here, as big as my apartment in Manhattan (granted, that's not saying much). Truman Capote rests in the mausoleum, not too far from Marilyn. Will and Ariel Durant are here, as are Natalie Wood, Eve Arden, Lloyd Nolan, Sebastion Cabot, Roy Orbison (his grave is currently unmarked) and Donna Reed.

I read somewhere that the folks who operate this memorial park take all letters addressed to Marilyn, of which there are, apparently, many, tape each one next to her plaque on the mausoleum and photograph it there, sending the photos to those who wrote. It's sad, and not a little bit disturbing, that so many people write to this woman who's been gone for almost 30 years but it's kind of the people at Westwood to make this gesture.

Returning from Westwood, I was driving north on La Cienega. At one point, it turns from three northbound lanes into two. I was in the middle of the three lanes so I didn't need to move but as I passed the merging point, a guy in an orange Toyota nearly hit me. Clearly, he felt that I should have let him in front of me from the now-ending right lane. I didn't think much about it but a few blocks further along, he had managed to get in front of me at a stoplight and he was making a gesture towards me that communicated, in no uncertain terms, his displeasure with my actions.

Undaunted, I ignored him and plowed ahead, making a right on Sunset. He stayed in front of me, driving very slowly, even, at times, coming to a full stop in the middle of traffic. Naturally, the folks behind me were less than thrilled with the situation. When I attempted to pull around him, he did his best to stop me, slicing over as quickly as he could to prevent my passing him. Finally, though, I got around him to the right and made a right turn. He managed somehow to get over and follow me.

I initially thought, "Well, let him have his fun; he'll get bored and move on," so I didn't really react to his maneuvers. Now, though, I was starting to get a little concerned. He didn't seem to be tiring of his little game. At the next corner, I waited at the stop sign to make a left. He pulled up beside me, as if to make a right, and just sat there. We were there some five minutes, or so it seemed, and finally he turned right. I turned left, and he U-turned to follow me again. I hadn't a clue as to the whereabouts of a police station and I was rapidly tiring of this cat-and-mouse stuff, so I headed for home. After two miles of this, I decided to call his bluff a bit. I found a parking spot four or five buildings away from Patrushka's, got out of the car and began to walk.

Some folks were at a moving van, a guy and a couple of girls, so I said to them as I passed by, "This guy is following me and acting crazy, so if you could just watch him, I'd appreciate it." "Who is?" the guy asked. "The one in the orange car," I replied and kept walking. At least I'd have a witness.

He never got out of his car, he just slowly followed me up the street. For my part, I never acknowledged him; I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I just went on my way, waiting to see just how far he wanted to take this. I got to Patrushka's apartment and that was that. I didn't see him again, but I will admit to scouting around a bit when I came out later, looking for that bright orange car. He had managed to make me a little nervous, which is probably what he wanted to do all along. The incident colored my impression of L.A., too; it had to. It became clear to me that even laid-back, sunny southern California has its share of crazies. That night, someone threw a drain cover through the window of another apartment in Pat's building; it probably was unrelated but who knows?

On my last evening in Los Angeles, I dined with my old friend, Greg King. Greg and I have been buddies since high school but I hadn't seen him since I moved to New York some ten years ago. He looks better than ever and a fine time was had by both.


Continue on the American Odyssey.
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