Teenyworld

Well, kids, as my L.A. trip comes to an end, I guess you won’t be too surprised to find out that Midgetville turned out to be a great big bust.

It wasn’t a bust in the sense that the homes fail to exist, as there are indeed some very small homes on Rivergrove Drive with tiny little windows and tiny little doors.  I can certainly see where the childhood stories came from, and I’m still not convinced that the existence of such a community was simply an urban legend.

My disappointment stems from the fact that I was unable to provoke the anger of any little bastards that may have been running around the area.  Having heard the stories of how angry mobs of dwarves and midgets might chase a person from the neighborhood, I was all prepared for a great ending to my present adventure.

With video camera in hand and police assistance just a phone call away, I trolled the area for nearly an hour without even as much as a nibble.  Could they all be busy during the day with midget porn and dwarf tossing competitions?  Really?

The closest thing I came across was a small boy of about seven or eight, pushing a bicycle along the dusty riverbed.  It was only after a closer look, which seemed to alarm him just a bit, that I realized he would probably grow to be a good six-footer in adulthood.

And so, it seems that any real footage of the inhabitants of Midgetville remains as elusive as Ashton Kutcher’s acting ability.

Until next time, kids . . .

Yep, I should have seen it coming but ignored the signs.  In fact, I would have never thought I could turn a blind eye to it, even after a bit of time playing college sports and writing a not-so-well received first novel that can only be found on the Internet, but that’s how things tend to sneak up on you.  It didn’t even bother creeping up on me with those damned little cat’s feet.  The only thing I can say is that it’s now official:  I’m too old to even raise a collagen-enhanced eyelid in a certified cougar lair.

Sensing the end of my quick turnaround trip to southern California, I headed back to the seedy edges of Hollywood to visit a relatively forgotten but famous eatery and margarita shack known simply as Lucy’s El Adobe.  Not quite garnering the attention of Musso and Frank’s nor the notoriety of Dan Tana’s, Lucy’s is just as important to the history of Hollywood.  After all, it was at Lucy’s El Adobe where Linda Ronstadt allegedly hooked up with Governor Jerry Brown, Jackson Brown did some collaboration with The Eagles, and the Dalai Lama most recently noshed on enchiladas.

Situated directly across the street from Paramount Studios, the restaurant has been a haven for those in the entertainment industry and, despite the high prices and relatively mediocre food, may even survive another forty-five years.

The reason for my visit to Lucy’s?  As you may recall from my previous excursions in and about Los Angeles, a large portion of my time and energy is devoted to retracing the past of childhood idol Larry “Seymour” Vincent.  For those of you new to the blog, Larry Vincent was everything to me as a young boy, and continues to occupy my interest well after his untimely death in 1975.

Larry Vincent was a late-night television horror host in Los Angeles, preceding the more recent Elvira Mistress of the Macabre by a number of years.  Simply put, Seymour rocked it, even without the benefit of Elvira’s generous boobs (not that I have anything against them) or the sycophantic syndication that seemed to follow her.   Inarguably, Larry Vincent set the standard for television horror hosts and continues to be a topic of discussion amongst those of us who lived in southern California in the early 1970’s.

It was known that Larry Vincent, along with his program director, would often occupy a booth in a back room at Lucy’s El Adobe, feverishly writing gags just hours before he was to film the upcoming week’s program.  I like to think he overindulged in margaritas, spoke too loudly, and grabbed a few asses.

Being the urban adventurer that I’ve come to be, I took a seat in the dimly lit dining room, hoping to select a booth favored by Seymour, and then tucked into a rocky margarita while making notes about my trip.  The margarita was good, but nothing I would classify as exceptional.  Surprisingly, I came to discover the tequila was well-hidden and significant, but I was still able to avoid one of those pesky Weinergate moments while sending a text-message to one of the daughters of Larry Vincent.

In the end, my visit to Lucy’s was mediocre at best, largely due to the exorbitant cost of $8.75 for a pretty mundane margarita and also based upon the fact that Larry Vincent’s picture didn’t accompany the hundreds of celebrity photos that lined the wall of the main dining room.

Let’s see . . .

I promised you a dead chicken, right?  Geez . . . what was I thinking?

Hidden behind an industrial building in the far reaches of the San Fernando community of Calabasas lies yet another plot of land devoted to our dead; the Los Angeles Pet Memorial Park.  Encompassing better than ten acres, this old bone shelter hosts such past celebrities as Petey the dog from The Little Rascals, the faithful German Shepherd of Rudolph Valentino known as Kabar, and even Arnold the Pig from television’s 1960’s staple Green Acres.  All very vanilla, I’ll admit, when compared to Blinky the Friendly Hen.

Blinky the Friendly Hen was the brainchild of Jeffrey Vallance, a performance artist plying his trade in southern California in the 1970’s.  It was in 1978 that Vallance bought a refrigerated fryer at the local Ralph’s supermarket, named it Blinky, and then pawned it off as a lost but cherished family member.

What followed might seem like so much hyperbole, but in my opinion was pure genius.  Thumbing his nose at those with too much disposable income, Vallance then bought a satin-lined casket for his fryer, buried it and Blinky in a somber ceremony that included six pall bearers, and even marked the grave with a quietly respectful granite plaque.

Would you be surprised that history also includes a Shroud of Blinky, again courtesy of Jeff Vallance?  How about an autopsy, occurring ten years after the interment?  Yep.  All very true.

Sadly, the folks at Los Angeles Pet Memorial Park don’t really see the humor in Blinky’s burial and perpetual gravesite, forcing me to appear as if I were mourning the stupid pet rabbit that lies next to him.

Get with me if you want directions . . .

Today, kids, I took a run at Randy Newman and ended up in a nearly stalkable moment.  Sadly, Randy wasn’t home at the time.  It was probably for the best . . .

I’ve been a fan of Randy Newman for about thirty years now, having first become acquainted with his music when I was doing a little gig in high school radio back in the late 70’s.  I’m not really sure how the jones took hold, but I suspect an addiction to rock cocaine or Internet porn would be much less manageable.  As it stands, Randy makes periodic forays into the Pacific Northwest, allowing me to keep the psychological dependence in check.

And without further adieu, I present to you the humble abode of one Randall Stuart Newman.  Valued at nearly three and one-half million, it boasts an indoor pool, an unattached servant’s quarters, and a fully integrated security system.  Garbage service is weekly and picks up promptly at 5:30 a.m. on Thursdays.

While on the subject of men I have come to admire over the years, I suppose I should introduce you to Charles Bukowski.  Whereas most of you probably recognized my mention of the name Randy Newman, I’m pretty sure there are very few of you that know anything about Bukowski.  Along with John Fante and Nathaniel West, Bukowski was one of the few to chronicle a life in seedy 1940’s Los Angeles.  Bukowski would eventually become considered by many to be the southland’s de facto poet laureate.

Bukowski was a rather unpleasant fellow at times, prone to drinking and cussing and running around with all manner of sordid women.  If you Google him, you’ll also see that he wasn’t terribly attractive.

For those of you not privy to the Internet (as if that’s possible in reading this blog), just think of a fatter, sadder, and older Tom Waits.

I know, I know.  Who the hell is Tom Waits, you ask. Just try thinking of Mickey Rourke without the steroids and bad cosmetic surgery . . .

But, in between all the drunken shenanigans, Bukowski was a prolific writer and poet.  Although I’m not all that big on poetry unless it contains a rhyme for the word Nantucket, there are a few passages of Bukowski’s that I find relatively powerful.  I believe my favorite is You know and I know and thee know.

Once again, you can Google it if you are too fearful to open this short Powerpoint presentation I created:  You know, and I know, and thee know . . .

Here’s Bukowski’s grave in Rancho Palos Verdes.  Quite incredibly, and in spite of all the early morning liquid fortification, he died of leukemia at the age of 74.  Go figure, huh?

The final piece of today’s entry finds me revisiting the ruins of the old Griffith Park Zoo in . . . wait for it, wait for it . . . Griffith Park.  Abandoned in late 1966 in order to move to a new location, many structures of the old zoo remain and are open for exploration by urban spelunkers like myself.  Considering the bulldoze and rebuild attitude of Los Angeles, it’s really kinda a neat place to visit.

The old zoo holds a special space in my heart and is also the structure of some of my earliest memories, as it’s a place my parents took me as a small boy.

Today, it’s a popular film location.  Even as I wandered around the abandoned cages and tried to look stoic instead of weepy hysterical, they were filming the latest episode in yet another of those endless prime-time crime dramas.  I think this one might have been CSI:  Sacramento.

Well, kids, that’s it for now.  The cougar lair across the street seems to be in full swing and I’m thinking I might need me a pizza or something.  I’ve got a new pair of True Religion jeans and an Ed Hardy tee shirt, thanks to some direction from that boy of mine, so you may not be hearing from me for awhile.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding?  Stay tuned for tomorrow when we’ll be visiting a dead chicken.

I promised you mediocrity, kids, so here it is.

Whereas my previous excursions of L.A. have tended to be somewhat longwinded and prone to hyperbole, this blogging stuff if just plain exhausting without the proper pecuniary adulation.  My window is short, and my ability to put together some snappy prose is even shorter when you folks won’t buy an extra day or five for me here in my wonderful hotel in Woodland Hills.

Did I mention how much I love my hotel?  The Holiday Inn, located at 21101 Ventura Boulevard, knows how to treat me right.  They have given me a good rate, based upon my loyalty, and I am certainly one willing to repay a favor.  See how it works?  Pecuniary adulation.  It’s what works for me.

Truth be told, it’s very hard to find an Oregon quality hotel with Oregon prices here in southern California, and trying to choose a hotel based upon Internet photos is hit-and-miss at best.  I lucked out several years ago with my current hotel, and they’ve never disappointed me.  There’s a Trader Joe’s across the street, a liquor store across from that, and a certified cougar-lair of an Italian restaurant/karaoke lounge just a magnetic hotel room keycard’s throw away.

If you choose to accept my challenge with the Holiday Inn at Warner Center, just be sure to drop my name and Priority Club awards number with the clerk.

And now . . . on with the mediocrity, which will be heavy on photos and light in actual substance:

Dodger game.  Yep.  I couldn’t resist spending $6 on a Dodger Dog and $10 on a beer.  I’m not kidding about this one.  $10 for a beer. The only thing that made it truly palatable was that it was Fan Appreciation day, with an appearance by none other than Hello Kitty.  I do love me some Hello Kitty.

In the end, the Dodgers ended up besting the Pittsburgh Pirates by a score of 15 to 1.   ‘nuff said.

While visiting my old hometown of Downey, I couldn’t resist taking a peek at the Carpenter family homestead where Karen Carpenter kicked it on February 4, 1983.  The Carpenter sibs are Downey’s claim-to-fame, along with James Hetfield of Metallica and Weird Al Yankovic.  Admittedly, a strange mix rife with the potential for humor, but I’ll do Karen the solid and just say that it’s sad that she died.  (I’m immensely proud of myself for not attempting a tongue-in-cheek moment, for which I’ve had several ideas . . . )

As I didn’t get enough of Hollywood Forever cemetery during our foray at the movie screening, I returned to grab a few more photos and memories of those celebrities who have moved on due to the advent of reality television.  Faced with a case of the doldrums, there is nothing that at six-pack and dead celebrities can’t fix.

Here’s the crypt of Rudolph Valentino, a 1920’s version of George Clooney.  His is the mausoleum on which they project the movies for Cinespia.  I don’t really know too much about him, but he was apparently pretty good at the tango and had the ability to score scads of tail (not my own words).  He was clipped in 1926 by an inability to deal with peritonitis brought on by appendicitis and gastric ulcers.  From the little I know about him and his success with the ladies, I see no reason for him to have ulcers.

In the same mausoleum as Valentino is the small memorial containing the ashes of David White and his son Jonathan.  You remember David White, right?  You’ll probably know him best as Larry Tate on Bewitched, unless you were born in the . . . oh my god . . . the 80’s.  He seemed like a very nice guy, and was one of those unlucky souls to see his only child precede him in death.  His son Jonathan was one of the victims of the 1988 bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland.  Their ashes rest side-by-side in the little memorial display, framed by photos of father and son in happier times.

Here’s a really cool bench that sits beside the grave of Tyrone Power.  Whereas he also seemed to be a guy you could knock back a beer with, or maybe even twelve, the inscription on his memorial bench says it all.  To quote William Shakespeare, “Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” Shakespeare rocked it, but not very often.

Here’s a pic of an over-the-top memorial to Douglas Fairbanks.  In his defense, it was done by his wife posthumously and without his knowledge (thus the posthumous thing).  Making it slightly more palatable is the fact that he’s interred beside his son, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.  Regardless, it’s really sort of a lesson in shameless self-promotion, even if he didn’t have anything to do with it . . .

Johnny Ramone.  Not much can be said here, as I loved this guy and everything he stood for.  That whole shameless self-promotion thing with Douglas Fairbanks?  Forget I said anything about it.  Once again,it was the grieving widow . . . .

Here’s the grave of Darren McGavin, most likely remembered from the series “The Nightstalker” and in the role of the Old Man in the movie of Jean Shephard’s “A Christmas Story.”  I would have like to have met this man . . .

Mr. Blackwell?  Who the hell cares?

 

Darla Hood, paramour of Spanky and Alfalfa from The Little Rascals.  Major babe, even if she was only eight years old.  Hold it . . . was that out loud?

Lastly, with regard to Hollywood Forever, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I found myself feeling old, less-than-entitled, and downright fuddy-duddy.  Yes.  Fuddy-duddy.

Finding that they’re now adding crypt space to the front of the mausoleum containing Valentino, I couldn’t help but do something I’ll likely regret.  I’ve been quite firm in my reluctance to join the mediocrity of Texas Hold’em poker, multiple tattoos, and watching the series Dexter, but I gave in to something I’m sure I don’t quite understand:  Planking.

Not sure what it is, but I gave it a try.

I’m not sure I liked it.

And that, kids, is all I’ve got for today.  Really.  I just couldn’t make one more lame attempt at being cute.

You’ll just have to stay tuned.

Since the wife was all set to indulge her need for sun worship and fantasy romance on the high seas, it seemed only fair that she first have to suffer through yet another one of my grand ideas.

Cinespia.org was founded ten years ago with the concept that it would be really cool to screen outdoor movies against the side of Rudolph Valentino’s mausoleum in a creepy yet venerable cemetery known as Hollywood Forever.

Imagine a huge slumber party, compete with boys and girls and those in between, then add in a sinful adult element complete with big girls clad only in lingerie and four-inch heels. Top that off with a picnic dinner, BYOB, dead celebrities, and communal warm-fuzzies, and . . . well, that’s a perfect evening in my little world.

I’ve been following the organization for several years now.  Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to coordinate my vacation dates with the summertime window when Cinespia is in full swing.  This time I would not be denied, though, as the stars slipped into alignment and I was finally able to drag the wife and her friend to the Saturday screening of “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.”

What followed was a wonderful evening amidst the stars.  Well within sight of the illuminated cenotaph of Johnny Ramone and the opulent tomb of Douglas Fairbanks, we laid out a blanket, kicked off our shoes, and broke out the food and drink.  It was all very perfect, huddled there amongst gravestones and palm trees and about two-thousand of Hollywood’s most beautiful actors/waiters/cab drivers.   The wife had a really hard time rolling her eyes at me this time.

I generally don’t like picnics, finding them quite pedestrian and lacking the sexiness required to hold my attention, but this was a different thing altogether.  For me, it was like revisiting the drive-in theaters of my past, but just without the parents smoking like chimneys and that whole thing about “Caution:  Do not back up.  Severe tire damage.”

Did I mention the haze of marijuana smoke hovering above the crowd?  My guess is all those firing up were in possession of a certified and official, one-hundred percent genuine $29.99 medical marijuana card available through K-Mart of California.

Truth be told, I really didn’t mind it all that much, but the neighbors one blanket over didn’t seem too keen on me eating all their Doritos . . .

My current stay in beautiful Woodland Hills is the result of dropping the wife and her friend in the less-than-scenic port of Long Beach for an end of summer cruise.  It seems that she plans on spending five wonderful days with Captain Steubing, Gopher, and Julie in the Mexican Riviera.  It’s really nothing I contemplated since the 80’s, but I can’t fault her since I’m the one stumbling around cemeteries and such.

Me?  I’m gonna knock around Los Angeles and give some attention to my peculiarities.

When I was a boy living in Downey during the 60’s and 70’s, there circulated a local legend about an enclave of dwarfs and midgets living somewhere within the city limits.  As the story goes, a group of these . . . er, “little people” . . . all worked together in the movie The Wizard of Oz, partied like little rock stars, and earned themselves a buttload of money.  Not knowing quite what to do with so much loot because dwarfs and midgets don’t normally earn big money, they all decided to buy an entire block of land and build a community where together they could live happily ever after.  Those roots were said to have been laid down in Downey, California.  Queue the Loony Tunes music . . .

As a boy, I heard it on good authority from several of my friends that such a community truly existed, having been personally encountered by the brothers or sisters of somebody’s friend or possibly somebody’s friend of a friend of a friend.  All very suspicious, I’ll admit, but we also know the Seven Degrees of Kevin Bacon does in fact exist, so all the rumors about the midget enclave had to have been true.

I can vividly recall the hushed conversations with my childhood pals when they spoke of the dozens of tiny little houses, built side by side, having tiny little windows, tiny little doors, tiny little chimneys, and tiny little inhabitants.

The actual location of this Midgetville, as it became known, could never quite be determined, but it was believed to be somewhere in the area where the Rio Hondo River cuts a concrete channel through the northern edge of Downey.

The primary obstacle in pinpointing the location of Midgetville lay in the fact that the little people were described as utterly ferocious in the protection of their little slice of heaven.  Countless stories circulated in which unsuspecting big people wandered into Midgetville, only to be chased from the area by nasty little dwarves wielding brooms and pitchforks and rotten vegetables.   Inappropriate conduct, by anyone’s standards, and certainly nothing to bolster the image of anklebiters worldwide.  Regardless, it scared the hell out of the general public and any mention of Midgetville was attributed to drunken gibberish.

This is all very true.  I wouldn’t make this stuff up.  Go ahead and Google it.

Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it for now.

Well, kids, another year has passed since my last entries and it seems that it’s once again time to push the envelope of mid-life mediocrity.  The boy has moved on from competitive hockey for the most part, which has left me scrambling for something to bring to the masses.  Granny and Arkansas seem to have panned out as well, and I’m fresh out of dead parents with which to wax nostalgic.

I don’t promise much this time.  Really.  Color me humble and even a bit humiliated at this point, largely due to the less-than-thunderous clamor for the blog.  The PayPal thing didn’t work out, my solicitations to Entertainment Tonight have gone unanswered, and the stupid beagle now stares me down like I’m just another dehydrated pig ear.

On that happy note, I’m once again in Los Angeles.  You’d expect nothing less (or more), correct?

Thankfully, my “to do” list continues to grow as each year passes, even as I realize that I’ve got fewer days in my future than I have had in my past.

Although this trip has a very short turnaround time, I hope to explore the mystic legend of Midgetville as well as quite possibly the truly unanswerable question:  Namely, how the hell old is Angelyne?

I won’t lie to you folks.  This is a dangerous mission and some of us won’t be coming back.

So, stay tuned.  I’m sure it will be mediocre at best.