The Crack of Dawn #780

7/11/2025

7/11/2025

Newsletter #780

The Crack of Dawn

Part II:

In my comings and goings to Hollywood during the years of 1979-1983, I ended up living in that big old house on Lanewood St., with my buddy Marvis and his six friends from Cleveland, on a number of occasions. I rented a room there that was always available because no one else wanted it. At some point after the silent film actress moved out, the house became a rental, and was rented out by the room, most of which were quite large. However, they had figured out that between the needless back door to kitchen door that needlessly opened to a bedroom, there was an empty ten-foot passageway. With the bedroom door to the kitchen locked, it created a tiny room, just large enough to contain a bed. It had one overhead light bulb with a string. It was a place to crash, but that’s it. I only stayed there if I had to because the gal who had put herself in charge of the house, Linda Smith, just plain old didn’t like me. She was tough. She worked as a laborer on movie set construction and was in the same union as my carpenter buddy Marvis. For historical context, the last time I lived there Linda was working on Francis Coppola’s One From the Heart (1982). Everyday Linda would come home with new stories of how crazy, fucked up, and drug-riddled it was on set.

In 1983 the house on Lanewood was condemned and one by one everyone moved out. So I moved in and took up residence in the tiny little room.

As each person left, the big house got progressively quieter. Unsurprisingly, Linda had the biggest and best bedroom upstairs. When Linda finally moved out, I moved into her big empty room. From the window I could see the Mexican workers demolishing the house next door. It was just me and a sleeping bag, and the phone that still worked. I had an agent who had several of my scripts out to studios and producers. Anything could happen at any time. Over the next 20 years I would come to learn that yes, anything could happen at any time, but far more frequently, nothing could happen all the time. Since I didn’t know that I foolishly expected the phone to ring at any moment.

One day as I sat on my sleeping bag reading, a black and white mama cat—the pregnant cat that Linda had left behind—moved into the bedroom with me. One by one she brought in her six, brand new squeaking, hungry kittens, and plopped them down on the floor. It appeared to me that the mama cat had decided that this wasn’t just her problem, it was mine, too. If these kittens were to starve, I’d get to experience it close up.

I was 23 years old, down to my last $100, living in a big empty mansion, soon to be demolished, right in the center of Hollywood, anxiously waiting for my agent to call. Since I was in such a stupid situation, I believe the universe decided that $100 was too much money for one person to handle, so I had to share it. I saw the irony at the time. Back in ‘83, a can of generic wet cat food was a quarter. For $20 I got 40 cans of cat food.

In the house there was a big old Underwood typewriter that was left behind by someone. I put it to use. I still have a lengthy essay/story I wrote about living in Hollywood called Wandering that was typed on that typewriter.

The Mexican demolition crews were rapidly and ominously approaching from both directions. One day I came home, and the mama cat and her kittens were gone. They’d moved out. They knew that a tsunami was coming. One day soon thereafter I came home, and the upper half the house was gone. There was no need to evict me, just remove the house.

I wish I knew the name of the silent screen actress who had the house built in 1916. Think of it, Birth of a Nation came out the year before. Whoever she was, she must have been successful enough to afford such a house.

As I always did, I moved back to Michigan to lick my wounds.

But more than that—in Hollywood I didn’t make movies; I just wanted to make movies. In Detroit I actually made them.

In any case, it was an odd period in my life.