7/2/23
Newsletter #384
The Crack of Dawn
I saw a video last night about the celebrities who have died in the past 30 days, among them being: Tina Turner, Alan Arkin, Harry Belafonte, and Fredrick Forrest. Also in that group were four people who had some vague connection to me. Vague is the word, but still.
I was a guest at an Alfred Hitchcock convention in a hotel in Meadowlands, NJ. The hotel is located directly across the street from the enormous Meadowlands Stadium. I don’t know what year it was, nor do I care to check, but maybe ten years ago. This was during the period where I was drinking a lot, and attending conventions was part of the problem. First of all, as a guest I was seated among the has-beens and the never-quite-made-its, which was always sobering. Too sobering for me, and therefore in need of correction. I actually brought a small cooler with me to conventions that contained: vodka, ice, glasses, a couple of beers, and snacks. Second, this was the exact spot on the planet, at that moment, where the most people were congregated who wanted to buy me a drink.
The few celebrity guests were actors who had been in Hitchcock movies and were still alive, like Tippi Hedren (we checked in at the same time), and Martin Landau (he and I ended up by ourselves in an elevator), and Bruce Dern, whom I sought out and spoke with. When the convention ended and we guests were standing in front of the hotel awaiting our various town cars to the airport, I found myself standing next to Julian Sands. Julian Sands went missing in the California woods in January and they just found his 5-month-old, very dead remains last week. He and I were both born in 1958. I would have happily talked to him as we stood in front of the hotel for about an hour, but he was so royally pissed off, yelling into his cell phone, and storming back and forth, that I just sat there and watched.
After Scott and I had made Thou Shalt Not Kill…Except and it was theatrically released in 1985, but before we got that nutty bungalow together, we were in L.A. trying to hustle some deal and we stayed at a cute, cheap little hotel on 6th Street, across from the La Brea Towers. I think it was actually the 6th Street Hotel. It had a tropical feel, with a courtyard full of palm trees. Not bad for the price, whatever it was, and centrally located. Trying to make his own deals – several noisy ones in that courtyard – was Barry Newman, who died on May 11 at the age of 92. Scott and I crisscrossed with him at that hotel a couple of times. I knew him from that ridiculous movie, Vanishing Point (1971), as well as his TV series, Petrocelli, that I never watched. Scott and I even talked to him a couple of times, but I don’t remember what we talked about. Sadly for Barry Newman, by 1985 he was already long forgotten.
Another death this month was George Maharis (who died May 24 at the age of 94), and I told this story about 300 newsletters ago, but now I get to tell it again. I like this story.
In the late 1990s, my sister Pam came into L.A. and was staying at the Marina del Rey Hilton, and I lived in Santa Monica, which is nearby. She called me and we made dinner plans, that began with me meeting her in the hotel bar. I arrived looking as snappy as I dared, and there was Pam at the bar drinking with an older, white-haired gentleman. As I neared, I realized that the man was James Doohan, Scotty on Star Trek. Pam said, “Look, it’s Scotty.” I said, “James Doohan.” He smiled his broad smile, shook my hand and said, “You know who I am.” I said, “Yes, they hide it right there in the front credits.” I went on, “I also know what your first film is. The Satan Bug, 1965.” Am I a geek or what? Once again, James Doohan smiled that smile of his and said with an expression of distant memory slowly returning, “Oh, yes, The Satan Bug. It starred that homosexual man.” I said, slightly shocked at Doohan’d bold announcement, “George Maharis is homosexual?” Doohan nodded, “Of course,” like everybody knew that. Whatever Mr. Maharis’ proclivities were, he kicked the bucket.
James Doohan was in town shooting an Eveready battery commercial. I intentionally didn’t ask any questions about Star Trek, which he appreciated, and said so. He not only didn’t have an accent, he was from right near here in Sarnia, Ontario, which is right across the Bluewater Bridge from Port Huron, MI. I’d heard he was involved with the D-Day invasion, and he was more than happy to tell me everything he remembered about it. Doohan stormed the beach with the Canadian forces. He made it very clear that being part of that was way more important that Star Trek. He didn’t have to convince me.
This is what Mr. Doohan looked like when I met him, all lit up at the bar.
That’s my vague connection to three recent, celebrity deaths. It’s because I watched that silly YouTube video last night that I saw any connection at all. But I’m just running with things here. Whatever happens, happens, right?
I pull my shade at 5:24 and it’s still dark. But they days are long.
Be fruitful and multiply.