9/21/22
Newsletter104
The Crack of Dawn
I was sitting at my desk in my $65-a-month apartment in Hollywood in 1977 writing on my electric Smith-Corona typewriter. The window in front of the desk faced Van Ness Ave. One day at traffic time, cars were solidly jammed in both directions, plus there were cars parked along both sides of the road. Directly in front of me was a cop riding a big honking Moto-Guzzi police motorcycle. The cop grew impatient with the unmoving traffic, pulled into the space between the jammed cars and the parked cars and gunned it. He made it about five car lengths before an oblivious Latino man opened his car door to get out. The cop and his big motorcycle slammed right into the car’s open door and tore it off, then continued on for another four or five car lengths with the car door stuck in front of him scratching the cars on both sides. When the cop finally stopped, the front wheel of his motorcycle was bent into the engine. The cop went completely apeshit on the poor, unsuspecting Latino man. Within seconds at least ten people got out of their cars, surrounded the cop and began yelling at him that they’d seen the incident and it was entirely his fault. Avoiding a riot, the cop got on his damaged motorcycle and drove away. No police report. And the poor Latino man had to go retrieve his mangled car door and put it in his trunk.
The manager of that building, 666 N. Van Ness, was Con Covert. Con was a big, handsome, Rock Hudson-type, who had come to Hollywood in the early 1960s to be a movie star. Con was also the gayest person I’d ever met up until then. He was generally attired in a kimono, wore way too much cologne, and was so fay and limp-wristed that it was beyond the stereotype. He gave me his head shot and composite (which I still have somewhere). On one side was a close-up of Con with greased back hair, looking pretty good. On the back were four photos of Con in different outfits: a construction worker, a doctor, a lawyer, and James Bond in a tuxedo holding a pistol. In every shot, whether he was pointing at the construction site or aiming his pistol, he was so limp-wristed that he may as well have had “GAY” tattooed on his forehead. So one night I mentioned to Con that I was going to the L.A. County Museum to see, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962). Con said, “I’m an obvious extra at the end on the beach with Joan Crawford and Bette Davis.” Near the end of the film, Con sat down behind me in the theater, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “I’m coming up.” Well, gosh darn if there among the young folks on the beach was a young Con Covert in a black bathing suit. He said, “That’s me.” I think it was the peak of his career.
Ten years later I went grocery shopping at Ralph’s in Hollywood. Parked in the lot was a small silver pickup truck with “Con Covert” largely displayed on the back in glittery sequence. And there was Con in the store, looking great and reeking of cologne. He told me that he had won a half-million dollars in the lottery. I was very pleased for him and shook his limp hand. Now my hand stunk of cologne and I had to immediately go to the John and wash it off. But good for Con; at least his Hollywood story worked out.
Now, ever onward.