16 - Seeking Our Star in Hollywood

              October 7, 1978: Awoke in Hollywood. Saw six Rolls Royces. Weird people, cars, cars, cars, smog, palm trees, weird people. Stars on sidewalks, Mann’s Chinese Theatre, “world’s largest pinball arcade,” cars cruising up and down the strip, their occupants aiming at pedestrians, shouting obscenities. Street people singing about drugs (t-shirt: “I like to fuck”), a fat guy with his equally ugly girlfriend and two other guys asked us if we were “following him.” Said “I don’t like people walking behind me. Get in front of me where I can see you.” We ran across the street, not wanting to argue.

              Hollywood was our one intended 1978 destination. Bruce had written a screenplay that had attracted the attention of an agent and they arranged to meet. We spent eight days here, and I filled my journal with each one’s detailed minutiae. What did a couple of 21/22 year olds do in Hollywood do with all that time, and not much money? Here are some excerpts:

              We ate Mexican food and drank Mexican beer and spent vast amounts of money on pinball. Went to Peaches [a record store] for over an hour. W bought a Snowball record [German-based jazz-rock band] and slept with the album. 

               The next day, Bruce “called agents; 1 sick, 1 vacationing, 1 can’t find script. Oh well. Drove into city; picked up photos, did laundry, washed car, went to Will Rogers Memorial State Beach. … Came back to the Y and made sandwiches. Discussing night’s activities. “What do you want to do?” “It doesn’t matter.” “I don’t care.” We talked with a couple of girls, from Germany and Denmark, ate and went to bed early.

              The next day was hot and sunny, so we went to the Santa Monica State Beach, where we thought we recognized the two girls from the hostel. Bruce approached them to make sure. 

              Aren’t you staying at the hostel? One replied a sharp “Why?” Another guy approached the same girl with something like this, and the following conversation took place, according to W:

              ‘Are those nuts you’re eating?’

              ‘Yes.’

              ‘Are you from Denmark?’

              ‘No.’

              ‘Sweden?’

              ‘No.’

              ‘Finland?’

              ‘No.’

              ‘Sprechen zie Deutsch?’

              ‘No.’

              ‘Parlez-vous Francais?’

              ‘No.’

              ‘Would you like to come with me?’

              ‘No.’

              ‘OK, let’s go.’

              ‘I said no.’

              ‘Oh, I thought you said yes.’

              ‘No.’

              Lesson learned: If you want a girl to say “yes,” ask her if she’s eating nuts - but only after ascertaining that she is, in fact, doing so.

              After the beach, “We came back to the Y for more goddamn exercise. Practiced some sharp basketball plays but got them stuffed in our face when we tried them against two tall players.”

              A couple evenings we checked out jazz concerts. We saw saxophonist Joe Farrell at the Marina Bistro Supper Club. “We got there at 5:00 and the music didn’t begin until 9:45. … I got bitched at for putting my head down. I should have made them feel guilty by telling them I had a rare blood disease.”              

              Another evening we went to “Concerts by the Sea” with Rene, a New Zealander we met at the hostel, to see Wilbert Longmire, a jazz-fusion guitarist from Cincinnati, Bruce’s hometown.  We enjoyed the show and “Bruce taught the bartender how to make Piña Coladas.”

              Hollywood was our home base as much as possible. We slept at the hostel at the YMCA, which had strict rules about curfew, and how late one could sleep. “Reveille at 8 AM.” One morning “I was caught illegally sleeping in the hostel room.” We made friends. “Lost two of three chess games to Rene.” We sent, and sometimes received letters there. “Found out we’re getting zero damage deposit from our Ann Arbor apartment.” (This may have had something to do with my having set the kitchen on fire, but still.)

              We had several mishaps. “Bruce went to pick up the last batch of photos. Ha ha. Frisco pictures didn’t turn out. He he.” I lost a contact lens in the pool, “lost 25¢ in the pay phone,”  and misplaced my keys for several days. We got stuck in traffic jams, ate too much Mexican food, and commiserated over “W’s disappointment at an ambivalent screenplay criticism.”

              We worked out at the YMCA, swam at the beach, and visited tourist attractions such as the La Brea Tar Pits, which I remember as little more than a corner lot in the middle of the city, filled with plastic creatures partially submerged in asphalt:

Yup.

              On October 14, after a week in L.A., Bruce gave an edited version of his script to agent Ivan Green. Now I’m not sure how much pull Ivan had, but the only Ivan Green I could find on IMDB had a bit role in 1984’s blockbuster hit, “Ernest Goes to Camp.” Not sure if it’s the same one, but Bruce was given some positive feedback, and a promise of future contact. 

              We then drove east, bound for Las Vegas. 

              In 2018, I contemplated skipping Los Angeles altogether. I did not relish facing the traffic, and having visited a few years back for a seminar, had no desire to return to the city. But in the name of journalism, I decided to at least visit for a night. I looked up hostels, found one in Santa Monica, and made a reservation. This modern, clean, secure facility was in a great location, backed against $400 a night oceanfront hotels, and set me back only $57 a night, if I was willing to share with up to five other men.

              I showed my hostel card to the clerk, and without a trace of deadpan, she intoned, “This expired in 1978.” So I had to pay a small guest fee.

              I went to my room and there was one guy in there, dozing on the bed. He awoke briefly, told me his name was Daniel and he was from Switzerland, and he had been here for three days. It was odd to have a roommate, but I set up and went out in search of a happy hour. 

              The Santa Monica waterfront is alive with tourists, locals, street people, musicians, and people on scooters (a newly popular urban option). I popped into a small seafood restaurant, had half a dozen oysters and a glass of Muscadet, and set out to walk the pier.

              There was an interesting phenomenon that buskers would set up to play spaced just so from each other, so that as one’s music faded, the next one’s would kick in. They ranged from talented musicians selling their CDs, to one old dude with a sign that read “life sucks” playing old R&B tapes. I gave him a buck.

              I contemplated going to see a concert. The Santa Monica Supper Club was no more. There did appear to be some version of “Concerts By The Sea” still happening, but nothing on a Monday night. Contemplated going to the Troubadour in Los Angeles but quickly learned that distance is measured by time, not miles, and it was already too late for me to travel five miles to catch a show starting in an hour. So I had a salmon dinner and a glass of wine, wrote in my journal, and went back to the room. No one was in the room but Daniel, who was still in bed, so I got ready quietly and went to sleep around 11.

              I am now going to give you a bit of detail about my morning … you’ll see where this is going soon enough.

              I awoke around 6, careful not to awaken Daniel. I checked my email, then put on my swimsuit and sneakers, and left for a run along the beach. Strange mix of early morning walkers, runners, skaters, and many homeless sleeping on the beach. Some were in sleeping bags, others under a bundle of blankets. Some made cardboard tents, one was in an actual tent. It struck me that where I slept outdoors at times as a luxury, these folks did it as a necessity.

              I went down to the Will Rogers beach where Bruce and I swam, turned around, and returned to Santa Monica. There I took off my shoes, went for a quick refreshing swim (my only foray into the Pacific this trip), then did some exercises on the beach for a bit. 

              I returned to the hostel. Daniel was still asleep. I took a shower, quietly got dressed in the dark, then went downstairs for a continental breakfast – cereal, fruit, coffee. I sat down to chat with some other guests, mostly visitors from other countries, of all ages and reasons to stay in a hostel.

              I then prepared to check out, returned to my room to get my things, and Daniel was still asleep. It dawned on me that when he groggily told me the day before that he had been there for three days, he may not have been referring to Santa Monica in general, but the bed itself. 

              Before leaving Los Angeles, I had to return to Hollywood. I got off the freeway and went in on Mulholland Drive, offering sweeping views of the city to the left, and opulent homes to the right.

              I parked in a lot off Hollywood Avenue, near Grauman’s (a.k.a. Mann's) Chinese Theatre.

             On an early Tuesday afternoon, I wasn’t exactly getting seedy Hollywood, just a lot of tourists. Like them I looked down to look at all the stars on the "Hollywood Walk of Fame:"

               That was it for me. I headed east. It dawned on me that I was turning in the direction to go back home, and that Daniel was probably still asleep.

NEXT: Driving through the desert to see Mr. Sy in Las Vegas.

              Photo credits: The black and white photos from the 1970’s are from a collection by Ave Pildas. The 70’s Hollywood sign is from tvtropes.org. The La Brea Tar Pits photo is a stock photo. Despite spending a week here, I couldn’t find a single photo that Bruce took to memorialize our stay here. Sketch of Joe Farrell - me, 1977.