Halloween Spooktacular II

A "boo-tiful" Clara Bow gets in the mood for the Holidays.

This year's tasty greeting of chilly tidings from L.A. La Land comes in the form of the Hollywood Ghost. Just as silver screen souls continue to flicker on long after their deaths, so too do movie stars continue to haunt us in our own waking lives. Apparently, even though fate long ago called "cut," the following immortals choose to keep on living, mugging their way through the after-life, and maintaining their scene-stealing ways. Supernatural celebrity sightings have become almost as sought after as the living kind, and with accumulating stories of ghostly encounters piling up, avid fans often make it a point to visit the places their favorite, famous ghouls continue to haunt. Of course, it could all be tommyrot-- myths and legends built up over time in order to keep our idols close to us-- but then the similarities in various accounts are often a bit too startling to ignore. The locales that various celeb spirits continue to haunt is very curious and definitely indicative of who they were in life. Having never come face to face with a spirit, I can only imagine the exciting, frightening adrenaline rush a lucky (or unlucky) witness gets when encountering the eerie remnants of one they have grown to admire. Whether the fear outweighs the awe all depends on the person.


The Homes:

Errol Flynn (right) was referred to as the "Baron of Mulholland" because of his lush pleasure palace (situated at 7740 Mulholland Dr). The stories of his debaucherous parties and shenanigans are legendary. Though many stories of this Tasmanian's deviltry have been grossly over-exaggerated, the architecture of the building definitely suggested his notorious naughty side: from two way mirrors, to a front door that was really the back door, to wall murals with hidden sexual connotations, Errol always had a way of blending his keen aesthetic eye with his boyish sense of humor. But this home was more than a focal point for Hollywood parties-- it was a symbol of Errol's success, the struggles he had overcome, and the familial comforts he always sought but had trouble either finding or accepting as truth. He adored his home, which he filled with his carefully chosen, masculine decor and his beloved Paul Gauguin painting, "Famille Tahitienne." He surrounded himself with things that made him feel safe and secure; things that made him feel at home. Rumor has it that he did too good a job, for future tenants and guests would occasionally catch a glimpse of the mansion's former master.

The most interesting stories of Errol's continued residence ironically include another Hollywood heartthrob, Ricky Nelson, who moved to the address in 1977. Apparently, Ricky was a fan of the notorious lecher, and got a kick out of it when he had encounters with him. He and his family, including daughter Tracy, were constantly experiencing disturbances, such as loud banging sounds and lights turning on by themselves. One night, Tracy arrived home late. Looking toward the house, she happened to see a male figure staring out the dining room window. She thought it was her father, but when she went inside, she discovered that he was not home. When Ricky called not much later, Tracy asked him about the visitor, to which Ricky replied: "Oh, that's just Errol." After Ricky died in a plane crash in 1985, his surviving family drew the conclusion that Errol had been causing these disturbances to warn his roommate of the upcoming danger. Ricky didn't get the message. After Ricky's demise, the presence allegedly got more menacing. Thus far, there has been no word from Justin Timberlake-- who currently owns the property-- if any other odd occurrences have transpired. Since the original structure was demolished after Nelson's ownership and a new structure built, chances are slim that Errol has stuck around.

Ricky Nelson: soul brother of Errol Flynn.

Rudolph Valentino was equally proud of his Benedict Canyon home at 1436 Bella Drive, which he dubbed Falcon Lair (right) in honor of the unfulfilled film project The Hooded Falcon. The house was a grandiose expression of Rudy and wife Natacha Rambova's notorious passions and exotic tastes. The decor ranged from the oriental to the medieval, and the property housed plenty of room for Rudy's horses and dogs. Rudy became a homebody as he matured and preferred sitting at home by the fire to going out on the town. His home gave him the peace and quiet he needed. Of course, after Natacha left him, the house was also inhabited by bitter memories. Rudy's death in 1926 was a sudden, shocking event to fans and perhaps even moreso to himself. Merely thirty-one years-old at his expiration, Rudy still hasn't accepted the fact that he's dead, and there have been multiple accounts of his presence at his once beloved den. He appears most often in his bedroom and in the former stables. He too has given visitors a creep when they see him peering down from a second story window. Doors are also known to open and shut of their own accord. (George Reeves has also been known to saunter through the halls of his "suicide" house at 1579 Benedict Canyon Drive, ironically wearing his Superman costume, which he continues to bear as his own cross).



The Cemetery:

Some too have reported seeing the ghost of Rudolph Valentino at his gravesite at Hollywood Forever Memorial Park's Cathedral Mausoleum. Strangely, he is often reported as wearing his most famous costume: that of the Sheik. And he's not the only one roaming the stones at this cemetery. Some too claim to see the spirit of the infamous "Lady in Black" still visiting his grave site, as she did for several years until her own death. Also, on the edge of the lake, situated under a large tree, is the grave of Virginia Rappe (left)-- the woman notorious for crying "rape" against Fatty Arbuckle at the St. Francis Hotel in 1921, simultaneously ending his career and Hollywood's pristine image. Virginia actually died from what most scholars now agree was the effects of a botched abortion, which Fatty had nothing to do with. Nonetheless, her death was a tragic one, and the sound of her sobbing can often be heard near her gravestone, where she certainly cries for the film career she never had, the loss of her young life, and the baby she killed. Clifton Webb also has been spotted by his grave in the Abbey of the Psalms Mausoleum. Tucked down a claustrophobic corridor, the eternal man of etiquette, best remembered as Mr. Belvedere, lies in a simple plot indiscernible from his neighbors, identified only by his name. Having suffered through a complicated relationship with his mother as well as a lifetime of meticulously hiding his sexuality from the public, his restless spirit continues to hover about his final resting place. More than one visitor to the this section of the mausoleum has spotted a man in a finely tailored suit and a well-cultivated mustache walking toward them from the far wall, only to disappear as he comes too close for comfort. (Marilyn Monroe has also been reported to visit her own grave across town at Westwood Memorial).

Clifton Webb: still making a statement.

The Corner:

The famous intersection of Hollywood and Vine has also strangely been momentarily possessed by Ghosts of Hollywood's past. A bench that used to sit at the Northeast corner of the intersection was often occupied by a presence many identified as Lon Chaney. Chaney often sat at this very spot during his younger days, awaiting the bus to take him to the studios where he fought against the other hungry extras for work. As famous or as wealthy as he became, it was these lean years that always remained with him: painful years one can never fully shake off. In the future, after he had achieved success, he would pass this bench on his way to work and offer other struggling actors a ride. For years after his death, people would claim to spot him sitting at the stop, and in time the bench was even dedicated to him (see right, with son Lon Chaney Jr in top left). However, it was eventually (and unfortunately for fans) removed, and with nowhere to rest his weary bones, Lon has been seen no more. (At least not there... There are also accounts of him showing up in his Phantom garb at Stage 28 at Universal Studios where he filmed his most famous role in The Phantom of the Opera). Bela Lugosi also had an interesting moment at Hollywood and Vine... while on the way to his own funeral. Toward the end of his life, the actor was constantly taking long walks down Hollywood Boulevard, often stopping to chat with local merchants whom he'd come to know on the trek to purchase his beloved cigars. During his funeral procession,when the hearse passed through this intersection on its way to The Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City, the driver temporarily lost control of the vehicle, and it swerved toward Hollywood-- though this route was not on the agenda. Many believe Bela was hoping to stop for one last stogie. 

Bela while appearing on Broadway as Dracula: both his

greatest friend and foe. He would be buried

in his cape.

The Restaurant:

Thelma Todd is known to prowl around her former Sidewalk Cafe (left), now home to Paulist Productions, at 17575 Pacific Coast Hwy. A cheerful, easy-going gal in life, the "Ice Cream Blonde's" appearances are never menacing, and her apparition is simply observed moving from room to room or perhaps descending the staircase. The garage where she was found dead, slumped behind the wheel of her car above the cafe at 17531 Posetano Road, also continues to experience disquieting quirks. When Thelma's body was discovered, the car's motor was still running, and the death was initially ruled a suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning-- despite the fact that her face had been clearly beaten in. The structure now appears much as it did when Thelma was alive. It was here that she always parked her car before coming down the long steps to her apartment, which was above the cafe. Today, the Posetano address belongs to another owner who-- as last reported-- uses the garage space for storage. Still, some nights, strange sounds emit from the belly of the house, including the faint sound of a motor running. Some have also recounted the scent of exhaust fumes.

The lovely Thelma in a tragic final photo.

The Hotel:

Clark Gable and Carole Lombard are still remembered as one of Hollywood's favorite golden couples (right). Carole's humor served to lighten the serious Gable's mood, and Gable's stubborn, little-boy-lost mentality induced Carole to mature (at least partly) into a loving housewife. They seemed to be made for each other, and enjoyed their blessed but simple life on their Encino ranch. After Carole's life was cut short on January 16, 1942 in a tragic plane crash, Gable was devastated. Many said that he was never the same; the light in his eyes had gone out. He would survive the love of his life by 18 years, which included two other marriages, until he was finally laid to rest beside her at Glendale Forest Lawn in 1960. However, it is not here that the two reside. Many people claim to see the duo continuing to enjoy dinner and cocktails in the lounge of one of their favorite "haunts": The Lady Windemere, now (The Georgian Hotel at 1415 Ocean Ave, Santa Monica). Various employs have entered the lower level restaurant, formerly a speakeasy-- and thus named "The Speakeasy"--after closing, to find it very much still occupied by a beautiful blond and her handsome partner. However, when they announce that serving hours are over, the figures simply disappear into thin air. (At least they know when to make an exit). In addition, the sounds of disembodied gasps, laughs, or voices saying "Good Morning," are often reported. Clark and Carole may not be completely responsible. This hotel was patronized by many, including Bugsy Siegel and Rose Kennedy, and was popular for its beauty parlor and barber shop as well. (The Roosevelt Hotel is also famous for its plethora of ghostly guests, including Monty Clift and his incessant trumpet playing, Marilyn Monroe's primping in her former mirror, and a mysterious presence and cold spot in the Blossom Room-- home to the first Academy Awards celebration).

"The Speakeasy Room" at The Georgian Hotel-- just imagine the happy

couple in the corner booth.

The Inexplicable:

Carole did a little more haunting on her own. While alive, she became close chums with upcoming comedic ingenue Lucille Ball (right). The two had much in common, including incredible beauty mixed with bawdy humor. Lucy, like many, was crushed by the news of Carole's death, and she missed her friend greatly. There were times she wished that she had Carole's ear to confide in. She particularly craved Carole's sage advice to guide her when things got rough and she felt her career slipping away. When the opportunity to do "I Love Lucy" came up, Lucy was skeptical. Television? Should she do it? What if it tanked? What would happen to her career!?!?! Anxious and full of nerves, she went to sleep, wherein she had a dream that Carole paid her a visit and said: "Honey, go for it!" Lucy listened, awoke, and went on to become the most famous television personality in history. Perhaps, in her sleep, her subconscious simply took the form of her beloved friend; but, perhaps Carole sensed a friend in need from the other side and decided to make a special trip and send a helpful message. Lucy too would go on to a future performance as a ghost. She would allegedly haunt her 1000 North Roxbury Drive home on its last day in existence. While the house was being destroyed, a passer-by happened to catch a glimpse of a flaming red-head wandering around the property. She shook her head, pacing, seeming deeply upset at what was being done to her former abode. She then disappeared around the South corner, never to be seen again... except on the boob tube. 


The Theatre:

To cap off her month as L.A. La Land's star, is Olive Thomas's preternatural tale. Olive (left) called The New Amsterdam Theatre in New York home during her years as a Ziegfeld Follies girl. These were very exciting, important years in her life, which is perhaps why-- after her death-- she chooses to return here rather than Hollywood for her occasional visits. Olive has been seen wandering the building, apparently soaking in memories of past times. Sometimes, she is in her typical, jolly mood; other times, she seems overcome with sadness. On rare occasions, she seems peeved and starts a ruckus. One employee recalled making his rounds on the stage when he surprisingly shined his light on a woman dressed in old-fashioned clothing. He thought she had merely gotten locked in, but when he called to her, she simply smiled, blew him a kiss, and disappeared. When he later compared his vision to a photo of Olive Thomas, he grew pale: it was the same girl! Mostly, Olive appears to men, continuing her worldly flirtations with impish grins and friendly greetings, often calling, "Hey, fella!" She once scared a worker away permanently when she appeared and said, "How are you doing, handsome?" His vanity was not flattered. Olive grew anxious when renovations began on the theater, allegedly becoming more vocal and wandering aimlessly in plain sight. She too has a jealous streak. When reunions involving the surviving Ziegfeld girls occur at the theater, Olive causes some serious shaking of the sets and even makes various light bulbs burn out-- simultaneously. She always appears gloriously bedecked, sometimes even wearing a sash that says "Olive," and at other mournful times, she can be spied carrying a champagne glass-- even the spirits indulge in spirits. She too walks in mid air at an area upstairs where the removed glass walkway used to be. To her, it is still there. It appears that the employees who have the courage to stay have grown accustomed to Ollie and her continued performances, often calling out "Good Morning, Olive" when they arrive in the morning and bidding her goodnight when they leave her alone in the dark with nothing but the stage's "ghost light" to keep her company.

The notoriously spooky Vincent Price lightens the mood with a bit of

dancing while filming The House on Haunted Hill.

In life, nothing is black and white. Does it not, therefore, make sense that there is not simply life and death? That there is a strange shade of gray that serves as a home for those who cannot choose a side? Our Gods and Goddesses of black and white movies seem to think so. Just as on the silver screen, they flicker on, continuing their intangible but effective presence in the world of us normal, living souls. Perhaps, to them, we are putting on the show as they exist behind the scenes, watching and observing, enjoying entertaining passion plays performed by those so unaware. Or maybe they simply continue on as if they never left, soaking in their happiest or most profound personal moments, unable to let go and unaware that they already have. Then, there are those who seem compelled to ham it up, to penetrate that thin screen between actor and passive audience, and jump out and say "Boo! I'm still here." Attention-hungry fame hounds are never satiated. Are our film players still playing with us? Putting on a show for their own amusement? Or are they simply lost and unable to make their final exit? Maybe it would be easier for them to bid farewell if we let go of them. As it is, we continue to be enamoured, hypnotized, and equally haunted by the stars who touch our lives, even after their own have ended. As we invoke their spirits every time we pop in a DVD, it should come as no surprise that they remain close to us. Until we ask them to go, they really have no reason to depart.

Halloween Spooktacular II

MENTAL MONTAGE: Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

There are many key identifiers that can clue you into someone's personality: the clothes he wears, the type of dog he has, or the way he decorates his home par exemple. Even more key is perhaps, not so much the car he drives, but the way he behaves behind the wheel after he's turned the ignition. As such, it sometimes seems that lives of danger or tragedy are prefaced in a star's vehicular life. Here are a few tales of Cars vs. Karma. "Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy night."


(I apologize. I published this on Thurs 5/12, but somehow it disappeared overnight. Here it is again. Sorry for the repeat)!!!

James enjoyed whipping around town on a motorcycle

when such vehicles were still seen as a novelty.

Because of the way James Dean lived and because of the way he died, it is difficult to imagine him anywhere but behind the wheel of a car. In addition to his famous "chicken" race in Rebel Without a Cause, Jimmy also did a lot of racing in his private life. In accordance, he picked up more than a few tickets from the po-po, including one on the day of his tragic death: James was pulled over for going 10 miles over the 55 mph speed limit. After receiving the citation, he glumly accepted his error and conceded that he had better slow down, if not for his own safety, then to make sure that Little Bastard didn't get worn out before its first big race in Salinas. (Jimmy named his Porsche 550 Spyder "Little Bastard" because that's what his pal, stunt driver, Bill Hickman, called him. He in turn called Bill "Big Bastard"). Sadly, even though Jimmy eased up on his lead foot, he neglected to put on his seat-belt. Not too long after receiving his ticket, Jimmy was struck at the 41/46 junction when an opposing car came into his lane. This spot now bears his name in memoriam: The James Dean Junction.

James checks out his car in preparation for his race.

Up until this point, Jimmy had been invincible behind the wheel. His father, Winton, once remarked, when reminiscing about his son's early motorbike stunts, that "If he'd only fallen once, things might have been different." Yet, even as a child, while JD suffered the usual cuts and bruises, he always seemed to walk away from his daredevil feats unscathed. (The worst he was to suffer was losing his four front teeth while playing acrobats with friends in the barn. Even this, he shook off). His impenetrability was not pure luck, but the product of intense focus. A powerful driver, Jimmy seemed to be almost hypnotized when behind the wheel, always remaining perfectly in control and unruffled. Yet, James did suffer a minor catastrophe when driving in a Memorial Day race in Santa Barbara. Jimmy bent the rules by entering the race in the first place, for George Stevens had requested that he lay off racing during the filming of Giant. During the competition, James started out in eighteenth place. Before he could gain much ground, another Porsche swerved in front of him, cutting him off and nearly hitting his bumper. To avoid the collision, James stealthily veered his car to the side, where it luckily hit only hay bales. Dave Watson, who was watching, said that had it not been for Jimmy's ability, the accident could have been fatal. Luckily, "he didn't miss a trick." James pulled himself together and worked his way back into fourth place before he was forced to pull out-- his engine blew under the strain. Perturbed at his loss, James remained cool as a cucumber. Better luck next time, he thought. For now, he and his automobile exited unhurt.

Wallace Reid (left) too had a knack for car racing. From an early age, and far before he'd acquired a license, Wally enjoyed racing around in his parents' car. This need for speed would continue into adulthood, where neighbors grew accustomed to Wally blazing through town in his various automobiles, usually accustomed with a horn that tooted out the latest song. In keeping with his racing films like The Roaring Road, which he remains most famous for, Wally also entered into competitions in real life. In those days, there was an open track-- The Santa Monica Race Route-- composed of Ocean Ave, Wilshire Blvd, and San Vicente Blvd. The area where the then dirt roads of Ocean and Wilshire met in a sharp 90-degree turn was known as "Dead Man's Curve." Wally was proud when he set the new record high for this turn at 110 mph. But Wally's carefree, innocent immaturity behind the wheel came at a price. He had many collisions, scrapes, and mishaps. On Jan. 22, 1913, he was driving so recklessly up Mountain Road to Parma Park that he and his friends careened off the road and were literally hanging over the edge. The car couldn't be removed, so they had to leave it dangling until assistance could be found. But, more horrendously, Wally would be in a tragic car accident when he and pal Thomas Ince were rushing down the PCH in 1915. The facts remain fuzzy, as there was the usual subsequent studio cover-up, but Wally, who had probably been drinking, lost control of his vehicle and slammed into another car, which carried a family of five. The father was killed, and the mother and three children where seriously injured. Thomas too suffered a broken collar bone. Wally walked away from his totaled car with only cuts and bruises. The damage he did to himself psychologically was another story. When he later came to bury his personal pains in morphine, this is but one of the episodes he was running from.

Steve McQueen was another actor who seemed perfectly positioned in a sleek sports car (see right). Like James Dean, Steve loved the thrill of a race. Friend and co-star James Garner would recall this fire foot causing a ruckus in Germany when they were filming The Great Escape. Along with doing many of his own driving stunts, Steve was always returning to the set with another speeding ticket-- he was constantly getting into trouble with the local authorities for his reckless driving. An interesting story involves not his driving acuity but his mental stealth. When filming the series "Wanted: Dead or Alive," he was irked when the show wouldn't give him time off the shoot the film The Magnificent Seven. In response, he purposely crashed his car so that he could claim injury. When the studio gave him time to recuperate, Steve neglected his bed rest and shot The Magnificent Seven instead. After Steve was all healed aka the movie had wrapped, he returned to work on the TV series as fresh as a daisy. Clearly, this was a guy operating on all cylinders.

Clark Gable (left) remains one of the biggest stars that MGM ever had. Nay, that moviedom ever had. Needless to say, he could afford to buy the best of the best, and he had definite taste when it came to his choice of vehicle. While he wasn't born with driving in his blood, there are rumors that some of the demons that drove him were the direct cause or result of various auto related events. Most memorably, Clark become incredibly morose after the death of his beloved Carole Lombard, and he took to motoring rapidly through the Hollywood Hills as if to tempt fate with his own life. Lucille Ball, a close buddy of Carole's, was a good friend to Clark at this time and was one of the many urging him to pull in the reigns. Rumor has it that he took more than a few spills, but he finally got a lot of his anger and regret out when he served valiantly in WWII in Carole's memory. Previous to this, there was another Clark controversy. There is still debate over whether or not the following is true, but many in Hollywood would recall Clark making a frenzied call to Howard Strickling in 1933. He had allegedly hit and killed a pedestrian when drunkenly turning onto Sunset Boulevard! If true, MGM did its best to cover up the hit-and-run and salvage their growing star's name. Legend has it that MGM paid a studio employee to take the blame, offering him a lifetime's employment at the studio. Interestingly, as author E.J. Fleming adeptly pointed out, the heretofore unknown MGM man John Huston was reported in the papers to have hit actress Tosca Roulien on Sept 22, 1933. Huston went to court, the accident was ruled as such, and the case was closed. John, of course, went on to enjoy quite a healthy directing career. But, did he have Clark to thank for this?

While Frances Farmer didn't suffer any major collisions that I can recall, she did survive one wreck of a life, and a lot of it is due to a 1942 altercation over her driving. Frances was a fiery and impassioned actress, smart and perhaps a little too reactionary. When leaving a party one night, during war time, she was pulled over for having her headlights on in a dim out zone. Frances, predictably, resisted her citation, which quickly escalated into an arrest. The defiant girl was hauled into jail and charged for a DUI-- which obviously wasn't the source of the argument. In any case, Frances paid an initial fee and was let go, but she failed to completely pay the full charge. This resulted in a bench warrant for her arrest. When a hairdresser later accused her of dislocating her jaw on the set, it was all the police needed to go after Frances and haul her in, guns blazing. She was located at The Knickerbocker Hotel, dragged through the lobby wearing allegedly nothing but a shower curtain, and subsequently locked up in a mental institution, with her loving [haha] mother acting as legal guardian and holding the key. Damn those headlights... Ironically, Frances would later be given a car when she appeared on the show "This Is Your Life" in 1958 after her "rehabilitation." Her career, however, never recovered from the scandal nor the false accusations of insanity. Like too many other strong, independent women, Frances was punished for her brazenness. In the old days, she would have been burned as a witch. In Hollywood, it was her fame that was left to fizzle. (Frances films Flowing Gold with John Garfield, right).

Veronica Lake could also be described as a hot-tempered little dollop. When filming I Wanted Wings, which was to be her first major hit, she was often picked on and chewed out by director Mitchell Leisen. While Veronica would stand silently and take the tirades, which were incredibly humiliating, she did find her way to fight back. After one particular yelling match, Veronica jumped in her car and raced off to new hubby John Detlie, neglecting to tell anyone where she was going. That Mitch could kiss her canola, for all she cared! However, one should never drive angry, especially when on the verge of tears. While hurrying to reach her beloved, her car began to slide on the surprisingly icy roads of Needles, CA. Suddenly, she spun out of control and went spilling over the side of the mountain, nose first, flipping over and over. The tough cookie was luckily numbed by the snow and cold, and it took time for her to realize the pain in her knee or the fact that her toes were broken. Looking a bloody mess, she somehow managed to climb the hill back to the road where she flagged down a passing pickup. Inside, a surprised farmer and his family looked at the bloody beauty like she was nuts, but they still gave her a ride to town. She eventually made it to John, and when the studio located her, she had even more motivation to tell them to stick it where the sun doesn't shine. She got her way, and returned to work, where Mitch was forced by the studio to hold his tongue. (Ronni wisely lets Joel McCrea handle the driving, left in Sullivan's Travels).

Howard Hughes is more renowned for his abilities in the cockpit (as seen right), but he too had some adventures on wheels. When squiring his latest infatuation, Ava Gardner, the two went out dancing at The Cocoanut Grove. Howard was irked that Ava remained immune to his charms or money. The following situation didn't help matters. Upon leaving the club, Howard stopped at a red light to see another car also in wait in the opposing lane. Beads of sweat started to trickle down when he realized that the other driver was his seventeen-year-old protege/fiance Faith Domergue, driving the very car he had given her for her birthday. Gulp. Faith recognized Howard too, and when the light turned green, she busted a u-ey and started following the flustered couple. Weaving in and out of the lane, she nearly caused a wreck, forcing Howard to pull into an empty parking lot on Fairfax to avoid disaster, or so he thought. Faith immediately pulled around, lined herself up directly against the passenger side, gave Ava the look of death, and started ramming the car repeatedly. Luckily, another passerby entered the altercation, which brought things to a halt, and Howard asked the stranger to take the fuming Ava home. Howard was left to repair the damage and console his irate, immature mistress, but the damage had been done.

Superman George Reeves (left) had many auto altercations, as well. In fact, toward the end of his life, he had so many uncanny accidents and near death vehicular incidents that it seemed that it was more than just fate that had it in for the hero. The source of this bad karma was probably directly related to his recent break-up with Toni Mannix, wife of Eddie Mannix-- the MGM man with mob connections. Toni was more than miffed when her darling boy left her for the younger-- albeit not classier-- Lenore Lemmon. Consequently, in 1958, while driving his Alvis, (ironically a gift from Toni), he experienced a little rough driving from two passing, black cars. Luckily, this time around, the intimidation resulted in nothing more than George being a bit spooked, and he shook it off. Not much later, he was nearly plowed down in front of his home by a similar dark car. He had to dive onto his front lawn to avoid being hit! Then, in April of 1959, George was out in his new Jaguar. The new car didn't bring him better luck, for as he was rolling down the hills of Benedict Canyon, he realized that his breaks weren't working. Struggling to maintain control, he ran into a light pole at Easton Drive. When the cops arrived, they found that the actor had nearly gone through his windshield and had suffered a severe gash to his forehead, which required thirty stitches. They also found that all of George's brake fluid had been drained. Clearly, whoever was out to get George realized that vehicular manslaughter wasn't gonna do it. He was found dead with a bullet in his brain on June 16, 1959. Of course, it was ruled a suicide.


That being said, drive safely...

MENTAL MONTAGE: Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

PERSONAL NOTE: Confessions of a Gravehunter

I have decided to take a segue into the macabre this week, if you find graveyards macabre that is. I personally do not, but that shall become obvious throughout the following article. With Rudy as my inspiration for the month, I began thinking about his grave site at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and how ardent fans still make their pilgrimages to see him every day. There is a mystifying quality to his crypt in the Cathedral Mausoleum, and legend has it that the ghost of the notorious "Lady in Black" still pays him visits as well as Rudy himself. It seems a bit odd for a ghost to haunt his or her own grave, if we indulge for a moment in the suspension of disbelief to give ourselves over to the idea of an afterlife, but cemeteries seem to be hot beds for unruly and restless spirits. Instead of reiterating the countless stories of specific hauntings, I thought that I would share with you a few of my own experiences. Having turned over nearly every stone in every cemetery in Los Angeles, I have more than one odd experience under my belt. Believe me or not, here are some of the best:


WESTWOOD MEMORIAL:


I'll begin with the most entertaining story. Westwood Memorial is one of the strangest cemeteries that I have come across. It is tucked behind a couple of skyscrapers in the middle of the city, situated in such an unlikely place that I drove up and down the street looking for it several times before realizing its less than obvious locale.  Once I found it, I was amazed at how small it was and yet how many of our fallen stars have landed there: Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin, Natalie Wood, Jack Lemmon... I could go on, and on, and on. The nice thing about it is that it is an accepted tourist destination, so no one really minds if you're there taking pictures or just roaming around. You can't help but star gaze, after all, for every step you take lands you on someone famous.


One day I was there making a final trip to round off my list of the famous interred. It was a nice day, and I was listening to my ipod, which I normally never do at cemeteries, but this one is so lax it seemed appropriate. It turned out to be a fortunate decision. As I strolled around with my ipod on "shuffle," I came to Burt Lancaster's grave. After taking a moment to pay my respects, I snapped a shot and reached for my trusty list to see who was next. Right as my eyes hit the name "Carl Wilson," the song Good Vibrations came on my ipod. I froze for a second, with an "Oh my God" look on my face, and then I looked down. I was literally standing right on his stone! Needless to say, my eyes were bulging. I was quite tickled. I felt like this Beach Boy was just saying "Hi." Coincidence or not, the memory always makes me smile.

MOUNTAIN VIEW CEMETERY:


Now, despite the fact that I have become a sort of cemetery navigating expert, I can't deny that I quite often get lost, turned around, or just generally confused when covering new ground. Some of these graveyards are massive, and when visiting a new one I generally spend hours looking for just one person like a needle in a haystack. (Sometimes I think someone is playing games with me. Not cool). Sweating in the sun, climbing hills, searching for numbers and plots that don't seem to exhist... It gets quite exhausting. I'm pretty used to it by now and come prepared for every scavenger hunt, aware that it may take me all day, if not a few trips, to see everyone I want to see.

With this in mind, I made my trip up north to Mountain View. There was only one person on my list buried there, Superman George Reeves (right). For this reason, I delayed visiting for some time. It was a bit of a drive up to Pasadena, so I always found some excuse to put it off. One day, for no particular reason, I thought, "What the heck." So, into my car I went. All I knew was that he was buried in a mausoleum there. That's it. I expected to waste oodles of time bugging my eyes out for one little name but tried to focus on more pleasant thoughts. Now, in addition to getting lost in cemeteries, I must confess that I get lost in general. I get lost on my way home, on the way to a friend's house, on my way to places I've been a million times before. It's a problem-- driving in circles is kind of a curse with me. I expected as much with my drive up to Mountain View.


Thus, when I arrived unscathed, in record time, with not a wrong turn, I was a bit surprised to say the least. It was literally like I was driving to a place I had been a million times before. "Strange," I thought to myself warily. Once I pulled into the gates of the graveyard, I got a little intimidated. So much ground to cover, so little time. So, I thought, "Right or left?" For the Hell of it, I went right. I drove a pace and saw another side street to the right. "Should I take a chance and turn, or keep going?" I decided again to turn. There, behind the trees, was a mausoleum. I wasn't sure if it was the one I was looking for, but I thought I'd go for it. You gotta start somewhere.


I walked inside, and again wondered, "Right or left?" Both hallways looked menacing and long, so I decided to change it up and go left. As I strolled down the hallway, not a few steps, I saw something move beside me.  I jumped, like an idiot, only to realize that it was my own reflection in the mirror lining the wall. Catching my breath and laughing at myself, my eye was then attracted to something behind me in the mirror. Looking closer, I realized that it was an urn. An urn that said "Superman" in reverse. Gulp. I slowly turned around, and right before my eyes was the final resting place of George Reeves. Holy Moly. I didn't know what to do, so I just said, "Hi, George." This was one guy who really wanted to be found. Never have I ever been drawn so effortlessly to a grave.

HOME OF PEACE:


Despite the occasional "spooktacular" event like the aforementioned, cemeteries in general do not frighten me or ruffle my feathers. In fact, there has only been one cemetery that I can remember having a very foreboding presence. That was the Jewish graveyard, Home of Peace. This place serves as the eternal napping location of two Stooges, Curly and Shemp, and the illustrious Warner brothers. (Jack, needless to say, has his own large and separate plot outside the family crypt). The grounds of the cemetery didn't bother me, and I found it quite interesting that several of the graves were buried under  elevated, cement slabs. (I don't know if that is a normal practice within the faith or is purely a choice of the cemetery, but I am interested to know).

The real danger, I would soon discover, seemed to be lurking in the mausoleum. I went inside to see the Laemmle family crypt and a few others. I didn't feel too bad immediately upon entering, but then I was close to the door. However, the farther back I went into the building, the more I began to feel incredibly claustrophobic. I felt as though I were being watched, and so paranoid did I become that I began thinking crazy thoughts like, "They don't want me here..." I decided to pick up the pace a little, got a few shots, and saw that the last name on the list was Louis B. Mayer himself. Of course, he was interred allllll the way at the back of the building. Great.


I mustered the courage to take a quick run, and I do mean run, to the back, where I found his crypt. I didn't feel well at all. I can't say for sure that it was Louis the whole time that was following me around or making me ill at ease, but I know that the moment I locked eyes with the picture of him on his marble slab was the climax of my discomfort. This voyage was an early one of my ventures, so I knew little of LB other than that he was a big studio mogul. Strange as it sounds, though, my instinctual feelings were telling me: "I don't like this guy." After learning more about him and how he used MGM as his personal brothel, I can justify where those feeling were coming from, but then again, maybe I was just over-excited and making a mountain out of a mole-hill. I got my picture and ran like Hell. Real or imagined, that is the one cemetery I have never returned to.

*** I have had similar experiences when I am strangely affected by a particular grave either positively or negatively. Another example similar to the LB experience was when I met the devious Bugsy Segal in the Beth Olam Mausoleum. I referred to this event in my previous article on Elizabeth"The Black Dahlia" Short. However, occassionally, I have a happy meeting with a deceased friend. The first time I came to the Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. and Jr. monument, I was filled with a profound sense of happiness. I felt oddly right at home. I have returned there several times to sit, relax, and say "hi" to the Dougs.


GLENDALE FOREST LAWN:


This has got to be the most frustrating cemetery in creation! Everyone is there. Everyone! But, the majority of them are locked up tight in the Great Mausoleum where no mere mortal is ever allowed to tread. For this reason, Norma Shearer, Jean Harlow, Gable and Lombard, Wallace Reid, Lon Chaney, etc, ad nauseum, continue to evade me. Despite this, it is nice to go inside to see the jaw-dropping Last Supper Window and know that you are surrounded by the remnants of greatness, even if you can't see them.


On the grounds, which are more expansive than you can imagine, you can easily find Jimmy Stewart, Alla Nazimova, Spencer Tracy, and Errol Flynn.  However, there are some gardens that are restricted and though the Freedom Mausoleum is open to the public, all of its corridors are roped off on the main floor. It seems like such a waste that such places are forbidden, and all those who martyred themselves from the public are now guarded from their fans like precious jewels. Ironic, considering how hard most of them fought to achieve their fame. 


Now, a normal person would shrug her shoulders at such obstacles and give up; say "Oh, well. What does it matter?" Not I. Oh, no. Not by a long shot. What follows goes down in history as one of the craziest series of events in my life.

My umpteenth voyage to FLG began almost apathetically. I had just finished researching the great Mary Pickford (left), and I was dying to go pay my respects, but I knew that she was locked away tight, so making the trek to Glendale seemed pointless. Still, I decided to go. At least I knew that there were still plenty of peeps I could visit while there who were out in the open. Armed with nothing more than hope, and oodles of time, I went.







Upon arriving, I had become more determined. I started with the Freedom Mausoleum. Clara Bow is a favorite. I had been able to crane my neck down the hallway to peek at her resting place before, but had not gotten close enough for a good look. Suddenly, I felt empowered, as if Clara were saying, "Go for it, honey." I decided that this was my chance, caution be damned! So, peering around to see if there were any cameras or guards watching, I hopped the iron rope down her corridor and snapped a shot of her. And Alan Ladd... and Jeanette MacDonald, (you get the idea). Quick as a flash, I returned to the main hall, acting calm and casual of course-- "Who me? I was here the whole time." I sauntered down a bit to the alcove where Dorothy Dandridge was interred and re-enacted my previous shenanigans. Now, I was a bit nervous, because this whole time I had heard two men talking downstairs rather loudly. I thought, "Crap, I hope that's not security." Still, I finished my feat and voila! Victory!

Notice the shaky camera work, haha!

Done with the upstairs, I figured I would take a chance and wander downstairs, hoping that the gentlemen whom I'd heard conversing so animatedly were guests and not employees. But, as I hit the middle of the staircase, the voices suddenly stopped. Silence. It was like they had heard me coming and didn't want to be rude by continuing their noisy chat. Curious, I continued down, expecting to see or pass someone. There was no one there. I peered down the hallways and didn't see a single soul. Where had they gone? I would have heard the large doors open and close if they had exited, not to mention the fact that their voices would not have stopped so abruptly but would have audibly receded as they distanced themselves from the area. I got chills. Had I mistakenly witnessed a post-mortem convo? I like to tell myself that it was Chico (below) and Gummo Marx-- both buried below-- hamming it up, but that's purely my imagination. I only wish now that I could remember what the voices had been saying. Could have been explainable; could've been paranormal. Who knows?

Now, my favorite part. Riding high off my Freedom Mausoleum experiences, I felt like I was invinceable. I was surging with energy, feeling like something was cosmically locking into place. The cemetery, and its residents, were my friends today. It is hard to explain, but I felt a synchronicity, which gave me a little more courage when I headed over to see little Mary. When I made it over to her nook by the David statue, the best I hoped to accomplish was catching a glimpse of the original movie queen's grave over the surrounding wall. I rounded the corner past the Miracle of Life sculpture and froze in my tracks. The door to the garden, normally locked and bolted, was wide open! As it turned out, they were mowing the inner lawn that day. God bless coincidence, (though, I personally prefer to think that Mary was with me that day, guiding me to see her). Not wasting a second, I ran inside, crouched down, and got a shot of the elaborate bacchanal of a stone that housed Mary Pickford and her brother, sister, and mother. I was beaming! Then I realized, hey... Isn't Bogey in here too??? Worried that a groundskeeper would appear at any moment, I moved fast. I found the location of Humphrey Bogart's ashes, snapped a shot, flashed a grin, and decided not to press my luck. Out I went, having accomplished every possible goal I could have imagined!

Now looking back at all of these little adventures, I think that I was simply carried away, let my imagination run away with me, and created epic "hauntings" in my mind. I had probably experienced nothing more than my own nerves. Had you asked me at the time, though, I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that I had encountered other-worldly presences while roaming around the haven of their afterlives. Sometimes, the feelings I receive are positive, as if the people I admire are somehow communicating with me and accepting me as one of their own. Other times, I feel unnerved and desperately in need of an escape route. Either way, I get chills.


I don't claim to know what happens to us when we die, and there are plenty of times that I think I should have my head examined for any of my obsessive delvings into the past, which clearly seem to go too far. But, I cannot deny my own instincts. It only makes sense that in voyaging into the past, coming to know so many different personalities, and literally walking the streets were they lived, died, and lie, that some hint of who and what they were would reach out to me. If you spend the majority of your life looking for ghosts, you are bound to find at least one. I feel proud to say that more than one has found me.

PERSONAL NOTE: Confessions of a Gravehunter