DAD, GREAVSEY AND ME!

I remember my Dad smiling at me when I was little. Thinking about it now, he actually smiled a lot, although at the time I don’t think I always saw it that way. He would come in tired from work but would always give me the thumbs up sign and play with me a little. Sometimes it would be some typical father/son play wrestling, sometimes it would be just a bit of kidding around. For instance, one of his typical moves would be to hold his hand sideways under my chin and say, “Get out of that without moving!” Looking back, one thing is clear. He always made time for me.

Kids always like to think that they can get one over on their parents, but on reflection I can now see that Dad was capable of some pretty slick moves where I was concerned. When I was five or six, I needed two heavy duty dental appointments, both extractions. I was scared of Dentists in general and our dentist Mr Cooper in particular but dad had a plan to get me through each time. If I promised to be a big brave boy, he would buy me a record at the Arcade music store in North Finchley, just round the corner from the dental surgery. I was as obsessed with music then as I am now and I jumped at the chance. He held my hand till the gas did its work in sending me to narcotic slumber. When I woke up, I was groggy, my mouth was sore, but so what! We were going to buy a record. The first time we got ‘I Remember You’ by Frank Ifield, the second time a Pat Boone recording. If you find it odd that an infant school boy would choose songs by a yodeling Australian and the whitest of all white singers then frankly, so do I. Dad’s genius was that he managed to coax me through two scary tooth extractions with the promise of buying records, and then managed to persuade me to get records HE wanted to buy in the first place. Nice one Dad!

Actually, my Dad was very generous, often to a fault, both with the money he had, and with his time. We were not well off by any means, but I generally got what I wanted for Christmas. When I was younger, there were train sets, Minnix Motors, Meccano, the usual boy things, later on when my interest in music became more aggressive than passive there were guitars. Right from the start I was always fascinated by guitars. I used to figure this was a disappointment to my Dad. He had been so good at playing football, it was his passion, and although I liked it a lot as well, it seemed like I had three left feet, not just two. I know he would have liked me to have followed in his tricky footsteps down the wing but it just wasn’t to be. I did love our sessions with a football outside of our house, or over on Hampstead Heath extension. “Keep your eye on the ball son, always keep your eye on the ball” he would say. I tried to do that, even when I had just tripped over the thing and had landed upside down on the grass.

When I was eleven he took things to the next level. Mum and dad had always taken me to movies, museums, zoos, etc, but from 1968 Dad began taking me to White Hart Lane to see the Spurs. To this day, I can remember the sights and sounds, the different quality of light within the stadium, the roar of the crowd as the Tannoy system played ‘Glory, Glory Tottenham Hotspur’ when the team ran out. My Dad pointed out one player in particular, who weaved his way to the Park Lane end goal with a football at his feet, blasting it into the net as he arrived, driving the crowd crazy. “That’s Jimmy Greaves” said dad. Any schoolboy with any kind of interest in football would have been able to spot Jimmy Greaves at a thousand paces, but it was cool because my dad wanted to share what he knew with me, and I liked that, it made me feel very secure. We had found our meeting point. I was never going to be the next Jimmy Greaves, but the two of us could share in watching the last season at Spurs of the real Jimmy. We were there against Newcastle United when Greavesy scored a wonder goal beating numerous defenders and dancing round the goalkeeper before running the ball into the goal. We saw other games, even other teams. We were at Norwich City’s first game in the first division for example. I think it was against Everton, although you would have to ask my cousin David to confirm that. We continued to go to matches together through to the 80s. When our local team Barnet joined the football league, we were there to witness it. A shambling middle aged man shuffled by us a few minutes after the game started. It was Jimmy Greaves again, a constant in our ever evolving universe. By that time I was as grown up as I was ever going to get and a lot of water had passed under the father/son bridge by then. We still found the time for footie though. When Dad no longer felt up to attending games, we still watched at home on TV, and he still loved to point out little playing tips to me, even though my botched ball juggling days were long since gone. Right up to the last few weeks we shared together in Finchley, almost four years ago now, we would always watch a game.

Through the years Dad always tried to help Janice and I when he could. As Mum became more immobile Dad took on many household roles that were new to him. He lived by the mantra that “As long as we have some eggs, bread, butter, milk and tea in, we’ll be ok.” Years after he was first diagnosed with dementia he could still be seen waiting in line for the 143 bus with his little cap on, en-route for Tescos, chatting to the old ladies from Basing Way that Mum and I used to describe as his ‘Harem’. Dementia is such a cruel condition, Dad used to be frustrated by his inability to do all the things he once took for granted, but every now and then he was still able to laugh at himself. One time he answered the phone, and a work friend of mine asked who he was speaking to. Dad paused for a moment or two before admitting, “Hang on, it’s on the tip of my brain.”

My wife Karmen met Dad for the first time in 2003. A year later, we were married in the USA, and she came back with me to Finchley for a few weeks afterwards. In that short time she and Dad, now sadly a widower, were able to get to know each other. she recalls when he would make tea, and ask her how many sugars she wanted. She would hold up the appropriate number of fingers and he would reply with a smile and a thumbs up sign. That thumbs up sign stayed with him the whole time I knew him. Karmen told me a few days ago that she knew Dad loved her because he told her so. Once I had moved to the USA, our contact was restricted to phone calls. We would both ask dad how he was and he would invariably tell us that he had “A bit of a cold.” The last phone conversation I had with Dad was last October on his Birthday. I told him I loved him and he told me he knew that. We had never had the kind of relationship where we said that kind of thing to each other before, but it was a loving relationship. Karmen and I loved you Dad, and we will miss you so much.

My Dad died in January, 2008

FROM VALLEY TO VALET AND BACK AGAIN

When the Founding Fathers of the USA disposed of colonial rule, they of course severed any allegiance to British Royalty. Within a hundred and fifty years however, the lure of having some kind of ‘super-class”, a bunch of elitists to admire, defer to or despise had become so irresistible that it was necessary for America to invent it’s own royalty. The myth making began, and Hollywood as we know and admire, defer to or despise it was born.

There was no direct line of accession to the Hollywood throne, even though family dynasties to rival the house of Windsor would emerge. Rather, corporate America under the guise of the studio system selected the Kings and Queens of Hollywood and manipulated the public into making or breaking those that were chosen. Myth making machinery every bit as deadly and effective as a siege engine came into being. One of the myths that persists to this day is that of privacy for the rich and famous. From the very moment Greta Garbo declared that she wanted to be alone, every two bit ham with a S.A.G card has agreed. The studios want, need us to love the stars, care for them, be obsessed with them even so that we will buy their mostly cheesy products at inflated prices, but the stars themselves reserve the right to their privacy. I can imagine Marie Antoinette laying besides the pool, protected by a 20 ft fence and fifteen ex CIA guys and a middle-weight champ or three. “Let them eat Blu-Ray DVDs” indeed! Yeah, boundaries of decency do get crossed, and the way the business sets up lambs for the slaughter is truly obnoxious, but privacy can be attained if you really want it. You can buy anything in Hollywood right?

Another myth concerning the movie biz is that of “Old Hollywood.” There is no such thing as old Hollywood, the whole stinking cancerous mess stinks of new money, Corporate money. Throughout the whole debacle of watching Brittany destroying herself (and potentially any other drivers within a fifty mile radius at any given time) I can’t help but think there is someone somewhere sitting in front of a bank of monitors watching Entertainment Tonight and thinking that this is very good for business. Look how well the last Spears CD has done. “It worked for Princess Di so it will work for our screw-ups too!”

So, we have the illusion of a Golden era of Hollywood where the men were men and the sheep were nervous fans to go along with the privacy hoo-ha. In modern day Hollywood there are perhaps two locations where these cock and bull market stories go hand in hand. On Hollywood Blvd you will find Musso & Franks, a dining establishment that has been there since 1919. The PR behemoth has painted pretty pictures regarding the joint’s history. Chaplin and Fairbanks were said to have raced Thoroughbred horses through Hollywood ending up at the diner for an alcoholic brunch. Bogie and

Bacall played footsie with each other whilst waiting for his divorce to come through in one of the wood and red leather adorned booths which remain unchanged to this day. In another, F Scott Fitzgerald was said to have tapped out ‘The Great Gatsby.” The great and the good mingled with Mafia dons, all handled with the utmost discretion by the aged red shirted waiters. I got to have a late lunch in Musso’s about five years back. I was a tourist at the time. Oh yes, I buy into the whole plastic package as much as anyone else, I just reserve the right to be sarcastic about it as well. The dinginess of the place, the old wood, the shiny worn leather interiors were quite alluring to me. I even enjoyed the plain omelet I was served. The fact that it was the only menu item I could afford did not seem so important at the time. This was a place where Hollywood business of sorts was being carried out. A member of the Star Trek Next Generation cast was being interviewed by someone who would have been at least twenty years away from being a foetus when Jim Kirk first boldly went where no second rate actor had gone before. I left choosing to believe that I had had a brief glimpse of the 'real' Hollywood, and headed out to the waxworks where the kid in the ticket booth took one look at me and asked if I was from the Mid-West.

Anyway, move forward in time to June 2008. By this time I was living with my wife in Porterville, CA, as far away from Hollywood culturally as London was geographically. A friend of mine from England was going to be working in West Hollywood for a week, mixing a CD in a West Hollywood studio. He was going to have a tight schedule, but he invited us to drop in and visit for a while. We were originally going to meet up at the studio, but that didn't work out, so instead he invited us to visit him in his hotel, the Chateau Marmont on Sunset.

Even I had heard of the place. Thirties movie stars went there to engage in the kind of activities the publicists either kept quiet or exaggerated depending on the way the wind was blowing. It was the private getaway the stars could make and yet still make the early calls. By the Sixties, rock stars had added it to the tour itinerary. Jim Morrison jumped off a window ledge or something, Led Zeppelin carried out their four man war against the TV manufacturing industry a set at a time, and John Belushi checked out not of the hotel but life itself.

The Marmont is actually easy to miss from the street, which is my way of saying we drove straight past it. Finally, we realized that we had to drive down to the underground car park. There were several self important looking people waiting for limos under the watchful eye of a well dressed security guy who looked rather a lot like Alexander O'Neal. I really wanted to go up to him and say, "Go on, do it, 'All You ever do is criticize', you know you want to," but I didn't really feel like being shot that early on a Monday morning. We asked how to get to bungalow 2 (the very place the Blues brothers went singular) and were told that we would have to have our truck valet parked. I rather liked the idea of our humble Chevy S10 being parked next to all the vintage open top sports cars, Bentleys and Humvees. I asked the valet guy about that and he answered that, "We get all sorts here!" We handed over the keys to the truck and were shown through a padlocked door. On the other side was a cross between a botanical garden and a not very well constructed movie set of the Burmese jungle. Hotel staff seemed to scurry everywhere, and there was an eighteen year old in a bathrobe smoking a cigarette like he had just invented them a few minutes before, and generally acting as if he owned the place. We asked him if he knew how to get to bungalow 2, and he pointed out that we were right in front of it. Despite that blunder, he still looked more stupid than we did. Turning our backs on him, we saw what looked like a tiny house in any town in middle America, picket fence and all. bungalow. Our friend greeted us at the door and we entered what looked on the inside like the apartment you and your college friends rent once you get the first good job. Nice, comfortable, but not ostentatious.

As we caught up with our friend, I couldn't help but let my mind wander a little. Where exactly was Belushi when he drew his last breath? What other unpleasantness had gone on here in the past. What teen idol had done what to whom and holding what? It was a bit like an X-rated version of Clue. (Cluedo to us Brits.) An idea started to form. Maybe that was the true nature of this place. A safe haven for the stars, yes, to a point, but like all Hollywood, it was an illusion. I thought more about that as our visit continued. It was good to see my friend. He was doing nothing more than working hard and making Organic shakes when he was home in the bungalow, staying there because it was being paid for by someone other than him. We said goodbye just as staff arrived armed with complimentary newspapers and other bits of hotel swag. We got back to the underground car park to find that we had to go upstairs to the lobby to settle the 12 buck parking bill. We found ourselves in the tiniest elevator I think I have ever been in (except for the dumb waiter I squeezed into during a drunken game of 'hide and seek' in a hotel in Bournemouth years ago). As we entered the lobby, yet more staff were milling around being discrete. The woman behind the desk eyed us up and if smugness were a disease she would have died on the spot. Her attitude made us both feel that we had to act like we knew somebody, which was ridiculous, not least for the fact that we bloody did know someone, that was why we were there. A couple of colleagues joined her to watch the proles, and everyone (us included) left the encounter feeling morally superior. As we picked up our truck which was helpfully waiting for us, a TV movie actress that used to be in a well known sitcom waited for her ride, wanting to be left alone almost as much as she wanted to be recognized. I pandered to the first demand by ignoring the second. Then, as soon as we had entered the world of the beautiful people (there were certainly more blondes here than in real life) we were out of it again, pootling along Sunset to IHOP and a late breakfast.

So, what had we learned? Not much I suppose. The theory I had been working on since our brief adventure in bungalow 2 had kind of formed. Hollywood has always been and always will be sold on myth and legend generated by whatever media is handy at the time. If Chateau Marmont didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent it, so that is what has happened. It is an overpriced hotel in a very convenient location selling discretion as blatantly as it sells it's souvenir tee-shirts. It isn't the fabled playground of the rich and infamous of legend, but it sort of is as well, and if it hadn't had any kind of impact on me, I wouldn't be writing about it now. I can be as sarcastic as I like about it now (and I like) but if I had seen some debauched A-lister while we visited I would have been thrilled, I know I would. I suppose the only thing I really learned was that however much we might despise the machinery, Hollywood works.