It Didn't Start With Bill Cosby

My niece, writing partner, and intrepid guide through treacherous historical terrain, is an accomplished player in the "What if..." game. She and I spend considerable time in the past and often indulge in this pleasantly futile pastime.

For instance, what if Ulysses S. Grant's oldest child Frederick had become William McKinley's vice-president instead of Teddy Roosevelt? Yes, Frederick Grant. It could've happened. If it had, America would be very different today. In some ways, better. Fred Grant was a great man with a noble, enlightened vision for the future. He had none of Roosevelt's false and destructive bravado. We paid tribute to him in our screenplay, "The Wars of Julia Grant," but what's a tribute worth when he was denied the presidency?

On a personal note, I deserved a job on the "Bill Cosby Show." Or did I? What if I had gotten it? Would it have become a nightmare? I can't help wondering, what if?...even though it leaves my stomach slightly unsettled.

Before the "Cosby Show" became a series, Marcy Carsey, the executive producer, invited me to her home to watch the pilot episode. The prospect of a job as a staff writer filled me with irrepressible joy. I was humming, singing, tingling with excitement as I drove to Westwood for our meeting. My agent had hand-delivered one of my scripts to her and she liked it! If she and I got along, I'd be heading for New York. Or so I thought.

I really needed the job. As a student in Berkeley I didn't have a TV, didn't go to movies, and pretty much disdained show business. Too trivial for the likes of lofty me. Fate--in the form of a fellow student with a summer job in Los Angeles--changed all that. I was persuaded to write a script. It was a joke, really, done for a laugh, but it got me a job in Hollywood. My friend's summer employer, Tom Pollock, warned me to "watch out for the sexuality at Paramount." He wasn't kidding. What I witnessed on my first day there made me cringe. An aging, distinguished-looking gentleman with a fancy walking stick caught my attention. He seemed charming in an Old Hollywood sort of way. The charm faded fast when he used the walking stick to lift a secretary's skirt. She didn't smack him, possibly because her job was at stake. Neither did the next object of his scrutiny, who, I would learn, was an actress whose feigned delight during these ugly encounters honed her skills and kept her working.

But I was a writer. I assumed that exempted my legs from an appalling inspection by the predatory producer. It didn't. He approached, waving his walking stick. I bolted. And I kept my distance from then on, often making a spectacle of myself in the process. According to one secretary, I was mocked as the most naive person on the lot.

It was a common practice among the secretaries to exchange anecdotes about their bosses' lurid activities. No one called it sexual harassment--and certainly not rape. It was business as usual. Show business as usual. Those in charge felt that being successful entitled them to act out their infantile fantasies. And what was wrong with that? they would probably have said. Weren't they also providing opportunities for women to advance?

I once criticized a well-known producer-writer for famously lurking around high school cheerleaders and offering his chosen few--or many--"auditions." He cheerfully responded that he felt like "a kid in a candy store," and how could I blame him for enjoying himself? And didn't I realize how happy these young girls were to get close to someone who could make them a star? Harvey had convinced himself he was practically being a humanitarian. But deep down he knew--and it bothered him--that without his position of power, he would face ridicule and rejection from these Teen Queens who were now fawning over him.

One secretary laughed bitterly when she said, "Show business was made for men who couldn't get a date in high school." It was obviously true for many executives, whose success in show business couldn't displace feelings of inadequacy which plagued them from childhood. It was that nagging inferiority that caused them to take advantage of frightened, vulnerable, or desperately ambitious women. Women they saw as equals were liable to destroy their egos by rejecting awkward, offensive advances.

"What Makes Sammy Run?" screenwriter Budd Schulberg was the son of B.P. Schulbert, a Paramount executive in the 1920s. In his autobiography, "Moving Pictures, Memoirs of a Hollywood Prince," Budd wrote about his philandering father's passive sexual abuse of the women who depended on him for their careers, including the beautiful but tormented superstar, Clara Bow, for whom Budd felt a special fondness, even though he unfairly considered her a "dumbbell."

Budd Schulberg

Not only did executives like B.P. use women to enhance their adolescent sense of "manhood," they used the movies for their personal wish fulfillment. What they couldn't do themselves, they voyeuristically slapped onto the silver screen. Movies became repulsively pornographic, violating every code of common decency, with scenes of unrestrained violence toward women. Hollywood had gone too far, and in 1930 Will Hays was called in as the official arbiter of unacceptable screen behavior. He toned down the sex and violence, but a legacy of slightly more subtle behind-the-scenes abuse remained.

Of course, not every man at Paramount had a terrible attitude toward women. Many intelligent, sensitive, creative human beings worked there. Some became good friends of mine. One of them gave me the best job I ever had at "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," and its sequel show, "Forever Fernwood." The executive producer, Norman Lear, was elderly, but the rest of us were young, idealistic egalitarians. I believe the idea of slipping drugs into a woman's drink would have embarrassed and outraged the men who were forging a New Hollywood.

Unfortunately, Fernwood was not really Forever. It eventually disappeared from the TV map and became only a pleasant memory for those of us who worked there. I was forced to enter the freelance arena. But not for long. Or so I thought.

A sweet old-fashioned husband and wife writing and producing team offered me a job on what would become an inexplicably successful sitcom. All I had to do was meet with the executive producer to get his stamp of approval. Just so he wouldn't feel left out. Things went well. He and I talked amiably about nothing for awhile. Then he remarked that I reminded him of a farm girl. And wouldn't I have fun in Benedict Canyon, watching his corn grow? Not exactly. I mumbled something stupid about vegetables not appealing to me. He looked displeased, and that was the end of that job.

Now I was on my way to meet one of the most powerful women in television--and she liked my work! What could go wrong! Nothing! And nothing did. Marcy Carsey lived in a lovely, but unassuming house in Westwood, not far from UCLA. I met her husband, who was charming, and her child's nanny, who was probably a student. Marcy was attractive in a pleasantly modest, unadorned way. She was soft-spoken and easy-going--not at all tense, brittle, and pulsating ambition as I might have thought. We chatted. I mentioned that Bill Cosby was once the opening act for the Kingston Trio. My sisters took me to the concert when I was a kid and we all fell in love with Bill--as well as the Kingston Trio. Marcy was also a fan, which made me like her even more.

We were getting along so well, I regretted having to interrupt our conversation to view a silly sitcom. But, it had to be done. Marcy showed me to a room, put on the pilot, and left me alone to watch. About half-way through, the nanny poked her head in to ask what I thought of the show. "I like it," I said. She made a face. "Really?!" Her disbelief reminded me of me. When I was in school, nothing about television--and especially sitcoms--seemed worthwhile. But now I was being honest. I would like--even love--any show willing to reward me with a paycheck.

When our meeting ended, Marcy walked me to my VW Beetle, which was parked in her driveway. "Are you taking that to New York with you?" she grinned. Then she said something about talking to the guys about me--there were other producers involved, including Cosby. They must've said no, because I didn't get that job either. The show went to New York without me.

When "Cosby Show" became a television sensation, Cosby produced other shows, one of which tantalized me with the possibility of a job. I was called in for a meeting with the female producer--I've forgotten her name and the name of the show--it was that memorable. She arrived late, after what she said was a tough meeting with Bill. It was very late in the day and we were both tired. After a pleasant conversation, she shook her head morosely and said, "You don't want to work here." I did...but I didn't.

After Cosby's major hit ended, he did another show, this time produced by my old boss at "Mary Hartman." He sent me the pilot from New York, and again I allowed myself to dream of a fat paycheck. It didn't happen. The show disappeared fast and left me disappointed.

The "What if..." game haunted me. I wanted to work for Cosby, but what if I had? If I learned what he was really like, it would have been intolerable. Would I have quit? Would I have thrown a fit? Who knows? It's much easier to think about Fred Grant as president.

Deflategate, the Exhibition!

The "Football!" exhibition at Simi Valley's Ronald Reagan Presidential Library shows that deflated footballs have a long and honorable history.

The game's about more than just airless pigskins, though:

Crime and Lack of Punishment at UCLA

Who cares about violence against women?  Everyone?  The media, definitely.  But what about UCLA?  That's a different story--one my partner in crime and I are about to tell.  Partners in writing about crime, that is.

We know of two cases where UCLA covered up violent crimes against women.  One was an employee who was brutally beaten, raped, and left for dead in a UCLA parking lot.  Her husband--terrified by officials--says they tried to blame him for the crime.

It was never reported, as required by the federal Clery Act.

The other victim--not just of an unknown assailant, but of a devastating cover-up by her employer of thirty years--was a psychiatric nurse at the University's prestigious Neuropsychiatric Institute.

When the assault was first reported, police refused to investigate, then later lied about it in writing.

At the Medical Center, doctors ignored the conclusion of the attending physician and transformed a severe concussion from multiple head wounds into "a laceration" from an unconscious episode.

The University obstructs every effort made by the victim or her family in her behalf for justice and compensation for the loss of her health and career.  The victim is left incapacitated, traumatized, and without salary or insurance to deal with permanent physical damage.  And no one seems to care.

In a civilized society, where massive doses of media outrage are directed at victimized women, how can this happen?

Here's how.

It's early Saturday morning.  The psychiatric nurse enters parking lot 8 after working a double shift at NPI.  She wakes up an hour later, lying face down in a pool of blood on the ground.  The campus police station is in plain sight, a few yards away.  The parking office is on the same level, a few feet from where she has lain.  But, for an hour, no one has come to her rescue.

Instinct tells her to flee to a place of safety.  She staggers to her car, blood still dripping onto her face, and drives home.

The instant her family sees her, they know she's been attacked.  They assume the perpetrator was one of the violent patients with whom she works.  They've attacked before, but never this viciously.  And injured staff don't leave the hospital covered with blood.  Family members are frantic.

Dazed and barely coherent, the nurse tells them it happened in the parking lot.  It--something--someone--must have knocked her unconscious.

They call the unit before rushing her to UCLA's emergency room.  Nurse Ginny, who answers the phone, is told to warn the staff and alert campus police because "a maniac is loose in parking lot 8."  Ginny later says that the officer who took her report sounded oddly disengaged.

Two women at the emergency room admitting desk are prepared for the nurse's arrival.  They casually mention that parking lot 8 is always deserted on Saturday mornings.  Inexplicably, they assert, and argue with the victim's family, that she wasn't attacked.  She "just fell."

Two police officers arrive.  They enter the dazed victim's room, spend a few moments there, and leave.  This is to be the extent of their investigation.

A month and eight days later, Manny Garza, Operations Lieutenant for the campus police, writes a letter which the University will repeatedly use--along with falsified medical records--to successfully obstruct the victim's pursuit of a hearing.

The letter states, "UCLA Police Officers responded to the Emergency Room after being called to investigate an on-campus injury."

No.  They were called to catch an assailant.

"They had only a general time and location."

No.  They were told exactly where and when.  If they had walked those few yards, they could hardly have missed the large pool of blood which was later washed away without being tested for DNA evidence.

The letter also says they "interviewed" the victim who "did not know how she sustained the injury."

No.  They could not--and did not attempt--to "interview" a patient, lying in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness.  If they had interviewed her, she would have said she was knocked unconscious.

"The officers inquired if she was the victim of a robbery.  She indicated that no property was missing from her purse."

No.  She didn't have a purse.  It was a backpack, which no one had checked.  But if the officers had checked it, they would have ascertained that the backpack would have cushioned a fall and prevented injury to the head.

"Based on the limited amount of information provided and no indication that a crime occurred, the officers concluded that the incident would be documented as an injury investigation."

No.  A crime was reported.  The officers had a duty to go to the scene.  They had a duty to look at the head wounds, which could not have been sustained in "just a fall."  The wounds were not just an "indication that a crime occurred," but proof of it.  This specious police letter is in itself proof of a failure to investigate.

None of this matters to UC administrators.  Lies are the only weapon they have against efforts to hold them accountable.  The victim's only weapon is truth.

During her three days in the hospital, the nurse continues to feel dizzy and nauseated.  She has trouble processing her thoughts and starts having nightmares.  Her attending physician finds nothing wrong, other than the after-effects of an assault.  Before releasing her patient, Dr. Meserve, who also uses parking lot 8, and has fears for her own safety, urges the victim's sister to check on the police investigation into the crime.  The campus police tell her the "investigation is ongoing."

The victim's outside doctor, who also teaches at UCLA, tells her he is being harassed by UCLA to send her back to work because she suffered only "a laceration."

He corrects this misrepresentation in several FAXES, which UCLA claims to have lost.  He gives his patient copies which say he still felt tremendous spasm in her neck, that she was lucky to be alive, after being "Mugged in UCLA parking area--unconscious--hospitalized--dizzy...neck injury."

About a month after the "incident," campus police detective Duenas also concludes that an attack occurred.

When the nurse can't cope with the insomnia and nightmares, she seeks help from a therapist.  The therapist learns that no investigation ever occurred, and the police never acknowledged that a crime was committed.

Stunned and incapacitated, the nurse asks her sister to file a complaint with UCLA, the Regents, the California Nurses' Association, then-Assembly member Sheila Kuehl, and the Department of Education, which oversees violations of the federal Clery Act, which demands that campus crimes be posted.

Detective Duenas calls and sets up an interview.  His is the only actual response.

At the meeting with the nurse and her sister, Detective Duenas apologizes for the lack of security which allowed the crime to occur, but, he says, the campus is "just too big" to be properly policed.

Damming words indeed.

He also apologizes for the lack of a proper investigation, and promises to post the crime on the police website.

This never happens.

Unfortunately, says the detective, it is unlikely the "assailant" will be caught a month after the "assault."

He asks the nurse and her sister if they have a theory of the "crime."

Manny Garza's letter, which is a total misrepresentation of the interview, says the sister was "adamant that her sister was the victim of assault.  She even offered two theories, one of which was a conspiracy..."

A "conspiracy," huh?  The sister sounds a little goofy, doesn't she?

But, several more than "two theories" were offered, and no conspiracy was ever suggested.  However, this letter begins to look like one, doesn't it?

One theory overlooked by Mr. Garza was the violent ex-patient or current patient scenario.  The nurse and her sister recounted their return to UCLA to pick up MRIs.  A former patient accosted them on the sidewalk and behaved in a dangerously inappropriate manner.

Another suppressed theory had the victim unknowingly witnessing illegal activity.  A drug deal, perhaps?  Everyone seemed to know parking lot 8 was "deserted" on Saturday mornings.  It was also open and free to the public.

Later it would be learned that body parts from UCLA were being illegally sold.  Were they transported from parking lot 8, perhaps?

The so-called "conspiracy theory" alluded to in the police letter actually worried the victim and her family.  But it had nothing to do with a conspiracy.  They felt it might have been a straightforward murder attempt, perpetrated in behalf of a man who accused UCLA of murder.  He accused the nurse of lying to cover up for UCLA's crime!

This, and another theory involved more of UCLA's failures to protect its employees.  And worse.  But those will be dealt with at a later time.

The letter calls the Detective Duenas meeting a "follow-up interview."  It says, "The investigators advised her that we would not likely determine the cause of her injury and there was no further information to follow-up on."

No.  There was no such conversation!  The issue was not "the cause of her injury."  That was irrelevant, especially a month later.  The issue was insufficient security, and the refusal by police to investigate.  Why didn't they investigate?  That was unnerving.

"We are considering the incident closed," the letter says.  It wasn't, and it never can be, not as long as UCLA continues to lie and inflict further pain on the victim with this cover-up.

"Thank you for your letter..." outgoing University President Mark G. Yudof wrote, "...regarding the University's investigation into the cause of the injuries for which you were treated..."

"...the cause?"  Haven't we already established that "the cause" was never an issue?  And it certainly was never mentioned in the many letters written by the victim and her family.  But that was always the response they received.

The UC President goes on, "I understand that William Cormier, UCLA's Director of Administrative Policies and Compliance, has responded to you on this matter on February 4, 2013, April 3, 2009, and March 13, 2009.  As I hope you will understand, the Regents and I have nothing further to add to what he has already said."

And what had William Cormier "already said?"

"This confirms that the UCLA police found no evidence of a criminal attack, as you assert took place in connection with the injuries you sustained in a UCLA parking lot structure..."  Finally, "We regret the injuries you incurred at UCLA, but the University considers the matter closed."

And in the February 4, 2013 letter:  "I regret that you remain dissatisfied with the University's investigation into the cause of the injuries for which you were treated..."

They really made use of that police letter, didn't they?  And it's looking more and more like a conspiracy, isn't it?

Three months after the incident, Cynthia Cohen, UCLA's Director of Human Resources, is conducting her own investigation and discussing compensation with the victim for the loss of her ability to work.

More time passes.  Eventually, Cynthia Cohen says she will conclude her investigation by reviewing the interview with Detective Duenas.

That's the last this nurse ever hears from Ms. Cohen.  Did she see the discrepancies between that meeting and the police letter?  Or was she not allowed access to campus police?

Six months after the incident, Octagon, the claims administrator for the University of California, is investigating.  That goes on for months, with no apparent success.

It's now early August.  The nurse is virtually bedridden and terrified by her deteriorating condition.  Without a salary, without compensation for her losses, resources are being seriously depleted.

The family calls Octagon to urge a more rapid resolution.  But the University replaced Octagon with Sedgwick as their claims administrator.  No one informed the nurse.  And, for days, Sedgwick can't find her files.

It is now August 9th, nine days before the one year anniversary of the "incident."  Nine days before the statute of limitations denies the nurse her day in court.  The claims administrator denies the claim without investigating so that the victim can file a lawsuit.

This isn't so easy.

The family frantically seeks help.  Even Gloria Allred is contacted.  She doesn't respond.

In a panic, the family files suit on its own.  It also files complaints with numerous elected officials, including the Attorney General, District Attorney, City Attorney, and then-Assembly member Sheila Kuehl.

A Sheila Kuehl staffer curtly insists that the University did nothing wrong.  To prove it, she sends the nurse a copy of the police letter.  The family reads it, refutes it, but hears no more from Sheila Kuehl's office.

The family asks the court for a brief delay based on the new evidence of malfeasance in the letter, and the need to find an attorney.

In a surprise appearance, the University's attorney argues against what should be a routine continuance.  But the delay of even a few days, says the attorney, would constitute an unfair financial burden for his clients.

The judge agrees.  And the case is thrown out.

The family writes more complaints.  Much later, then-Congressman Henry Waxman's office contacts the University in behalf of the nurse.

He writes back, "According to our liaison at UCLA, she has spoken with the General Counsel, Mr. Joe Mandel, and was informed that because you have a pending lawsuit, he can not comment on the situation."

No.  There was no lawsuit.  But calling and writing to Congressman Waxman did no good.

After years of escalating health problems, the nurse is hospitalized and undergoes more than fourteen hours of surgery.  During her nine days in intensive care, she and the family learn from nurses that her medical records are false.  It was not just a bureaucratic error that caused UCLA to refer to "a laceration."  The medical records state she suffered "an unconscious episode" and received "a laceration" as a result.

"I have been lied to, and lied about for too long," says the nurse.  "It has made my life an unrelieved hell.  I wrote it all to the usual suspects, like UC President, Janet Napolitano, but nobody responded.  At least," she adds with a grim chuckle, "I didn't have to read again that UCLA is unable to determine 'the cause' of my injuries."

The Night Tony Randall Recued the Swedish Seafarers

I recently heard the news that Atticus Finch is now a bigot.  How could this be?  "To Kill a Mockingbird was one of my favorite novels in high school.  Atticus touched my heart and inspired me; he convinced me to pursue my education in U.C. Berkeley.  How could a gifted author allow the beloved her she created go bad?

I dug up my old copy of the iconic book and began to leaf through it.  What I discovered revived memories of the night Tony Randall seized the opportunity to become a hero.  Really.  Sort of.

It wasn't the book, but the postcard I found tucked inside it that brought the story to my mind.

The incident began with a phone call I expected and did not want to receive.

"When are you coming to see the play?" Tony asked.  He and Jack Klugman were doing "Odd Couple" in the theater.

I wanted to say, "Never!" I can't help it; I don't like plays.  I usually get bored, or annoyed.  I feel trapped.  And you can't really get up and walk out.  Although, this time...

"I can't afford the theater," I whined.

"Silly girl!  You don't pay when you're with The Star," he said.  He often called himself, "The Star."  It was a role he played for our amusement.  His caricature of the self-important celebrity also provided a usefully commanding persona capable of controlling every situation.  It put him in charge.  Like this time.

Tony picked me up the next evening.  And he was right--I didn't have to pay for a ticket.  Neither did he.  Inside the theater, we approached a small crowd that had gathered.  It looked like the casting call for a beach party movie.  I definitely didn't belong.

The gorgeous, sun-tanned group was crowding around the young man Tony knew, who was either the stage manager of his assistant.  I've forgotten which.  A lovely blonde who spoke with a soft Scandinavian accent was the focus of his attention as we joined them.  We learned that Carina had been an exchange student who lived with the family of the stage manager, or he was the exchange student with her family in Sweden.  I've forgotten that too.

She and her friends were taking time off from school to work on a ship which transported cars to foreign ports.  The stage manager had invited them to see the show when they reached Los Angeles.

Tony played official greeter to the foreign visitors and impressed them with his charm, even though they had no idea who he was.  Then he bade us farewell, leaving firm instructions with the stage manager to accommodate us with good seats.  Which he did.  We just didn't have them for long.

When the play started, the Swedish group was delighted to see their greeter appear on stage.  "He's the actor!" one of them murmured.

Hans, a shy, but exceptionally good-looking member of the crew, leaned over to me and whispered, "Is he your father?"

Without warning, a grim-faced older man in a suit loomed over us, making a gesture with his hand that strongly implied we shouldn't get too comfortable.

"You can't stay in seats you didn't pay for," he growled in low, menacing tones.

The young Swedes were mortified.  It didn't bother me; I was happy for the chance to move around.  What I bitterly resented was the embarrassment my new friends were suffering.  And why?  There was no queue waiting for those seats.

Before we knew it, we were being marched to the rear exit--like naughty grade-schoolers herded to the principal's office--then around to the stage area.  This cold-hearted official deposited us at the side of the stage, where, remarkably, we had the best seats in the house.  Except, we were standing.  The whole stage was visible and we were closer than anyone in the audience.  I actually preferred it, but...

This didn't last long either.

Tony's character, the famously anal-retentive, fastidious Felix Unger, was delivering a line when his head turned to the side for a moment.  He noticed me.  His eyes flashed.  The Star was angry.

When the scene ended and the curtain went down, Tony stormed off the stage.

"I will not go on until my friends are seated!" he thundered.  And off he went to his dressing room.

The Star was imperious.  The Star was autocratic.  The Star was also a hero to us exiles.  Moments later, we were being escorted back to our seats by a contrite official whose only wish was to be worthy of our forgiveness.

My friends beamed with relief as we finally settled down to enjoy the rest of the show.  None of it, however, could have been as memorable as the performance Tony gave for our benefit off-stage.

I had been re-reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" when the postcard arrived from Japan.  Carina wrote, "...We were pleased to see Tony Randall starring in one of the movies we had on board the ship...Please say hello to him for us."

I did.  He feigned modesty and waved off my praise, but I could see how much he relished the reminder of his heroic--if somewhat theatrical--rescue of the Swedish visitors.

Carina's postcard remained a forgotten bookmark near the end of "To Kill a Mockingbird."  Now I remember why I didn't finish it.  I didn't like it all that much.  The character of Atticus wasn't as convincing as he had been to an impressionable high school girl.  He seemed contrived.

Harper Lee's "new" book was actually written before "To Kill a Mockingbird," but it gathered dust for decades.  Is it possible that the Atticus of "Go Set a Watchman" is the character written from the author's heart?  And was "Mockingbird" written grudgingly--cynically--just to please her publishers?  Or was Truman Capote really the author after all?

I won't read the "new" book.  And I'll try to resurrect the Atticus of my early high school days.  Heroes are hard to come by.

Photo of the Day

Santa Anita's beloved Fire Marshal Mike welcoming home a Triple Crown winner a few days ago.

 

I'm not sure AP himself was all that impressed by the fuss, though.

Photo of the Day

Queen Victoria scoffed at the idea that owners and their dogs look alike.

Martin Sheen and the Triple Crown Trainer

Mention the Triple Crown to me and my mind goes back to Martin Sheen and the memorable evening we endured some years ago with a feisty thoroughbred horse trainer.  Although the robust, rough-hewn horseman never has taken home the coveted trophy, he was no stranger to the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont, where he experienced the rare thrill of being a contender for the most elusive prize in sports.

Martin Sheen loved horse racing.  For him it wasn't just the excitement of watching magnificent equine competitors display their power and skill; he was fascinated by the people of the backstretch, whose lives were totally intertwined with the race horses they mentioned.  When he heard about a trainer who had a story to tell, Martin wanted to tell it.  He discussed a possible biographical screenplay with writer, producer, director, and mentor Garry Marshall.  Garry suggested I work with Martin on the project.

In all humility, I felt I was perfect for the job.  At that time, I knew nothing about racing, nothing about Santa Anita or Hollywood Park, and didn't want to learn.  But, as an animal lover, I figured I'd get along really well with the horses.

Arrangements were made for Martin to drive me to the track where we would meet producer and racing fan Fred Roos, who would spearhead negotiations with the trainer for a movie about his life.

On our trip to the track Martin talked about his family, including the brother who trained horses in Florida.  I learned that their mother was Irish, their father, Spanish.  It may have been this diversity in his background which instilled in him a genuine compassion for others, especially those who suffer.  He impressed me as exceptionally intelligent and sensitive, qualities which helped to make him the great actor he was.

Martin also told me how much he admired Tony Randall and used him in his acting endeavors.  Mia Farrow once told him he reminded her of someone in the scene they had just done together.

"Tony Randall?" he asked.  "That's the one!" she responded.

Martin was also a fan of the late James Dean and the living singer, Bob Dylan.  Years later he encountered an associate of the music legend who offered to introduce him.

"I couldn't," he said.  "I mean, it was Bob Dylan!"

How odd but endearing, I thought, that this successful, respected actor, whom many considered a genius at his craft, felt too humble to be in the presence of his idol.

When we arrived at the track, Fred Roos, Martin, and I met briefly for pep talks and last-second strategizing before proceeding to the restaurant where we hoped to entice the successful trainer into putting his life in our hands--figuratively speaking, of course.

"That's a working man's hand," he told Martin as Fred made the introductions and a round of hand-shaking ensued.

The trainer had no idea he was meeting a gifted, accomplished actor.  In his eyes, Martin was a tough working man.  He liked that.  So did Martin.  There was an instant bond.  We had sprung from the starting gate like sure winners.

We sat down to the dinner that was not to be.  Fred Roos affirmed his and Martin's devotion to racing.  He expressed their appreciation for the trainer's contributions to the sport.  I silently sipped my glass of water.

Martin explained his desire to immortalize the trainer on film.  Although he and I had no track record with writing blockbuster movies, he suggested an analogy:  If we were untried yearlings who demonstrated the passion and potential to be champions, the trainer would take a chance on us, wouldn't he?  Very clever, I thought.  So did the trainer.  Smiles everywhere.  We all glowed with confidence and camaraderie.  The finish line was within reach.  Right there.  Just steps away.  Inside my head, crowds roared approval.

The trainer was relaxed now--and talking.  There were outstanding horses in his barn; the possibilities were exhilarating.  But the workers...If only he had decent workers!  Ones who spoke English.  And did their jobs.  The trainer's day had not gone well.  Ours was heading in the same direction.

The rant against his Mexican workers continued.  Martin's Spanish blood was seething, but he remained responsibly nonviolent.  His restraint was remarkable.  Fred Roos sat motionless.  It felt like a living nightmare.

Suddenly, it was over.  Martin, Fred, and I were walking out, shaken and disappointed.  The words used to facilitate our hasty exit are long forgotten, or were lost at the time when neurotransmitters shut down in dismay.  But, there was no shouting, no fisticuffs.  We left physically intact.

"I heard you met a bigot," Garry said the next day.  "I'm sorry."  I wasn't.  It was a learning experience.

Joseph Cosey: The Man Who Was Edgar Allan Poe

A recurring character in our "Forrest Sisters Mysteries" books is Izzy Wright, who utilizes his love for the past into the unconventional career of forging historical documents. We found our inspiration for this character in one of the most talented and prolific forgers in American history.

The period of the 1920s-1950s was a Golden Age for Edgar Allan Poe-related "discoveries." During these years, many previously unknown letters and documents of the legendary poet surfaced for the first time. Unfortunately, a great deal of credit for these additions to Poe lore can be given to Martin Coneely.

Coneely, who was born in 1887, is best known by his favorite alias of "Joseph Cosey." Little is known of his early life. He ran away from home at an early age, and henceforth led a solitary, nomadic life, supporting himself through a series of petty crimes. He apparently had no friends or family ties. Despite his shady and hardscrabble background, he was a highly intelligent man with an instinctive love for books and history--19th century Americana in particular. In other circumstances, he would have become a genuine scholar, but as it happened, his fate was instead not to merely study history, but to make it. Literally.

In the 1920s, he paid what proved to be a life-changing visit to the Manuscripts Division of the Library of Congress. His motives in requesting to see signatures and documents belonging to such greats as Jefferson and Washington were entirely innocent--he merely wished to gratify his passion for Americana. However, once he was able to actually see and touch these priceless relics of the past, he felt he could not let them all go. Settling his desire upon a pay warrant signed by Benjamin Franklin in 1786, he slipped the paper into his pocket, and, in those more trusting times, left the library unnoticed.

A year or so later, he was living in a tenement in New York City, drunk, alone, and flat broke. Desperate for money, he steeled himself to sell his one prized possession--his stolen Franklin document. Upon taking it to a book dealer, however, he was stunned and indignant when the man scornfully rejected it as a forgery. In his disgust, Cosey resolved to teach this impertinent fool a lesson. He, himself, would create a real forgery and sell it to him! He haunted the local public libraries, studying facsimiles of the handwriting of historical figures. He found that Abraham Lincoln's signature came easiest to him, and after some months of practice, whipped out a handsome "Yrs. Truly, A. Lincoln" on a scrap of paper. The same dealer who dismissed his authentic Franklin bought the bogus Cosey for ten dollars.

It was an epiphany. Cosey, after a lifetime of aimless and unproductive wanderings, felt he had finally found his mission in life. He threw all his previously dissipated energies into his new calling. He became to manuscript forging what Tiffany's is to diamonds. G. William Bergquest, an expert on literary hoaxes, called him "the greatest forger of his kind in this century." The renowned book and autograph dealer Charles Hamilton went even further, describing Cosey as "the most skilled and versatile forger of all time." During his long and prolific career, he forged many items of Americana, particularly ones imitating the handwriting of Lincoln and George Washington.

Alas for Poe scholarship, Cosey also had a personal devotion to the author of "The Raven," which he expressed in his own singular manner. He also, for whatever reason, had a predilection for Poe's literary contemporary Nathaniel Parker Willis. He is known to have created more than one letter from Poe to Willis, and enjoyed adding forged notations by Willis to his "Poe manuscripts." Physically, they were impeccable pieces of work, but Cosey occasionally made several factual errors in the text. The errors were relatively minor--there are far worse in many Poe biographies--but they were enough to discredit the documents. Otherwise, the letters may well have been permanently accepted as genuine. In fact, Hamilton stated that all of the extant Poe/Willis correspondence has to be suspected as being Cosey's handiwork. (All this makes one wonder about a manuscript copy of Poe's poem "For Annie" which sold at auction not long ago for a cool $830,000, even though very limited information was given about the document's provenance. Among the distinguishing features of this artifact were notations added by none other than N.P. Willis.)

Cosey was considerably more ambitious than the typical forger. Not content with reproducing signatures or brief snippets of already-published texts, he did serious preliminary research on his subjects, enabling him to convincingly channel the literary style of Poe and his other favorite targets, churning out with unnerving speed and agility lengthy, interesting letters, artifacts such as account books and legal papers, and long samples of documents (including manuscripts of "The Poetic Principle," "The Raven," and "The Fall of the House of Usher.") His instinctive skill for replicating handwritings was coupled with the savvy to use genuinely antiquated paper and writing implements, including a distinctive brown ink specific to the 18th and early 19th centuries. He even became adept at forging letters of verification to accompany his creations. All this combined to make him a formidable menace to the world of manuscript collecting.

A Cosey forgery of a document supposedly signed by Abraham Lincoln.

Cosey was also clever enough to take advantage of an odd quirk in the penal codes of New York (and a number of other states.) According to the law, merely forging any "archaeological object" was not in itself illegal. The crime occurred only when the owner of the "object" deliberately presented it for sale it as a genuine artifact. Cosey would merely diffidently present his documents to dealers or private collectors as objects of unknown value that he had "inherited," or "been given," or simply "found," and left it up to the prospective buyer to decide whether it was of any worth. Ironically, his seeming casualness about the documents served to enhance their plausibility. And if the forgery was detected, all he had to do was innocently state that he had never claimed the manuscripts were anything other than old pieces of paper.

Another thing that made Cosey notable was that, like many other great figures of his unusual profession, he saw himself as no mere criminal, but as an artist, a craftsman. He took great pride in his output, which he invested with a care that arose not merely from a desire to avoid exposure, but from a love of the work itself. He was, in the words of one of his parole officers, "a likable, ingratiating fraud." To paraphrase one of his favorite subjects, for him forgery was not a purpose, but a passion.

What is more, he convinced himself that he was actually doing a public service. After all, relatively few of even the most ardent Poe devotees have the money or opportunity to possess a letter or other document in his writing. Thanks to Joseph Cosey, many more of them would get that chance! He once told a story about going to a bookstore with a "Poe letter" he had created. "The owner was out," he said, "but his secretary told me she was a student of Poe and would be thrilled to see something in his handwriting. I finally sold it to her for three dollars, but only because I was broke. Well my conscience bothered me about it for weeks, and the first time I had three dollars I went back to the shop to tell her it was a counterfeit, and buy it back from her. But when I heard her talk about how much pleasure that letter had given her, I didn't have the heart to disillusion her. So I walked out and let her keep it and believe in it."

It would be nice to know where that letter is now. And how often it has been quoted as source material in Poe biographies.

For all his natural gift for chicanery, Cosey did sometimes turn out product sufficiently flawed to be exposed by the experts. He often ignored the fact that a person's handwriting inevitably changes with age. A Cosey "Benjamin Franklin," for example, would have the same signature in old age that he had in his prime. He would occasionally cut corners by chemically treating modern paper to give it the appearance of age. Such mistakes led to his arrest in 1937, after he sold an "Abraham Lincoln" letter. It was dated "December 2, 1846." but, with uncharacteristic sloppiness Cosey wrote it on paper bearing a discernible 1860 watermark. (By this time, Cosey was not only an alcoholic, but a heroin addict, which undoubtedly affected his talents.) His victim was content to chalk it up to the hazards of the business, but after he heard Cosey was attempting to sell a similar letter to another dealer, the police were summoned. The detectives who brought him in for questioning immediately saw from the marks on his arms that he was a drug user, and evidently promised him a much-needed "fix" if he confessed. He did, and was convicted of petty larceny. He was paroled after less than a year, and he inevitably immediately went back to his life's work. He is believed to have kept up his cheerfully felonious ways right until his death, which is generally thought to have taken place around 1950, when he simply dropped out of sight. Some sources, however, believe he was still producing "artifacts" for some years afterward. His end, appropriately enough for a Poe impersonator, is a mystery.

Thankfully, many documents have been exposed as his handiwork. Such is his reputation, that many of them have fetched high prices at auction as "Genuine Cosey Forgeries." A side industry even emerged of--seriously--forged "Cosey forgeries." The New York Public Library did him the dubious, if unmistakable, honor of setting up a permanent collection of his "Greatest Hits." (One of the founding items in this file was an assortment of notes Poe supposedly wrote in relation to the printing of "Tamerlane.") However, it is acknowledged that there are many, many more "Coseys" in circulation that have gone undetected.

  The prominent autograph and manuscript dealer Charles Hamilton made a particular study of Cosey's career. "Long ago," he wrote, "I concluded that there must be far more forgeries of Poe by Cosey than there are original Poe letters." Considering how many leading items of Poeana--items which largely have a sketchy or nonexistent history--first appeared during Cosey's prolific heyday, Hamilton's words should be memorized by any student of Poe's life. And it must be remembered that Joseph Cosey was hardly the first Poe forger, nor the last.

Caveat emptor. And then some.

Sunshine and Shadow...and Harry Nilsson

Her name was Leslie, but few of her many admirers knew it.  They called her "Sunnie," because sunshine is what defined her.  She was warm, bright, beautiful, and luminous with life-giving energy.

Sunnie attracted attention without trying.  When she was a dancer in Las Vegas and attracted the attention of a promising young musician, the two of them joined forces and moved to Los Angeles to pursue his career.  One of Randy's fondest recollections was playing guitar for Ray Charles and being told he played like he was black.

He was good enough to impress singer/songwriter Harry Nilsson, whose success had earned him an opportunity with RCA to produce records for others.  Randy was one of the first artists to make an album under Harry's auspices.

Sunnie and I became friends, and it was through her that I met Harry, who was one of the most interesting, charismatic people I've ever met.  Tall, blonde, and slender, Harry wasn't conventionally handsome, but his sweetness, his shy, wistful smile, contrasted with wit and intellectual combativeness were fascinating to everyone who crossed his path.

He had a disarming sense of humor.  "I'll pick you up at Paramount," he told me once.  "We'll have lunch at the Brown Derby, and it'll be almost like we're in show business."  His friend Mickey Dolenz, formerly of the Monkees, joined us at the iconic old celebrity restaurant.  It was almost like we were in show business.

Harry's biggest hit, "Without You," featured the line, "You always smile but in your eyes the sorrow shows."  The song was written by Pete Ham and Tom Evans of Badfinger, but it described Harry perfectly.  He was surrounded by an aura of impenetrable sadness, which, tragically, he tried to suppress with drugs.  He always carried loose pills in his pockets.  On one occasion he made a mistake by popping a pill from the wrong pocket.  "I didn't mean to do that," he said with a sheepish grin.  Luckily, it seemed to make no difference, and he was able to drive without incident.  Harry wasn't so lucky the time he and John Lennon famously got themselves thrown out of Los Angeles' Troubadour club, for causing a disturbance during the Smothers Brothers' act.  Perhaps they both chose the wrong pockets that night.

The Troubadour was also where Sunnie introduced me to John Stewart, formerly of the Kingston Trio.  Her husband was in Las Vegas for a week and she didn't want to be alone.  I agreed to stay with her for a day or two.

We went to the Troubadour, where Stewart, whom she had known prior to her marriage, was headlining.  She clearly regretted my presence when John accepted an invitation to meet at her apartment after the show.

That evening, Sunnie sat fuming in her living room as John, who was still painfully emotional about Robert Kennedy's assassination, concentrated on questioning me about my time at UC Berkeley.  The liberal enclave fascinated him, and elevated me in his estimation.  He was writing a screenplay about the Civil War, and asked me to read it when it was finished.

Sadly, I never met Stewart again.  Years later, when my niece and I worked on our script about Ulysses S. Grant's wife Julia, I thought about my brief encounter with this intensely thoughtful musician who preferred substantive conversation to the prospect of a romantic evening with my beautiful--and extremely willing--friend.

Not surprisingly, Sunnie's marriage suffered badly, and ended in divorce.  Subsequent relationships didn't work out for her, leaving her with wounded pride and battered self-esteem.  She needed reassurance that she was still worthy of attention.

When I spoke about Sunnie's despair, my friend Joe, a writer on the game show "Match Game," offered to arrange for her to audition as a contestant.

The moment she laid eyes on Joe at the studio, she shrieked that she remembered him.  As a kid, he went to her dad's summer camp in Florida.  She saw that as the good omen for her future that she so desperately needed.  Her energy exploded.  She was exuberant, charming, and even played the game well.

After about a week after her audition, Sunnie called me, depressed that "Match Game" hadn't contacted her.  She decided to give up her life in Los Angeles and start over in Florida.

When I told Joe about this, he was stunned.  Something had gone wrong.  He said Sunnie's audition was spectacular, and the producers were eager to have her as a contestant.  He couldn't imagine why she hadn't heard from them, but he supposed some wires had been crossed somewhere.

Sunnie never heard this good news.  She had disappeared, and I couldn't find out where.  I never heard from her again.

Leslie had grown up wanting to be an actress.  She made it.  "Sunnie" was the role of a lifetime, and she played it to the hilt, convincing most everyone that her joie de vivre was real.  Maybe, like Greta Garbo, she got tired of "making faces."  Happy faces.  Maybe in Florida she was able to become Leslie again.

I just hope she found more happiness as herself.

Photo of the Day

A sooty tern chick waiting for his parents to feed him.  Life Magazine, 1950.

Oh, for God's sake, someone feed that baby already.  This is enough to make me want to cry.

Photo of the Day

Fifi, mascot of early aviator John Moisant.  (She's wearing mourning for her owner, who died in a crash.)

The Not-So-Royal Baby

Good for William and Kate.  The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have done their duty by providing the increasingly superfluous British monarchy with an "heir and a spare."

They had been married only a short time when the baby watch began.  Nothing happened.  Before long, die-hard romantics in Britain began the subtle chant, "Why is she there if she can't get an heir?"  The pressure was on.  The future king of England--even though it's not "England" anymore, thanks to the European Union--has a job to do, and it wasn't getting done.

For those of us who remember our history, it brought to mind previous monarchs, ones who weren't irrelevant and actually ruled.  Their responsibilities in the baby-making business were crucial for the family to maintain an unbroken succession to the throne.

Mary Queen of Scots found herself facing a big hurdle when she married a man with advanced syphilis.  This poor woman had no luck with husbands.  As a girl, she was married off to Francis, the Valois heir to the French throne, but he was sickly and died in his teens.

Mary returned to Scotland to personally rule the kingdom she had inherited as a baby, and immersed herself in Europe's complex power struggle.  She was next in line to succeed Elizabeth I of England.  Her biggest rival for the throne was a cousin, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley.  He had an advantage over her, being male, English, and favored by England's Catholics.  Marrying him solidified her position and made Elizabeth more likely to name Mary as her successor.

Marrying him was the right thing to do.  Or so it seemed at the time.

It didn't take long to recognize the advanced syphilis which plagued Darnley.  Nobody's perfect, of course, but the disease was a death sentence in the 16th century.  The intimate contact necessary to produce an heir would likely kill the Queen.

What to do?

Mary was raised in the French court, a hotbed of sexual, political, and religious intrigue.  As a precocious child, she learned a trick or two from the ambitious players in the royal reality show which nurtured her.  Catherine de Medici, the famed purveyor of diabolical mischief, had her own problems with conceiving an heir.  She solved her husband's indifference by excluding him from the process.  Catherine knew her witchcraft and used it prodigiously.

Mary took note and acquired a ringer of her own.  Years later, when the wife of James II tried the same trick, members of the court had grown wary; they demanded the right to witness these royal births as a safeguard against the chicanery of non-productive parents who might "magically" introduce an outsider--a foundling or product of a surrogate--into the royal bloodlines.

Mary's "son"--whom she despised even before he betrayed her--went on to become King James I of England.  His lack of a pedigree might be awkward for the family which traces its lineage back to Mary, except for the fact that monarchy no longer represents divine intercession in earthly affairs.  It is now nothing more than an attractive distraction and an extravagant tourist trap.

We tell the full story of Mary's escapades in the e-book "Mary Queen of Scots and the Magician-King," available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Photo of the Day

A fond look back to the good old days, when every McDonald's franchise was a portal to Hell.



A Little-Known Hollywood Legend

There is a Hollywood legend whose impact on show business history is undiminished by time--or the inconvenience of death.  This was a character unlike any other, in appearance, in personality, and in the quality of his conversation.  It was my great good fortune to meet him while he was "still dead."

I am referring to the incomparable, the unforgettable, Abby Greshler.

Wait a minute.  Abby?  A legend?  Abby?--the frail, elfin specter whose shriveled, transparent skin brought to mind a poorly embalmed Yoda?  Who could call that a legend?

Only those who ever encountered him.

Abbe was the agent who represented Tony Randall, Jack Klugman, and other successful celebrities.  Whenever his name was mentioned in knowledgeable, jovial show business circles, the joke was, "Abby?  Is he still dead?"  And, yes, he looked that bad.

Those who loved him, however, and depended on him to keep them employed, made the obligatory comments about his rather ghastly looks and demeanor, but what they truly relished was quoting his famous bon mots, those spontaneous lines that flowed effortlessly from his lips, as if gag writers toiled inside his bald head.

Tony Randall imitated Abby's muddled, "It's six of one, a dozen of the other"--the agent's way of saying there was no quantitative difference between two choices.

"What you need is a disease," he told Tony once.  "The trouble is, all the good ones are gone."  Eventually Abby arranged for Tony to act as a spokesperson in the fight against Myasthenia Gravis.  Tony felt hypocritical, and somewhat guilty, I think, when Ann-Margret's husband, Roger Smith, who had the disease, called him in a panic.  Tony didn't know what to do and complained to Abby about being in an untenable position.  "You don't need to know anything," Abby told him, "to talk about it."

I had seen Abby around Paramount before, but was not formally introduced to him until Tony's last night at the "Sonny and Cher Show."  Abbe and I sat together in the audience when Tony left us to do his skit.

"What funny lines did you write?" was the first thing Abby said to me.  "Tell me some of 'em, I'll tell you what I think."

"What did he think?--that I was auditioning as a comic?  If I had been, maybe I could've come up with some hilarious response to put him in his place.  Instead, I sat in stiff silence until the show--all of which I've forgotten, thanks to Abby--was over, and Tony came to rescue me.

On the way out, he stopped to say good night and introduce me to Sonny and Cher.  They were still in full makeup and wearing their usual colorful, glittering costumes.  Cher's exotic beauty was breathtaking and Sonny was adorably cute, but an aura of alienation permeated their dressing room.  It came as no surprise when their marriage ended.  Their faces and body language reflected an emotional distance which separated them even as they worked so closely and successfully together.

Meeting these two sad superstars--and the dear but deadly Abby--left me feeling less than uplifted.  Tony, always a little uncomfortable with genuine emotion, attributed all sorrow to the perils of show business.  He gave me his orange and black script to cheer me up.

It didn't, but somehow, it does now.  Aren't memories funny?

Photo of the Day

It's a little-known fact that at every full moon, Queen Victoria turned into a cat.

Fear and Loathing in Fernwood

At "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," my boss often encouraged me to spend more time on the set with the actors.  I resisted.  Getting a show on the air five days a week was not an endeavor for the uncommitted.  The exertion created overwhelming stress and often led to physical and emotional exhaustion.  It was not always handled gracefully.

I never witnessed a Louise Lasser Tantrum--and felt blessed for it--but hearing from those who experienced her uncontrollable rage was enough to unnerve me.  I remember too well the trembling young courier who hid in my office after she verbally brutalized him for an inconsequential misstep.  There were tears in his eyes as he described running away from her because the fear and humiliation were too much for him; he said he had never seen anyone so angry in his life.

It seemed to me that Louise had two principle methods of stress-relief:  She either blew up--making life miserable for others--or she retreated into an alternate universe where others didn't exist.

One day when I was on the set I saw her in what appeared to be deep meditation.  She was sitting at Mary Hartman's kitchen table, seemingly unaware of her surroundings or the director who was about to call for action.  The show was behind schedule and over budget, so he and the producers wanted to film every scene in one take.  One take only.

This wasn't going to happen.

Louise's head wobbled slightly.  As her eyes opened, she looked around, bewildered and disoriented.

I sensed disaster and raced back to the producers' office where Brad and Eugenie were watching the scene on their TV monitors.

"She looks terrible!" I shouted, as if they couldn't see for themselves.  They seemed concerned, but not nearly as much as I was.  I needed to convince them that Louise was in no shape to do that scene.  Maybe there was time to call the set and delay taping until she came to her senses.  Otherwise they'd never get this scene in one take.

But no, it was too late.  The director called for action--and that's exactly what he got.  Louise miraculously came to life.  Right before our eyes, she transformed herself into Mary Hartman.  The scene was perfect--and in one take.

That was the day I learned never to underestimate Louise.

Just Another Sunday With Mary Hartman

"Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman" may have seemed like a spontaneous nightly gathering of dysfunctional misfits, but bringing that bizarre community to life required long hours and intense dedication.

Norman Lear, the executive producer, was already on the far side of maturity, but the people who worked at the KTLA offices on Sunset Boulevard were mostly young, energetic, and eager to depart from reality and cross the border into Fernwood territory.

The shared commitment to delivering five shows a week created tensions, demanded personal sacrifices, but also forged meaningful relationships.  For the time that we were there, family resided in Fernwood.

Pat was one exceptional member of the Fernwood family.  She was my boss's secretary and instantly became my friend.  Smart, outgoing, aggressively kind, and under the circumstances, miraculously competent, Pat was always relied on to get the job done.

Nobody's perfect, however, and there was that one little problem.  Little, yes, but it might just have registered on the Richter Scale.

It was a Sunday morning.  Louise Lasser, Mary Hartman herself, discovered that her script for the following day did not contain the necessary revisions.  She called Pat at home and started yelling.  And didn't stop.

Unable to interrupt the very volatile Louise, Pat quietly passed the phone receiver to her husband, grabbed the correct script, jumped in her car, put on the gas, and didn't look back.

She lived near the Rose Bowl in Pasadena.  Louise lived in Malibu, about fifty miles away.  No matter.  Pat had a job to do.  She survived the traffic ordeal and an hour and a half later arrived at Louise's seaside home.  She found the star still on the phone, still yelling.

It was a tribute to the stamina of both women.

Book Review: "Tinseltown," by William J. Mann

[My niece Lisa doesn't just invent crimes for us to solve in our Forrest Sisters Mysteries; as a born detective and researcher, she solves historical crimes as well.  Some, however, are tougher than others.  Here is her review of William J. Mann's recent efforts to solve one of Hollywood's most famous mysteries.]

The death of William Desmond Taylor/William Deane-Tanner is among America's most enigmatic unsolved murders. What makes his case somewhat unique is that there were deliberate efforts from people high-up in the movie industry to ensure that the case remained enigmatic and unsolved. It is virtually certain that there were a number of people who knew--or, at least, had a pretty good guess--who shot the film director, but for their own reasons, they launched a conspiracy that allowed someone to get away with murder. Evidence was concealed, misleading rumors were launched, and mouths were kept firmly shut. As all the people "in the know" are now dead, we will never learn for certain who was behind the killing, and why it was done. As very little reliable evidence about the mystery survives, all theories about the case are necessarily based on speculation.

"Tinseltown" is no exception to this rule, but William J. Mann offers one of the fullest, richest accounts of the Taylor killing to date, introducing several new details, a novel, intriguing "solution," and--most valuable of all--offering a fascinating look at Old Hollywood. The Taylor murder is, in fact, only a plot element in the complex, often sordid, but always exciting history of the film industry's early days.  The anti-hero of our story is Adolph "Creepy" Zukor, the ruthless film mogul who likely engineered the Taylor cover-up. Other stars of the show include Mabel Normand (one of the few sympathetic characters in this story,) the sad, tormented ingenue Mary Miles Minter, Taylor's eccentric valet Henry Peavey (depicted much more sensitively and positively than most other accounts of the case,) and a host of grifters, blackmailers, killers, drug addicts, and desperate wanna-be stars.

Mann's scenario of how Taylor died is interesting, if impossible to prove. It cannot be accepted as the "final word," but it's certainly not implausible. However, it should be noted that his premise rests entirely on one woman's alleged death-bed confession. If you question whether this elderly, mentally unstable woman was speaking the truth--or for that matter, if she really made this confession at all--Mann has virtually no evidence on which to base his theory.

As thorough as Mann's book is in most respects, he does make a few odd omissions. He barely mentions the curious fact that Taylor's brother, Dennis Deane-Tanner, also abandoned his family and disappeared. It has been proposed, as a matter of fact, that Dennis was really Taylor's sinister former valet, "Edward Sands." Not long before the murder, Sands robbed Taylor and vanished--yet another puzzling element to this endlessly mysterious case. (Mann states that Sands was never seen again, although other accounts claim that the ex-valet was found dead under suspicious circumstances.) I believe Mann made a mistake in dismissing all possibility that brother Dennis and Sands the valet somehow figured in the murder. Like many researchers who fall in love with a particular theory, he seizes on any scrap that might prove his pet thesis, while deliberately ignoring anything that argues for rival "solutions."

Still, this book is wonderfully absorbing reading. Even if you have little interest in true crime, the soap-opera like saga found in these pages is almost certain to draw you in.

The Mary Hartman Follies

"MaryHartmanDVD" by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia

Norman Lear, the executive producer and absolute ruler behind "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," asked the poignant question, "What is this s---?" and tossed out a month of scripts.  The show was in big trouble.  I knew nothing about any of it until a friend of mine gave me a call.  He had recently become head writer amidst a swirl of unsubstantiated speculation that he and the star, Louise Lasser, were having an affair.

That's not why he called.  He wanted me to come in that night to help with scripts on an unofficial basis.  I pledged my best efforts.  Never having seen the show, however, I felt I had little to contribute beyond echoing Norman Lear's question.

When I arrived at the KTLA studios on Sunset Boulevard, Dennis Klein greeted me.  He was always prolific and would go on to write, produce and create successful series, including "The Larry Sanders Show," but at that moment he appeared pale, fatigued, and virtually nonfunctional.  I worried that he wasn't getting enough sleep.

"I'll sleep on vacation," he assured me.

Eugenie Ross-Leming, the brash, funny, and stunningly beautiful producer, was on the phone, also making jokes about sleeping, when Dennis and I entered her office.

Eugenie's jokes were somewhat more provocative than Dennis', but the dim lighting concealed my embarrassment as the blood rushed to my face.  The other producer, Brad Buckner, Eugenie's considerably more subdued writing partner, joined us to give me brief descriptions of scenes that needed "fleshing out."

Dennis led me to an office where I could get to work.  Except Louise Lasser was there.  She too was on the phone, complaining bitterly about something.  Or nothing.  Or everything.  Life wasn't easy for Louise, and my instinct was to feel sorry for her.

When she hung up, Dennis introduced us.  But did she notice I was there?  I didn't think so.  She seemed too withdrawn to process the activity around her.  Dennis solicitously--as was his way--led her out.

I was busy writing when Dennis returned.  He looked uncomfortable but obviously felt obligated to ask me something.

"Could you take Louise home with you?"

It was a bit unexpected.  What could I say?  "What?" in fact, was all I could say.  Dennis explained that Louise lived in Malibu and was too tired to drive.  She had asked if I could put her up for the night.  "A couch would do."

I stuttered numerous mindless excuses and apologizes which culminated in the words, "Uh, no.  Sorry."

Dennis understood.  He always understood.  And when he arranged for me to be hired as a staff writer on "Mary Hartman," it became the most weirdly rewarding, happily unforgettable working experience of my life.

And This is Why I Am Not Married to Burt Reynolds

Tony Randall and Burt Reynolds were filming Woody Allen's "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask," when a few of the writers at Paramount asked me if Tony would arrange for them to meet Woody.  I promised to find out at lunch.

We ate at a small restaurant within walking distance of both Paramount and Tony's studio.  I enjoyed my eggplant immensely and stared longingly as Tony left almost half of his on his plate.  He wasn't a big eater; when he didn't go out Tony often had only a can of tuna for his midday meal.  Perfect.  It always meant more for me.  I eagerly reached for his eggplant.  Tony held up his hand.

"It didn't taste right," he told me.  "I'm sending it back."

"Mine tasted great," I said, planning to do the tired old gag of clutching my stomach and falling over on the table as if poisoned.  I couldn't pull it off because the nice waitress was approaching with the check and probably didn't want me making a spectacle of myself.

When Tony cast aspersions on the food, she apologized profusely, snatched back the bill, and refused to let him pay.  It made me uncomfortable, especially since every morsel of mine was gone.  Celebrities, however, become accustomed to the special treatment they invariably receive.  Tony shrugged off my concerns with the comment that it's just the way the world works.  It was the way his world worked, not mine.  If I hadn't been there with Tony, my meal would never have been free.

Tony and I had many memorable dinners and lunches, including at Sardi's and Ma Maison.  This one was memorable too.  I remember it as "the eggplant embarrassment."  But, there was more embarrassment to come.

On the way out, Tony offered to introduce me to Burt Reynolds if I went back to the studio with him.  He liked Burt, thought he was wonderfully funny, and admired him as an actor.  I gave the matter some serious consideration for half a second.  Burt Reynolds was awfully cute at the time.  If fate had plans for us--small ones, like love at first sight--wouldn't it be a mistake to say no?  I agreed and we were on our way to the studio.

I should have known better.

As we walked, Tony related another tale of special treatment lavished on the "Star."  In New York he had gone to see Martin Sheen in a Shakespeare play.  When Martin noticed Tony in the audience he stopped the proceedings to pay tribute to him.  Tony was clearly proud of that moment.  He manifested his ham-actor-feigning-humility persona and thanked me for warning him previously that Martin was a fan.  If he hadn't known, the shock of "Shakespeare interrupted" might have been too much for him.

After we agreed that Martin was a great actor, and especially adept at spotting talent in others, Tony regaled me with accounts of the gorgeous women he'd seen lining up to meet Burt.  My prospects for a future with the superstar began to dim.  Then, they disappeared altogether.

Burt Reynolds wasn't there.

My mind cleared.  I recalled my promise to my friends, including Joe Glauberg, one of the nicest, most decent men in show business, who achieved well-deserved success as the creator of "Mork and Mindy."  Tony liked Joe and the others I mentioned, but couldn't guarantee that Woody would meet with them.  He described the director as extremely intense, serious, and totally focused on business.

I sensed discord.  Tony respected Garry Marshall's creative control on "Odd Couple," but even Garry wasn't allowed to give him "acting notes."  No one told Tony Randall how to act.  Did Woody Allen fail to realize that?

Finally, Tony said he'd talk to Woody if I did something for him.

"What?"

"Peek into Burt's dressing room."

"No."

Tony explained that a flimsy wall which didn't quite reach the ceiling was all that separated their dressing rooms.  If I stood on the bed I could peer into Burt's room and see if he was entertaining anyone.

"That's disgusting.  An invasion of privacy," I said.  "You do it."

Tony looked offended.  He claimed he'd never do anything like that.

"But you can do it," he insisted, "for the guys," meaning my friends at Paramount.

And, all right, I was curious.  Besides, aren't all actors exhibitionists?  Don't they want to be watched?

I hoisted myself onto the bed, stood on tip-toe, angled my head by the ceiling, and nearly fell over with relief when I saw...nothing.

Tony tried to act disappointed and suggested that I come back later to try again, but we both had had enough of playing Peeping Toms.

The meeting with Woody never came off.  I suspect he and Tony didn't get along.

And, Burt?  In the highly unlikely event you ever read this blog post...Sorry for the intrusion.

Ben Affleck's Guilty Secret

"Ben Affleck SDCC 2014 (cropped)" by Gage Skidmore - https://www.flickr.com/photos/gageskidmore/14783041472/. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

I have never seen a Ben Affleck film.  I only know him as a determined liberal activist.  I also remembered him as the man at the Democratic National Convention a few years back who described the excited crowd around him as "enervated."  Maybe he meant "energized," but, it's of no consequence--just one of those small things you can't forget.

Now there's something new I won't forget, and it's not a small thing.  Affleck appeared on a PBS genealogy program--presumably voluntarily--and had his ancestry traced.  When research uncovered a slave owner in his past, he had that piece of information expunged from the show.  A cover-up, no?

But why would anyone do that?  It makes no sense.  We aren't culpable for the actions of our ancestors.  But now, suddenly, Ben Affleck, PBS, and Sony are guilty of perpetrating a lie.  A lie by omission is still a lie.  And it's that--not ancient secrets over which he had no control--which makes Ben Affleck seem a little deficient in the intelligence department.  As for character?  Well...

These misplaced guilt feelings are a major problem in our society.  It's likely that no one involved will feel guilty about what they've actually done wrong.  Lying, distorting, misrepresenting are OK as long as you don't get caught.

In the 1960s, we were told "If it feels good, do it," "Don't be judgmental," and countless other bromides that allowed impressionable young people to enjoy living dissolute narcissistic lives.

But the society still had a conscience, and all that guilt had to go somewhere.  It seems to have been projected onto the past.  Narcissists could feel like self-righteous humanitarians when they compared their lives to historical lifestyles we now condemn.

Ben Affleck should not have destroyed his credibility by being misguidedly guilt-ridden. 

Does ESPN Sanction Bullying?

Britt McHenry, via Wikipedia

I just witnessed a repulsive display of stupid, gratuitous cruelty which made my skin crawl.  The episode was the living definition of abusive bullying.  If it happened at school or in the home, anger management teams would descend.  They wouldn't help, of course, because the problem isn't anger.  We all lose our tempers at times.  The real problem with ESPN's Britt McHenry, who viciously attacked a defenseless working woman, the real problem with all bullies, is their lack of character; they are weak, hateful, miserable people who want to inflict pain on those they perceive as targets who can't fight back.  Bullies don't pick on someone their own size.  They're too afraid.

McHenry apologized for her "mistake."  It wasn't a mistake.  Bad behavior is not a mistake.  It's a dropping of the mask which reveals an ugly face underneath.

How many people have lost their jobs because of inadvertent comments that someone considered offensive?  This wasn't inadvertent.  It was a deliberate, personal attack.  And what could be more offensive than deliberate cruelty?

A week off won't help.  It won't replace inhumanity with kindness.  It won't create a conscience where none exists.  It may do no more than remind a perpetrator of the presence of cameras.

ESPN should be appalled and ashamed.  And what have they done for the victim?

Anything?