H o l l y w o o d

Beau original pencil drawing depicting a Hollywood pool party

  I have to be clear about this particular period.

My father still had enormous power over my whereabouts, especially during the day. My nighttime Manhattan antics were also getting noticed, not only by my relatives. Certain pictures - private pictures - somehow made their way into, shall we say, less than mainstream magazines.

I attempted to drop out of sight until it all blew over. My time at Berkeley and in San Francisco - and an extended stay in an ashram - only served to tick Father off in a very major way.

At that time, embarrassments seemed to be running in the family, so I was shipped off (by Pan Am, actually - coach, no less - I knew I was in deep trouble) to Southern California to live with the savages in disgrace. Not knowing what I was in for, even I was dismayed by this turn.

With the almighty familiy's banking connections, I was set up at Paramount Studios in an early writer/producer deal. I didn't know it then, but I had won the lotus-eaters' lottery.

Being stoned most of the time helped to keep in check most of my anxieties. My tight jeans, velvet shirts, and longish golden hair helped with the other introductions - into more private quarters.

I had absolutely no knowledge of what went with my job title or how Hollywood worked. I had always loved going to the movies - especially because Father thought them so plebian (or worse).

It was my mother's maid, Mrs. Connally, who took me to the movies when Mother was too incapacitated to stir. She liked musicals, and soon, I was hooked. We didn't miss much that wasn't romantic, epic, or just plain silly.

My view of Hollywood was like any other fan's: magic, movie stars, and glamour. Earlier brushes with stars in Manhattan or Europe had not disillusioned me.

That came only after I lived in Hollywood for awhile. Thank god for that, too. Getting the stars out of my eyes only made it easier for me to get them into my bed. There was sex everywhere, warm weather all around, and freedom.

I barely worked, wouldn't have known what to do anyway. As a screenwriter, I was a disaster. The movies I "produced" were forgettable and forgotten. I was a failure, but totally unaware. I was buoyed up by delusion, desire, and, of course, an unspoken deference to family money.

No one cared anyway.

Somehow, I was included in director George Cukor's entourage to the Academy Awards. That April night, he accepted an Oscar for his friend Katharine Hepburn - I had an opportunity to hazily observe the machinations of the town's elite.

It was the year of Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty (even then, Hollywood's Minister of Fuck). It turned out I wore the same Nehru jacket as Sammy Davis, Jr. I met Rosiland Russel and Natalie Wood, but I got totally paranoid before I was introduced to Audrey Hepburn.

My eyes were mostly drawn anyway to a dark leading man who was a presenter that night - no names, please. We dallied for years (I love that quaint term - it's so coy for what we really got into).

Introduction  My Parents  Delta D  The Village  Sebastian

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