An Afternoon at Forest Lawn with a Few of My Heroes

It took 90 minutes of tramping up and down rows, and finally backtracking over a hill, to the information kiosk, to find Ernie Kovacs.

Someone had placed at his grave a tiny purple bouquet, which I immediately, carelessly, knocked over, then with great apologies re-stuck about where it had been planted. Ernie is in the Court of Remembrance, in the oval lawn in front of the mausoleum. A little red churchhouse and the open countryside are beautifully visible from the gravesite. Ernie's signature hewn right into the stone serves instead of a block lettered stamp-job, and the inscription below reads "Nothing In Moderation, We All Loved Him." We still do.

To Ernie's right are two of his daughters, Mia and Kippie.* I was glad to finally find him. I took a second sojourn inspired by Kovacs; to the intersection where he was killed, the crossing of Santa Monica Boulevard and Beverly Glenn. The power pole array at the corner is still there and it was easy to visualize taking a left turn too sharply on a rainsoaked road and spinning right into them, just like legend has it that Ernie did. Ironically, with today's better built cars it would have been a survivable impact.

Into the mausoleum, one must get past Bette Davis, standing sentinel like a pit bull. "It's going to be a bumpy night."

Inside, one might never find Lucille Ball if you expect something huge and ornate with "BALL" emblazoned upon it. She's in an urn, in a shoebox sized tomb labled "Morton" which is owned by her last husband, comic Gary Morton. Behind a bouquet of (again, purple) blossoms bigger than the grave they marked... there's Lucy.

Across this tiny sunlit chamber, Charles Laughton and George Raft keep Freddie Prinze company.

Driving on toward that little red church mentioned above, one comes to a huge court – the military section – resided over by a giant statue of George Washington, along with other brooding gods of warriors past.

Behind George, against the wall – is Stan Laurel. Sharing the plot with his wife Ida. His plaque says it all. "Master of Comedy." That's the league above any mere "King of – ". Even Chaplin revered him. Stan Laurel forgot more about the art of laugh-getting than most comedians ever know.

Like Lucy, Stan was cremated, so the marker is really just symbolic. Ida's body rests at the marker's foot.

Another good Brit rests near Washington, in front, to his right. Marty Feldman. "Damn your eyes!" "Too late."

But wait, look closer at Washington. He's pointing to something. What could it be? What could our country's father not want me to miss?

I followed his silent command, out to the front lawn of the military court. I kept checking to make sure I was lined up with his stern direction...

There, beyond the small stone wall of the court is... Buster Keaton.

This was the most emotional find in the park. I was taken unexpectedly by my own feelings.

I think (General) Washington pointing RIGHT AT Buster Keaton was what took me over the top.

Below this tiny stone with only a name and a date is a true giant. I stood there several minutes pondering. Someone had placed pennies over the loops of the sixes, as if they were eyes. A "General" golf ball rested on the stone with the word "the" scribbled on it. I actually started misting up at this small, unremarkable headstone – the inconspicuous resting place of the most remarkable man in the entire cemetery. Keep pointing, Mr. President. I got it.

On one afternoon in Hollywood, around 2001, I bought a bottle of all-purpose cleaner and a metal brush. I returned to Buster's grave and polished it up. The bronze caught the sun like it had when brand new. The Sons Of The Desert, the international Laurel & Hardy fan club, had left a pot of daisies for him, for Veteran's Day. I wondered why daisies? I went to get my camera to take a second shot of the tombstone now bright and polished, but my battery was low, and I had to get on the road. Perhaps I'll be back before too long, and take care of unfinished business.

*Since I wrote this article some years ago, Ernie's wife, actress-singer-ingenue Edie Adams has passed on, and joined the family at Forest Lawn.

__________________________________________________________________________

This article is also located at my blog "Laughter Wax." (Click the article title.)

My Uncle and the Statue

Before our narrative begins, it may be helpful to some of you born during or after the 70s, if I summarize who "Festus" was – or more accurately, the actor who portrayed him; Ken Curtis. Curtis was a popular entertainer in the 40s. He began his career as a singer in the Big Band era (as Frank Sinatra's replacement with the Tommy Dorsey orchestra), then went into acting. For a time he was one of John Wayne's cadre of regular supporting players. He was Captain Dickenson in Wayne's version of "The Alamo," and was quite memorable in the Wayne classic "The Searchers," as the guitar strumming savant who vies for the affection of Sara Miles away from Jeffrey Hunter. His greatest ticket to fame was his being cast in the long-running western TV series "Gunsmoke" as Marshall Dillon's wily sidekick and deputy, Festus. He was sort of an old west version of Barney Fife.

"Gunsmoke" had the longest run of any television series up to that time, and Curtis retired when the show finally left the air. He returned to his musical moorings in show business, and formed a trio of folksingers that made limited tours, based in his adopted hometown of Clovis, California.

Which brings us to the crux of our story. The town of Clovis is a bedroom community of Fresno. The California State University of Fresno campus overlaps the two bergs like a giant hinge. Clovis was extremely proud of its bonified TV star resident – THE Ken Curtis. In the early 80s, just after Curtis's death, the Clovis Chamber commissioned a memorial statue of him – it stood right in front of City Hall, like an Old West sentinel. Right from the get-go, there were two main problems with the statue.

First – the artist who created it had leaned toward shlock; the likeness was more cartoonish than reverent, and the statue was painted (holy freekin' crap) to look lifelike, including a peach/beige fleshtone that featured blushing cheeks suspiciously reminiscent of gin blossoms.

Second – the statue was not sculpted from a material suitable for a permanent memorial, like say, granite or marble. It was fiberglass and plaster. Repeat; a statue meant as a long-term landmark – in fiberglass. And plaster. In addition to that little choice judgment, the statue was erected at ground level, rather than upon an elevated pedestal as most statues are, to keep them at least symbolically at bay from potential vandals and pranksters. Big mistake... OH, Big Mistake!!

Now then, the original statue (yes it had to be replaced... but don't jump ahead) was posed with both its hands at Festus's lapels, as if he is happy as hell to welcome you to Clovis City Hall. The gnarly "just consumed an astonishing quantity of beer" grin on the statue's face certainly added a unique enhancement to that intended sentiment.

In short, this was a kitschy mannequin of a grizzled, drunken cowboy with a subliminal hard-on; just the welcomer that I'm sure the local civic leaders reveled in bestowing upon tourists and locals alike. In even more succinct terms, this statue was a piece of fucking shit that embarrassed the whole town.

With that scenario firmly in place, the story now backtracks briefly again, in order to introduce our protagonist; my uncle, the late Johnny L. Rankin.

Uncle Johnny, to be absolutely fair to him, was a fine, upstanding man when he wanted to be. His sense of humor was cosmic in proportions and he was a legendary prankster and walking jokebook. He was one of the earliest influences on my own humor. He also, however, had a certain mean streak that was fueled by a love for drink.

His life had some incredible career highs to counterbalance an ongoing alcoholic low. He served in World War II, and in his younger years both before and after the war, he was a working Country & Western entertainer. He was a Los Angeles area session musician on some of the recordings of Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, among other popular acts of the day. He played with the band of Dave Dudley, who recorded the great trucker classic, "Six Days On The Road." (According to legend, Johnny once got pissed and threw Dave off the stage mid-song – guitar and all – into the audience. Both were shitfaced, of course. Dave wasn't hurt, but Johnny had to buy his destroyed guitar.) He performed solo in nightclubs under the stagename Johnny Lee. (No relation to the later C&W star Johnny Lee.) He also hosted, and performed on, the last live C&W radio show in southern California, broadcasting from a station in Long Beach. After his music career faded, he went into semi-tractor maintenance and was rated as one of the top semi-truck trouble-shooters in the country by Popular Mechanics magazine in the 1960s. So, as I relate this sordid tale of my uncle's mischief, I also want this document to serve as a tribute to him – for the sake of Uncle Johnny's memory, not to mention other family members who may stumble upon this – to keep his bright side reflected as well as his dark. The short description of Uncle John might be: Imagine a countrified, beer-bellied Jack Nicholson. Now back to our story...

At the time of the Festus statue's unveiling, Uncle Johnny was also living and working in the Fresno-Clovis area, as a mechanic. He was also a devoted "Gunsmoke" viewer and so made it a point to be present for the statue's debut. His first look at the Festus memorial apparently stoked a flame of indignation. Driven perhaps by rabid fan vengeance, a good portion of alcohol-lubricated prankster angst and even a touch of civicism (read: "Not in my town, gawdammit,") Uncle Johnny lagged behind after the ceremony and staked out City Hall!

He sat in his truck, chain-smoking cigarettes and probably making intermittent trips to surrounding Quikky-Marts for empowering beverage, until the early morning hours. Sometime before dawn, he got out and removed a "clubbing" instrument from his truck's flatbed toolchest. A ballbat? A crowbar? A sledge? The exact identity of the object is lost to antiquity. He then proceeded to walk over to the Festus statue and slam the fucker off at the knees!!

The statue's unveiling ceremony had been covered on the local evening TV news. The very next day's morning news opened with "Tragedy at Clovis City Hall!" with a shot of two fiberglass blue-jeaned legs standing minus a torso. The statue had stood intact less than 12 hours. The final fate of the thighs-up portion of Festus remains unknown to this day. Uncle John took that secret to the grave with him.

Festus, however, returned in the form of a second statue (see photo at top) almost as ghoulish as the first, only in a new, somewhat more dignified pose. And oh yes, now he is protected (?) by a short metal railing (the one reworking that Uncle Johnny's attack had brought about). The statue has since been moved across the street, to stand guard near the entrance to a bank, but it is still at ground level, though... proving that the Clovis City Commissars still managed to hold onto part of their original vision.

Ode To A Warhorse

I did not test drive it, but a nearly identical bright red one. One that had already been sold to someone else, but not yet delivered. With another person's car, once out of eyeshot of the dealership, I floored it, slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel and left ruts. Blasted across railroad tracks in a fashion that made audible contact with the undercarriage. Then after arriving back at the lot, pointed to another car and said "I'll take it."

I passed the dealership a week later and saw the abused red vehicle still on the block, with a sign that proclaimed "Marked Down!" I suppose the former buyer had a change of heart. I wonder why?

There were a few scars on its résumé. A previous rental, it already bore a few bruises and bumps from serving nameless under-the-radar pilots for the first thousand miles of its life. The AM radio was merely a grumbling hiss. The turn signal sometimes chose to take a nap. The dashboard service warning lights refused to cooperate. Souvenirs from battle. I had a few myself, and empathized.

My relationship with the creature was uneventful until we moved to Los Angeles together. Packed to its windows with what mostly became fodder months later, it handled the Grapevine like a barebacked philly. It took on the L.A. snarl with gusto, and hardly a complaint. It sat in miles-long freeway backups merrily playing soft rock ballads to me. It maneuvered around clueless ten-thumbed fish-tailers like a two-ton, four-wheeled gymnast.

I got the feeling that the beast loved touring Magnolia.

We courted potential playmates, gave lifts to important industry insiders, and journeyed to auditions together. Ever faithful was the career support offered by my adopted metal partner.

It slept in a funky underground garage with strangers night after night, and still greeted each morning with a confident roar.

When our luck changed in LaLa-Land, we hightailed it north together. It took the endless grey ribbon in stride, and willingly hung out in rest stops and along side roads. Never a cough. Nor a gurgle.

In Washington it again commuted me to and fro – waited long-suffering in cold parking lots, and at icy curbs. Little did I know it was hiding a worsening war wound.

Still, when time came to sojourn south again, it mastered the road with a secret limp that was never revealed – with no whine, no grimace.

It got up to a 90-mile-an-hour gallop past Mt. Shasta on a rain-slicked highway in the lone, moonlit night. It kept a game face as I released a torrent of stomach flu debris at its dashboard, and kept going.

Back in California, it bore me to odd jobs, on apartment hunts, and a four-hour trip to Fresno to visit family.

Finally, it could bare the burden no longer, and released its feeble grip on its brakes one morning on the way to work. It hobbled on its emergency brake, to the repair shop.

Once well again, we picked up the journey anew. The hills of San Francisco. The mind-numbing circular thinking of the San Jose spaghetti wad. The maddening stop-and-go of Santa Cruz. We sampled it all again.

It went unwashed for weeks at a time. Got service sporadically. And made yet another four-hour trip to visit family with its exhausted tires deteriorating into black mush.

Finally the years were taking their toll. One morning the key was turned and all that would emanate from that battle-weary throat was... silence. Many mechanics explored the inner workings, in attempts to revive the oily soul – and for brief moments, they were able to raise it from the dead. There was no heart in me to use a bullet.

At last a Dr. Frankenstein was called in to administer electrical voodoo. The monster rose to animation, artificially resuscitated and responsive via a patchwork, primitive rewiring of its dead brain.

Its final task, after nine years of adventure, was to ferry me on a search for a replacement. The end chapter is now, as the loyal zombie waits to be pulled away, to serve a charity – marching on aimlessly toward a fate unknown, but in the name of yet another noble purpose.

July, Random July

I have no problem with someone being richer than me. It's when that person has an obsessive need to keep reminding me of it, that's when we have problems.

The Ark was built by an amateur, the Titanic by professionals.

The "Big 3" network newscasts are in trouble, ratings-wise. Katie Couric seems to be the "bottom" no matter how you juggle the numbers. That's a public ménage à trois scooting closer to the gutter with each thrust.

Ronald Reagan was right about one thing: an intergalactic invasion just might be what the world needs to eliminate a whole slew of problems.

Hey kids, the big secret is that grownups are just guessing at life too.

I often wonder what plans Lee Harvey Oswald had for the weekend before he got the big phone call.

I've had a sad feeling, that we've entered a strange era in America – where all the bullshit that used to just happen peripherally, which our parents handled, now has taken center-stage, and has become modern life's main struggle to the average adult, on top of all the "normal" hardships. We've allowed the demagogues, money-changers, politico-paths and talking heads to strip the land of its ability to support the needs and desires of the common man, turn it into a giant bureaucratic colander that drains away the human spirit to achieve, and leaves only a bulk of manufactured dependency. A place where neither science nor religion retain any genuine influence, as both are simply manipulated to shore up the agenda of those in power. I've always held the belief – and still do – that science and religion are not adversaries. As we grow and come to understand both fuller, we will discover, I believe, that they are just two different languages, telling the same story. Science represents mankind's collective desire to understand his place in the universe, and religion is the expression of his deeper consciousness to appreciate it. We've abandoned both, and set the two concepts at odds with each other, just as we have turned upon ourselves from within. Everyone is a self-contained center of a personal universe – oblivious to the searchable truths of science and the self-evident insights of religious morality. We've become our own zombie plague. And now that you are cheered up...

Popping a really big pimple sort of brings on a feeling of conquest.

Tanya Roberts played the title role in "Sheena," and was a Bond girl. In her vacation-shilling radio ads for Las Vegas, she sounds like a chubby New Jersey housewife working from home part-time as a travel agent.

I stopped having a mental "Top 10 Babes" list when I realized that half of mine were by now senior citizens... or dead.

Reality check: More people are on to your bullshit than you realize. They're just being nice.

Howling at the moon doesn't make you spiritual, it makes you predictable. Think about it.

The most complicated version of Coca-Cola: Caffeine-free, diet black cherry-n-vanilla Coke Zero, with Splenda. No, that can't be it. I'll try again later.