MOM'S FAVORITE ACTORS

Sunday, March 6, 2011

I know that she liked G. Edward Robinson, loved his acting power and face and admired him all the more because his talented voice and face were used to negotiate any losses he may have endured due to size.
 
I know that she loved, maybe more like admired Fred MacMurray.
 
She did love Clark Gable.  I think that Clark Gable must have reminded her of her Uncle, someone whom she loved fiercely.  And what should be obvious to us all, she loved John Wayne; I mean there was a decanter of John Wayne on the living room brick mantle for years, partly in tribute to the actor but more of a way to keep a presence of Dad around since in her eyes and everybody else's Dad did look like John Wayne.  Yes, Mom loved John Wayne's presence, his voice, his figure as an American.  She accepted his physical prowess as an athlete at USC, the probable hero as a cowboy in early westerns, the hero of choice to fulfill America's role as leader in the world--strong, determined, humble, fair, and likeable.  John Wayne idealized America.  Coming out of a war that rationed butter, meat, and their physical presence with each other but certainly not their love, as is made clear by the devoted proclamations in their war letters, each was happy to be with the other, sharing a candy bar on the steps of some monument in each other's arms with a view of some part of Los Angeles, or enjoying a milkshake at Clifton's Cafeteria on Broadway to live and relive the storied and star-struck days of pre-war Los Angeles.  Dad and Mom both knew sacrifice like nothing we could imagine.  What little script Dad got in the war, he sent home to Mom and to his ma and pa, our sporadically-employed truck driver and mechanic.  The war helped to diffuse individual hardships into shared sacrifice, which helped to ease and set aside individual longings.  Each worked to help each other until that faith in the collective, in the war stopped paying dividends to one's personal needs for love, for safety, for creating.  Some of our best years are in childhood; thankfully, not all of the best years are.  But whatever one missed in one's real life, we could find an inspiring substitute in the stories and performances of the movies.  And certainly Mom loved the movies, Spencer Tracy, Clark Gable, Edward G. Robinson, Gary Cooper, John Wayne, Boris Karloff, Bella Legosi, Gene Kelly, Jimmy Stewart, Fred MacMurray, Ida Lupino, Van Johnson, Lana Turner, Ava Gardner (she did not understand her marriage to Sinatra), Vivian Leigh, Claudette Colbert, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, and Joan Fontaine, whom I know she loved.  Mom had an appreciation of and a liking for classical sensibilities and tastes.  She did not understand the hype of Alfred Hitchcock.

She liked Frank Sinatra but used to laugh at him because she remembers him early in the industry as a scrawny boy with protruding ears and trying too hard to produce a lilting voice.  I think that she laughed, too, at his appeal to the young girls, at the silliness of teenie-boppers going gaga over Sinatra.  And it was funny.  That image of Sinatra as a young boy contrasted with his "Chairman of the Board" image later in his career tickled mom.  Mom enjoyed seeing Sinatra at the Palladium in Hollywood with Dad but I remember her tones about Sinatra as a singer were that she could not take him serious.  He was hype, not a star; not, that is, until enough years accumulated in his career.  She liked other voices.  She loved, no, she adored Bing Crosby.  All of his songs; she found his voice comforting.  She appreciated his lyrics and his efforts and play with a song.  She loved his efforts to entertain, and why not?  Mom herself  liked entertaining,  liked having fun; she was a kind of director to her babies, whom she adored, orchestrating activities, and adventures.  She was a young girl all of her life, a perfect match for our adventure-seeking, adventure-loving Dad.

DAD'S MENU ART

Matthews Malt Shop

DAD'S STAR POWER

Dad shaking hands with the great Frank "The Judge" Robinson.  Ahem, note who is in the background at the left.  That's Walter Alston, the great Dodgers manager.  Dad tread the same earth and moved in the orbit of legends.  The guy did have star power.  

Kevin Larkin, the biggest Dodgers fan coast to coast, writes on Saturday, November 26, 2011, 

If you're referring to the Frank Robinson and Walter Alston pic . . . BIG TIME IMPRESSED!  That is sweet . . . .

Mike Larkin chimed in the following morning, 

Sweet Baby James!!!  I had a Frank Robinson card until this kid in fourth grade snagged it from me in a trade. Walter Alston in the background that is huge.

1969, Chuck Walgenbach processing paperwork for Carroll Baker.

Unsure of who Carroll Baker is? Check this out.  Here are some treats of her on YouTube.  And don't pass up her Wikipedia page. 

I do not know who the two gentlemen on the left are.  It's not Paul Caruso, is it?  No.  That is not Paul Caruso.  This is Paul Caruso.  

Caruso died in 2001.  He was 81.  

DAD'S PLAYGROUND: LOS ANGELES

DAD'S PLAYGROUND: LOS ANGELES

The 80s, for the most part, were pretty good--lots of barbecues, Dodger games, and family gatherings.  Mom always had plenty of soda on hand, beer for the adults.  April 9, 1984, was the last Dodger game that I went to with Dad.  Just him and me.  His knees were bad.  He could walk but only with frequent stops and a little unsteady, so I did not leave his side.  When Dad found himself in Los Angeles, he always tried to locate a moment from his youth.  Dodger Stadium conjured great memories for him.  The smell of hotdogs, roasted peanuts, the promise of cold draft beer, and reviving some of his best athletic moments from his youth.  Dodger Stadium was more of an arena for his glory days than it was for a competition between two National League baseball teams.  Chavez Ravine may be the home of the Dodgers, but that whole neighborhood was the epicenter of Dad's youth.  The Police Academy across the street was his playground where he later took his own kids to enjoy.  Ditto for Elysian Park.  Dan told me once that he used to run around the periphery of Elysian Park for exercise.  

Then there is the River Station Rail Yard train bridge that he used to take me, Tom, and Joe to and run across from Broadway on the north to Spring Street on the south.  For me, that was an epic adventure.  And Little Joe's restaurant was just down the street.  Further west on Broadway, Dad could easily find himself back in Chinatown.  His favorite restaurant in that area was Grand Star, a Chinese place where Dad's retirement party was held.  And his Cathedral High School was one block up from the River Station Rail Yard.  I had some pretty good memories with Dad.  He treated me really well.  But that whole neighborhood was Dad's.  That River Station Rail Yard is gone; its wheelhouse is long gone.  There's a fenced park there now.  No history to the city's past anymore.  Least not like we got to enjoy.  And the history that does exist, LA politicians try to put lipstick on it to make it look like it was part of an earlier era while they bury it so as not to offend the latest monied group that arrives from God knows where.  Dodger Stadium may not have been the epicenter of Dad's moments under the sun, but it came close.  Regardless of what condition he was in, he would always try to extract some love and fun from an event.  And this, his last, Dodger game was no exception.  Both of us had a Dodger Dog and a beer.  The alcohol made his knees a little worse, but it was worth enduring to relive a delicious moment, in memory at least, of his vibrant youth as a productive young man and father.  After the hotdog and the beer, we shared a bag of stadium peanuts.  There's something great about tossing peanut shells on the floor.  I caught a foul ball at that game.  That ball is pictured here  halfway down the post.  And as was his wont, Dad asked to leave early, so at the end of the 4th inning, we climbed up the interminable steps from Row 1 of the Loge up to the concourse where it was level and he didn't have to strain his knees.  This is the thing that I loved most about Dad was his courage.  In the face of pain, he hated that his knees called attention to himself and he tried to play it down always with grace and good humor.  I was so proud of that catch that I brought the ball home and placed it out on Mom's china cabinet for display, for Tom and Joe to see.  The following day I saw that Dad had scrolled the date on it, and I was furious.  But I kept it.  And glad that I did, for I love it now that he did mark the event by dating the ball.  Something, eh?  After Dad retired, he continued to visit Marilyn and Frank Drabickus who invited him, and me by necessity, out to dinner a lot.  But after sitting for hours, when Dad got up he needed an arm to lean on then until his legs warmed up.  That arm was frequently mine.  Miss being in service to our great Pops.  Have to avoid getting too sentimental.  

UPDATE, Sunday, December 28, 2025

Dad used to like going to the Italian restaurant, The Itchey Foote perched atop the Harbor Freeway in DTLA @ 801 West Temple.  Went there a couple of times with Dad and Marilyn, or maybe inly once and the other times we got what was left in a doggie bag or doggie box.  I liked their pizza.  I went there once with Dan Cavanaugh from my UPS says on 1201 West Olympic.  With Dan, the waiter brought the customary pre-meal Italian bread and water.  We placed our order but it took forever, and Dan wanted to walk out.  So he did. I cancelled the order and left a tip.