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In 1998, Tyler Cassity, who comes from a
funereally centric family, bought the Hollywood Memorial Park
Cemetery and thus the rotting remains and final resting places
of such luminaries as Carl “Alfalfa” Switzer, Mel
“That’s All Folks” Blanc, Rudolph Valentino,
and Cecil B. De Mille, among many others.
It has dawned on more than one observer
that Tyler’s good looks, “alternative lifestyle”
and ultimate career choice must have been an inspiration for
Allan Ball and his HBO “Six Feet Under” juggernaut.
Flashback to 1978 and the cemetery is as
worn around the edges as the surrounding moribund community
of Hollywood, California where it sits smack dab in the middle
of.
The romantically crumbling garden paradise
is spiritually adopted by various punk and art damaged musicians,
their friends and fellow misfits. A yearly Easter egg hunt provides
the possibility to hear the seldom uttered “I found one
under Tyrone Power!” echo across the pond and bouncing
among the palm trees causing the usually undisturbed ducks and
swans to get all flustered and bothered by the out-of-context
enthusiasm. Honking their half ass objections, they lamely try
to fly away and then give up for peace and quiet on the other
side, safely away from those of Krazy Kolored hair and Nino
Rota blaring boom boxes.
My friend Pleasant drags a drunken Billy
Idol to party among the tombstones late one firewater-drenched
moonlit summer night.
We would roam the grounds unmaliciously
until dawn, embracing the Rimbaud-esque moments, cloaked in
morbid curiosity, stars above and below, and with all the pretentious
theatrics and dreams that only a combination of being twenty-something
and sloshed in a graveyard and can provide.
Years later when I was asked by Tyler to
help restore the property (I’d somehow since become an
interior designer specializing in historic projects), I jumped
at the chance and also at the offer to exchange a final paycheck
for a prime pond side plot . . . a double wide even. If I were
a Beverly Hills real estate ad, I could be “dead star
adjacent.”
I’ll be just to the right of John
Huston. Hattie McDaniel and Harry Cohn are just a few steps
away. Then as if things couldn’t get any better, in January
of this year I get a call out of the blue from the cemetery
informing me of a new neighbor soon to be memorialized in “my
section.”
After battling prostate cancer, the New
York transplant Johnny Ramone sadly passed away on September
15, 2004 in Los Angeles. A life-like sculpture and memorial
depicting him with his trademark mane (complete with those amazing
bangs) and “how low can it go?” guitar pose rendered
in blackened bronze was going to be erected. To live the surreal
life to its fullest you only need to drive through the cemetery
amid the granite obelisks, Egyptian revival mausoleums and laser
etched Russian tombstones and discover a nine foot tall Johnny
Ramone frozen and forged mid performance from the waist up.
A photograph of this statue could be found in the dictionary
under “Cool.”
At the unveiling, a motley crew, high-media
profile of Johnny’s friends spoke eloquently and with
much sincerity about his loyalty, quirkisms and his deserved,
and self recognized, more than one commentator added, place
in rock and roll history.
Nicolas Cage spoke of Johnny’s style
and influence. Eddie Vedder about his own contribution to the
Ramones tribute CD “We’re A Happy Family,”
and Vincent Gallo on how they shared Republican Party political
views and home cooked meals.
It was all very slick. The big Ramones logo
banner was draped above the transparent acrylic podium. White
folding chairs were all in line atop fake green Astroturf which
kept us from sinking into the recently very rain soaked lawn
around Douglas Fairbanks’ reflecting pool where the ceremony
was held.
After the elegies, we all moved up the stairs
to the site and the statue was unveiled with genuine sadness,
respect and restrained delight. That perfect “magic hour”
golden Southern California late afternoon sunlight bathed the
black and waxy bronze like a canonization directed by Ridley
Scott. Holly Woodlawn stood next to me while Lisa Marie Presley
tried her best to avoid paparazzi . . . and probably Nic Cage.
Johnny’s widow Linda was a gorgeously mourning rock and
roll vision in layers of white — white boots, white fur
and white skirt . . . black aviators being the only diversion
from the snow angel in biker heaven statement.
I am proud to have seen the Ramones many
times in their prime, countless afternoon and evening debaucheries
usually at the Whiskey on Sunset Blvd. Their beautiful melodies
were in perfect counterpoint to the furious nonstop “this
is new” force of their presentation: breakneck, flawless
speed. Never a bad or lame show did I see.
To paraphrase from the film, “I know
lots of dead people.” Casualties from that period litter
my life now and are crossed out of old phone books with my pithy,
punky declaration scrawl of “DEAD” across their
names, various addresses and long disconnected phone numbers.
Jeffrey Lee Pierce, Tomata Du Plenty, Rob Graves, and Darby
Crash are now drinking pals in spectral form only. The light
that burns twice as bright burns half as long.
I didn’t know Johnny Ramone well,
but I saw him at his best, praised him like we should and will
be honored to be tainting the same ground water beside him.
--Brad Dunning
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If you don't know Tyrone Power, Douglas
Fairbanks, Cecil B. De Mille nor Hattie McDaniel, suffice to
say these were THE names of Hollywood's glorious past. Tyrone
was MY biggest heart-throb; Hattie was the first African-American
to win an Oscar for any role (supporting); Doug, with his wife,
"America's Sweetheart," Mary Pickford, director/actor/producer/writer
Charlie Chaplin and controversial director D. W. Griffith "Birth
of A Nation, that infamous ode to the KKK, but what a cinematic
masterpiece! What happens to art when the politics are damned?]
formed "United Artists" movie studio so they could
control their careers; and De Mille was known for scandalous
silents clothed in debauched biblical tales. If anyone cares
about our glorious and wild Hollywood past, this is THE place
to be buried! Dear Tomata du Plenty and Rick Van Santen reside
there. A double-width? You wanna bury some of my pix and ashes
in a time capsule? ohhh . . . jenny, quoting Scarlett O'Hara:
I am "pea green with envy."
Oh yeah, I was about to get a great shot
of Eddie Vedder next to the statue, when his wife, who sat next
to him the whole time, pushed me aside, saying she had to be
next to her husband. Hey lady, don't you think sleeping with
him is close enough? Would it have hurt to let me take one bloody
shot of your husband? Eddie, your wife is one pushy broad and
I mean that literally.
Margie, who was Ginger Canzoneri's girlfriend
(the Go-Go's manager) and her pal, Christian from the Exremes
and I loved to drop hallucinogens. I really liked Margie's intense
intelligence. but Christian stole some cool shots I took of
the Extremes.
These are not cropped because I want you
to see I could not get closer to shoot. I wanted to stand right
on top of them and shoot into the grave, but I just couldn't.
I was rather mortified, but how could I pass up this opportunity
to take a few shots?
 
The infamous Douglas Fairbanks shrine, overlooking
a huge reflective pool of sparkling water. That is Doug's profile
with his name underneath. He and Mary Pickford were truly the
world's first film superstars. Mary Pickford was the first actor
or actress the public knew by name. They called the blonde with
the cascading curls and effervescent smile "America's Sweetheart."
She acted, directed and produced and was known around the world.
So much so they couldn't honeymoon in Europe because they were
mobbed.
So where's her memorial? You can see her
name on buildings, like at the Autry Museum, due to donating
her much of her vast fortune to cultural studies and research.
Pretty cool for a girl who supported her family as a child actress
known as Gladys Smith from Canada. A true inspiration for women
forever. Her films are as entertaining today as they were over
100 years ago. Her talent, her wit, her beauty, her spunky independence,
and her Irish love of the underdog still brings smiles and tears
to viewers.
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