By Dana Miller

The other day I went on an adventure. Parked the car at Union Station and jumped on the Metro Gold Line to Pasadena. The goal was dinner in Old Town and a play at the significant and peachy Pasadena Playhouse. The Gold Line travels above ground and it was a blast to wind the 13.7 miles through Chinatown, Highland Park, and my hometown of South Pasadena. When I was a kid, Old Town Pasadena was a dump. It was a derelict and dilapidated ghost town filled with gun shops, army surplus stores, the Goodwill, hostels, and intimidating boozed-out bums. The corner of Fair Oaks and Colorado Boulevards was the place my posse went to score while I of course was at home reading the Bible. Old Town was sprayed down once a year for Jan. 1 celebrations, then returned to the salmagundi of discombobulation we knew and avoided like crabs. Not any more. Old Town Pasadena today looks as if Walt Disney mated with the Arts and Crafts movement. It’s clean with elegant restaurants, music clubs, bars, world class retail. And people. Lot’s and lots of grinning, sunny, happy people. It’s quite simply extraordinary. So what is WeHo’s problem? I mean why can’t Santa Monica Boulevard be extraordinary? Look, city planning and developing a strategic plan is neither my thing nor likely yours. But when you look at what was just 20 years ago a barren, vapid, scary place that somehow recreated itself into a living breathing Zion you realize there is hope for Boys Town. I take comfort in that. The play sucked. I didn’t mind.

A reader named Martin Ansell and I have been exchanging e-mails. Weeks ago I wrote of Shaun, David, and Patrick's dad, Jack Cassidy, who burned to a crisp passed out on Kings Road years ago. Jack didn't trust anybody who didn't drink because he knew that when they woke up in the morning, that's the best they would feel all day. Martin informed me that Jack once starred in a Broadway musical version of Superman. What? Yep! It was titled It’s a Bird, it’s a Plane, it’s Superman. Harold Prince directed the damn thing at the Alvin Theater. (It's now the Neil Simon Theater). Jack wasn't Superman but was the star and Linda Lavin was in it, as well. The rumor is the TV show Batman killed the play. Seems the prevailing thought was why go pay 10 bucks on Broadway when you could watch almost the same thing for free on the tube. Ya gotta wonder if Warner Brothers and Bryan Singer aren’t thinking about an all new Broadway version of Superman. I hope not, but it sadly does make sense. I have a friend who is in the new Superman Returns movie. He says Brandon Routh is sweet and gentle, but his girlfriend, Courtney Ford, is a mean bitch. I’m just passing it on.

So this failed 40-year-old play I never knew about, Christopher Reeve’s tragic and yet spirited, triumphant, and blessed end, and TV’s original Superman George Reeves blowing his brains out in 1959 at 1579 Benedict Canyon all kinda lead to that famed Superman Curse, right? It’s why I’ve stopped wearing tights.

I was in Vegas the other day and went by the Liberace Museum to see a couple of friends. A few years ago I produced a benefit for APLA. The theme was “Heaven Can Wait” and it was honoring entertainment folk we had lost to AIDS. Rock Hudson, Peter Allen, Michael Bennett, Liberace ... you get the idea. Debbie Reynolds did a tribute to Lee (written by Bruce Vilanch) that was so damned priceless and hilarious. Classic Bruce. Hell, classic Debbie! For the tribute I had convinced Liberace’s Museum in Las Vegas into lending a few of his ornate bejeweled capes to the show. I put ‘em on shirtless studs and they carried Debbie on stage. I think I also put one on Bruce just for fun! Liberace’s shows were quite simply over the top. Dancing waters, cars on stage, dancing show guys and gals, outrageous costumes and jewelry. He designed those capes he wore during shows and each cost over 100K. So it was a big deal for the museum to lend them to me. The gaggle that runs the joint were so sweet and kind I just kinda fell in love with them. Plus this museum is a trip. It’s in a mini-mall next to a troll gay bar called Good Times. Anyway, for some reason walking through the joint I couldn’t get the Starwood Nightclub out of my mind. Do you remember the Starwood? It was once called PJ’s and Trini Lopez recorded “Lemon Tree” live there. The Starwood was the hottest club in West Hollywood in the late ‘70s-early ‘80s. It was on the corner of Santa Monica and Crescent Heights. There is a mini mall and a good Russian restaurant there today.

Devo, the Go-Go’s, Ozzy, Van Halen, The Knack, Quiet Riot, Black Flag and X were all regulars at the Starwood. The place was owned by a mob guy who went by the name of Eddie Nash. At the time, Nash owned 36 liquor licenses in the Hollywood area. Amazing, huh? Freaks and fags, straight and stoned all filled the joint every night. In those days it was tough to figure out who was gay! They all had 27-inch waists! The Starwood was quite truthfully all about stiff drinks and dark corners. The porn star John Holmes was a constant and would flash you his 13-inch cock for five bucks. Honestly, as a twink I spent $5 to gaze, but if the chassis is so damned dented, who really cares what the spark plugs look like? (Boogie Nights is loosely based on Holmes, his penis and the day). Guys did guys, girls did girls, and almost everybody did coke at the Starwood. It was literally passed out by stunning androgynous Starwood peeps. I thought of the Starwood because of Scott Thorson. For five years Scott was Liberace’s companion. Scott moved in with Lee when he was 17. Liberace immediately forced the kid to have plastic surgery to look like his son! I met Scott at a party Paul Lynde and I went to at Liberace’s penthouse at 7461 Beverly Blvd. We had one drink and left. Paul and Lee together had all the makings of an even nastier version of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Can you imagine?

By now you certainly must be thinking how the hell does all this connect? Scott was an addict at the time. Coke, Quaaludes, Demerol anything. He was always driving his Rolls Royce over to the Starwood for drugs. That’s where he met Eddie Nash. In 1981 the Laurel Canyon Wonderland murders went down. Four people were bludgeoned to death with a steel pipe. Eddie Nash and Long John Holmes were the prime suspects (see the movie Wonderland). Poor Scott showed up to buy drugs at the Wonderland house that night and Eddie threatened to kill him if he ever told a soul he had seen anything. Scott Thorson eventually went into the witness protection program, found God and claims he is now heterosexual. I fear I’ve met too many people as they all rattle about in my head. From the crackpipe to the blowtorch to a clubbin’ killer and the hung-like-hell, ugly ass porn star. To a chichi and colorful pimped out piano player, our town yesterday, today and tomorrow is quite simply whacked.

On Thursday, Aug. 3, my friend Kevin Spirtas will be performing his one man show, Night and Days at the Caminito Theatre at Los Angeles City College in Hollywood on Vermont. Call (323) 953-4000 ext. 2990 for reservations. Kevin is outstanding and next issue he will spill all the dirt on why Hairspray didn’t work in Vegas. (He swears it had nothing to do with his performance!)

In this issue I’ve written a memorial to a very special pretty lady person who recently passed on, Maxine Harris. There is a memorial service and reception being planned to celebrate the life of Max produced by my pal Richard Bondroff. It’s set for Sunday, Aug. 6, beginning at 3 p.m. at The Village at The Center. Please RSVP prior to Aug. 1 by calling (213) 201-1637.

See you Out & About

Contact me at: Malibudana@aol.com.