Frozen Moments - Chapter Three

I became an instant fan of Phyllis Diller, the funniest woman in the world, the very first time I heard one of her earliest recordings, "Are You Ready for Phyllis Diller?" I've still got the album, sitting right here in front of me and I'm looking for the date it was recorded, but there is none. It had to have been in the sixties, though. She was performing in San Francisco at The Hungry Eye, probably the first of Comedy Clubs for that time. And here I am about forty five years later writing about my frozen moment of time when I not only met her, but was graciously invited back to her beautiful Brentwood mansion along with about ten others from the party that Debbie Reynolds had thrown. I remember it well and am pleased to share it with you now ... better late than never.

It happened during my "Lana Turner Period" that lasted from August 1969 to November 1979. Ten years is a long time to live the daily life and routine of one of the most beautiful, glamorous, and sought-after Movie Stars of all time. Lana was just beginning her phase of life as a recluse, taking the idea from Greta Garbo who was by then dead and didn't need it anymore. Somehow, in her own little mind, Lana conceived the notion that if she were not available or in public so much that in time she would achieve the status that Garbo did; the mysterious movie star of legend that was rarely seen who had abruptly called a halt to appearing in any more movies. Garbo became a woman of mystery and curiosity for the many years she evidently "vanted to be alone". Lana never quite pulled it off. As she became less and less available both socially and professionally no one gave a hoot and the word whispered through Hollywood was that she was more than likely holed up in her high-rise condominium either drinking her vodka and cranberry juice or was passed out having consumed too much vodka and cranberry juice. It was Wolf Schmidt Vodka, by the way, and Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice. Meanwhile Lana was whiling away the hours in front of her television set, usually with me there as well, taking in all her favorite shows and sipping vodka and cranberry juice until at least 4AM and sometimes as late as the following midday when fatigue would overcome us both and we'd pull the blackout curtains and fall into her king-sized bed and sleep, sleep, sleep.

So, how does Phyllis Diller enter into this? I'm getting there!
We have to go through Debbie Reynolds to get to Phyllis Diller. This is how things are done in Hollywood

Debbie was a product of the MGM musicals just after Lana abdicated her ten-year reign as Queen of MGM Studios. In essence, they both graduated from the same high school; only for them it was the magical, wonderful, enchanted world of MGM. They were sorority sisters, so to speak. Of all the big name stars that Lana worked, loved, and partied with over the decades spanning her career, Debbie Reynolds was the only big name star who ever called just to chat with Lana by telephone. I would answer the phone using just the last four numbers to identify the call was coming to the correct telephone address.

"Four-three-two-one."

"Hi Taylor! Is the Star in?"

That was how Debbie announced herself.

"Hi, Debbie. Perhaps for you she's in. Let me check."

It was at that point that I'd inform the Star that Debbie Reynolds was on hold and the Star would always take Debbie's calls ... with me on the office telephone listening to everything and making notes along the way. Aside from private conversations between her mother and daughter via telephone, Lana always had me on the other phone taking copious notes of conversations between her agents, business manager, and anything and everything even remotely having to do with her career. There were some I took from prospective suitors eager to meet her and possibly romance her and that was very, very funny. I'll try and remember to tell you the story about The German later. Right now I'm still trying to get to Phyllis Diller ... but we still have to go through Debbie to get there.

One of Debbie's calls was because she was throwing a party for Phyllis Diller. The formal invitation that I still have was to celebrate Phyllis's 'One hundred and Third Birthday" to be held at a private club on Robertson Drive in Beverly Hills. Lana truly liked Debbie and thought the whole idea was a hoot! Neither of us had ever laid eyes on Miss Diller except for her television appearances, and we were both looking forward to actually being in the presence of such a treasure.

Come the night of the party, however, Lana decided at the last minute not to attend. Well, there I was, all tuxedoed up and eager to go. When I expressed my disappointment with a long, drawn-out "AAAaawwwwww", Lana said, "Well, you can still go! Everybody there knows you and Debbie will take good care of you, so just take the Cadillac and go!" I did!

There was a crush of celebrities waiting in line outside the club and Debbie was at the entrance, behind a podium that allowed her to see the entire line of guests, some the most famous faces in Hollywood. As we inched closer and Debbie greeted every guest with a funny remark, she finally saw me, without "her" and let out her own "AAAAWwwwww" before saying, "I knew she wouldn't come. I knew she wouldn't come!" I answered in mime, bringing my shoulders up to my ears with a goofy smile on my face and hands turned palms up as if pleading, "So? What can I do?"

"Come on in, Taylor!" Debbie was instant Molly Brown when she said it.

The club was spacious and well appointed, separated into a large bar area and off somewhere else, a big dance floor. As is my customary procedure at such events, I like to be an observer more than a participant, so the spot I found at the far end of the bar was perfect for celebrity watching. The bartender assigned to my region was very generous in the vodka gimlets he poured for me. I was nervousness because Miss Diller herself was at the middle of the bar, seated outward and laughing with people ten deep surrounding her. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was wearing an ensemble that even for Phyllis Diller was w-a-a-a-y over the top.
Most memorable was her hair, her very own hair and not a wig. Who but Phyllis Diller would ever think to do that with their hair?
It was pulled up on all sides and turned into a knot at the direct top of her forehead. It looked (as Lana used to say) "Like loving hands at home' and not some fabulous up-do by a high priced hairdresser.
It wasn't even sprayed because throughout the evening tiny wisps of hair would break free of the 'Do' and hang like lifeless fatigued spider's veins necessitating Phyllis to constantly smooth them back into place with the palm of her hands. The piece de resistance of her towering ball of hair was pure Phyllis Diller and you couldn't look at her without laughing. What she had done was to take a hard-boiled egg and place a few pair of utterly long fake eyelashes over a crudely drawn eyeball and center it into the exact front of the crowning nest of hair. With every movement of her head, the huge eye sitting atop her forehead was scanning the room. I have a picture of Phyllis and I together during that frozen moment's party showing the two of us admiring a huge ring she also wore. Miss Diller is looking down at her ring and the fake eye is aimed directly into the camera.

It was only after eight or so vodka gimlets that I screwed up the gumption to approach her. What you need to know at this point is that for years I had been 'doing' my Phyllis Diller act ... impersonating her from the album heard so many times over and over that I had her voice inflection and comedy routine down flat.
So it was with my gimlet-inspired gumption that I weaseled my way through her admiring crowd and got her attention by grabbing one of her glove-covered hands. Her smile was wide and open as she turned her attention on me in expectation that I might someday speak. I finally did by saying, "I want to thank you for all the parties, and dinners, barbeques and other social events I have been invited to because of you."

"Me!" she crowed, "Why Me?"

With that I threw my head back and began impersonating her well known laugh before going into her comedy routine which began, "I want to thank you all for coming here tonight. Especially to a place that's this filthy! Oh, I wanna warn you ... don't ever eat here! Last night I ordered a steak. Rare. With a little help, this thing could have recovered!"

At this, Miss Diller threw back her head and screamed, "This man is doing my act!" Those surrounding us begged for more so I sailed into the next line and Phyllis did it along with me, in unison until everyone broke up with laughter. I may have made a fool of myself, but Phyllis Diller took a liking to me.

The night wore on and because of the California liquor laws the bar sounded last call at 1:45 in the morning. The bar had to be closed by 2am. Miss Diller quickly collected a group of us to follow her limo to her exquisite home located in the Brentwood enclave of fabulously manicured and stately homes just off Sunset Boulevard as it winds its way to the Pacific.

I don't know if I have all the words to describe how truly gorgeous yet homey and comfortable Phyllis Diller's mansion is. If you walked in without knowing whom the owner is you'd never in a million years think, "I'd say Phyllis Diller lives here." There is hardly a trace of the public performer anywhere to be seen. Everything is done in such good taste and with an eye for detail that you find yourself speaking in hushed tones without being asked to.

Our new best friend, Phyllis, took us on a tour of the home she was so proudly fond of. The massive living room was painted in muted shades of gray everywhere and was as inviting as it was formal. I remember leaded windows, windows everywhere looking out onto the vast expanse of Walnut trees and landscaped lawn lit beautifully in the night. Most outstanding was a life sized, full body portrait of the man Phyllis credits most with helping her career get started. It sits on a very large painter's easel and is the total focus of attention with its large, gold, Rococo frame perfectly lit from above to showcase the man so well known and recognized all over the world; her mentor, Bob Hope.

The formal dining room across the hall from the living room boasted the most incredibly emerald green silk moiré' wallpaper which perfectly accented the soothing dark grays of the rest of the home so far.

Our leader was no longer the public persona of Phyllis Diller, but the most gracious of hostesses as she took us from room to room, each dedicated to others who had helped mold her career and she told the story behind each one.

We went into an enormous former room made into a closet with racks and racks of wild outfits, dozens of wigs, hundreds of hats, shoes, boots, shawls, feathered boas, gloves, and thousands of pieces of wacky jewelry, which made up her 'working wardrobe'.

We were all surprised upon entering her bedroom. It was devoid of all the trappings of wealth that the rest of her home had. It was a very ordinary bedroom that could house any normal American grandmother. The walls were a warm yellow and all around them hung the work of little artists loving hands at school or play making pictures for grandma. None were framed; they were attached to the walls with strips of scotch tape and allowed to hang loosely as if giving room for more to follow in their place. One could feel the tangible love compiled in that very ordinary bedroom.

The outstanding feature of the bedroom was what looked to be an antique Harpsichord set right at the foot of the bed. Every one of us were acquainted with Miss Diller's virtuosity on that instrument and playing to sold out crowds as she appeared with the best orchestras around the world for concert appearances. With very little persuasion did she take her place at the Harpsichord and play a little piece of classical music for us. When she finished and we all applauded she broke the serious mood by proclaiming, "And now! Into the Après' Fuck Room!"

The next room we entered was a large multi-purpose room painted a happy shade of yellow and white with white, wooden trellises from floor to ceiling to give the room the look of an indoor garden. It was something straight out a Doris Day movie.

As we stood in admiration of this wonderful, happy place a woman in our group asked, "And who is this room modeled for?"

Phyllis's voice came back like the crack of a whip.

" It was the Doris Day Room" Phyllis confided in a tone of disgust, "Until I met her! Now I have to have the whole thing redone and fumigated!" There was no laughter at the end of that punch line. Nor was there meant to be. I'm sure everybody wanted the back-story to that comment, but it was not forthcoming. We felt the tangible edge come over Phyllis and quickly exited the room.

Drinks were still being served as I checked the time and saw it was nearly four in the morning. Politely making contact with my hostess, I said that I had to leave, whereupon Miss Diller said she'd walk me to the door, another thing one doesn't expect from a major star in the Hollywood firmament. There are usually servants on hand to do that sort of thing, but Phyllis remained the gracious hostess up to the end.

I believe she knew of my association with Lana Turner and how long we had been together, but I was surprised when we reached the door and she folded her hands before her and asked a most surprising question to which I had no answer. To this day I've gone over that frozen moment at east a million times and now know what my answer should have been. I believe I missed the opportunity of a lifetime by not speaking from the heart.

Her question was simple and straightforward. With a loving smile she looked me in the eye and asked, "What is it you want?"

Seeing my look of consternation and furrowed brow, she repeated it a second time. "What are you really looking for?"

Stupidly, I mumbled something lame about 'just getting along' or some such garbage.

The light in her eyes dimmed when I said that. Her posture and body language slumped and I knew I had disappointed her.

I should have said, "I'm a trained singer and would love to pursue a career doing that." It might have unlocked something she could do for me and mentor my career as others had done for her.
Instead, my first thought was of Lana and I felt a cold chill come over me at the thought of leaving her.

I didn't realize until years later, after our breakup, that Lana and I were co-dependent on one another. They have an organization for that now called CODA and joining is just like going to AA Meetings to help rid you of co-dependant personality disorders, but I didn't know it then.

I think I knew, as I pointed the long black Cadillac toward home that I had just missed a golden opportunity. I have regretted that frozen moment to this moment and will until my dying day.

Copyright © Taylor Pero. 12/13/07, 7:01 PM, 2761 words.