Anatomy of a Rogue Wave is the first hardboiled detective story I began. It has the salty taste of London, Pynchon, and Fleming. I began it before I identified the man sitting next to my grandmother as being Norbert Davis, who Ludwig Wittgenstein wanted to meet. They will meet in my story, a psychological thriller modeled after the movies that Joan Crawford appeared in. I came up with…The Joan Crawford Hour. I mention Jack London’s boat. The London quote in ‘No Time To Die’ looms large, as my sister, Vicki Presco, said it was our sister’s time to die in the Carmel Pinecone.
I have to keep reminding myself that I am the surviving artist and writer in my family – and my ancestors got my back! Mark and Vicki Presco, Shamus Dundon, and Heather and Patrice Hanson, are not creative, are backstabbers and parasites, like Cynthia at the Belmont Historical Society. Any sane society would be thrilled to have a author working on books that take place in the Bay Area, in their camp. Belmont – dropped the ball!
P.S. I just realized Don Roscoe and James Bond have allot in common. They even look alike. Did Bond meet Don when he came to San Francisco? Did Don Juan get wise to Jim, who was working under the rose, and set him up for a bust. Otto Roscoe was tight with Hoover. Don would have been fifty in 1962. I didn’t care about Bond at all until I read an article about a female Bond in 2018. Rena Easton came to mind. She is my model for Irene Westhaven. Is it possible Bond ran into Irene in London when she was having fashion shows for Rosamond Wear, her fashion line. Did Bond follow Ms. West Haven to San Francisco?
‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’
Don Roscoe and Humphrey Bogart had many things in common, the foremost being, they owned yachts that were far superior to Jack London’s wreck ‘The Snark’. On the San Francisco Bay, one could see Don’s yacht ‘Bohemian Roe’ racing Bogies Boat ‘Santana’ past Alcatraz Island. Every other boat owner looked on in awe. From the Berkeley Hills you could make out this incredible sight that American Intellectuals titled ‘The Zenith of Western Culture’. This infuriated the Swells in Los Angeles, and other Hollywood Stars who were befuddled. The Kennedy family took note, and shrugged their shoulders.
“Why aren’t we the Capitol of Western Culture?” they asked over and over again, to no avail.
In 1941, San Francisco almost lost the title due to Otto Roscoe producing the worst musical ever made. Otto’s ancestors were Forty-Eighters and founders of the Secular Turnverien, German social clubs that speckled the American landscape. Otto’s father, Wensel Roscoe, fled Bohemia Germany when the German Socialists lost to the Habsburg Monarchy, who had always defended the Pope in Rome, that many Turnverein titled ‘The Anti-Christ’. With the rise of Hitler, German Americans were getting a bad name, and were looked on suspiciously. There was talk of deporting them en mass, or confining them to a desert in Nevada, behind a high wall. Being a spokesperson for the Bohemian Diaspora, Otto Stutenmeister (the real family name) was pressured to act.
Eight months before Pear Harbor, Otto contacted a Jewish screen writer who some say was pixielated. In three days, Dameon Gallstein wrote HELLZAPOPPIN. starring Ole Olson, and Chic Johnson, These two clowns shamelessly ripped off the identity of the most hated couple in the world, Martin and Osa Johnson, whose real cannibal footage blew everyone’s mind, even Hitler’s, who sent a German destroyer to destroy these inferior people who kept him up at night in terrible dreams. This movie was pre-Psychedelic. When a young Ronald Reagan saw it, he stood up at the premiere and said it should be banned! Years later he would apply his opinions to the Hippie Movement.
The Fuehrer had a morbid fear of being put in a big pot and eaten by cannibals. As a boy, he had read Louis de Rougemont. As a coincidence, Martin Johnson sailed on ‘The Snark’, but abandoned ship, in disgust;
“This scow won’t sail into the wind!
Don ‘The Juan’ Roscoe, was the author of famous Adventure Novels, that critics said were better than anything London wrote. Don also plagiarised the Johnsons who everyone hated. They were too real. They did really interesting things, and were never bored. On top of that, their love for each other was without equal, and without end. They owned real love, while everyone else in the world were real frauds living a boring life and headed for a divorce. The Johnsons were guilty of – rubbing it everyone’s face! Every week they received a fresh death threat.
“They’re as good as dead!” said Don’s publisher. “Why let all that good adventure go to waste?”
[The Johnson Curse was exploited by Ronald and Nancy Reagan, and the Kennedys. Most folks knew Jack was a cheater, and his marriage was on the rocks. The last place Jack wanted to go, was to Texas. He knew there were real nuts living there.]
Don’s fans knew he never left California, had never seen the world, but, he was born in San Francisco, and thus he was the Acme of Male Achievement. He was given the title ‘The California Kid’ which made Errol Flynn, green with envy.
When ‘The Bohemian Roe’ beat ‘The Santana’ three times in a row, there could be no doubt, Don was ‘The King of San Francisco’ …….and Oakland! The Godfather of American Literature, who made New York his headquarters, gave Don the nod. Hollywood came calling. They knew a real phony when they saw one. When Otto heard his son was being wooed, he exerted his German authority.
Otto was ‘King Barrel’ and owned of the California Barrel Company. It was no secret he supplied Bootleggers with barrels, and thus they loved him near to death. With a hit move, he could put a Pincer move on his hated rival, Wallace Westhaven, who was getting in his face. At the same time, he could give all Germans a better image by being aggressive and competitive like America’s finest families. Wallace and his family were at the epicenter of Connecticut Bluebloods. The Mafia families refused to fuck with them, because they descend from crazy Highlanders who painted themselves blue. The ancient Irish also painted themselves blue, and having whipped the snot out of the Roman Legions on several occasions, the Italian families of the Big Apple gave these people a wide birth.
“Let them blow on their pigskins!” Said Al Capone. “As long as they don’t muscle in on our turf, what business is it of ours?’
Otto was not happy that his son had become a playboy, who got caught smoking cigarets with Bogie’s dish, Lauren Bacall. Bogie was not a smoker. He only pretended to smoke. He forbade his wife to smoke. Philip Morris had him on their payroll. Just before reporters snapped a picture, he had Lauren light him a cigarette. This is how she got addicted to nicotine. At a luncheon in Pasadena, Don and Lauren met on the veranda, and she took a couple of puffs from his cigarette.
Taking in her Bad Girl Good Looks, Don was laying on her the origin of his surname.
“It means ‘Born of the Roe of the Black Forest’. It’s a German thing, an ancient fairytale full of fawns and naked Pixies.”
Don understood most educated young women wanted to be naked Pisxies in the forest, and, ‘The Juan’ never failed to get young beauties in his bed after his magical tale was told.
“My father imports oak from the Black Forest to make the finest barrels ever made!” Lauren gave Don, the look, and let go a long puff of thoughtful smoke.
“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me!”
The Juan understood, this woman was ‘Bogie Trained’. The rivalry, was on!
A month before the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor ‘”Pig Foot Pete” the hit tune from Hellzapoppin, was nominated for an academy award. It was put out in the cold by Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’. Overnight, Americans began to hate the Germans. This is when Don began his search for her, The All American Girl. She had to be extremely beautiful, and a Patriot. The Juan spotted Irene Westhaven when she accepted the award for Bing, who was laid up in the hospital after breaking his leg in a skiing accident while a guest of Wally Westhaven, the President of the Westhaven Barrel Company of Greater Connecticut. Wally was very tight with Bing, who had his eye on Irene. Bingo!
“She’s the one for me!”
Today, most insiders know Mel Brooks ripped off Hellzapoppin when her wrote the screenplay for ‘The Producers’.
When Hitler saw Aryan women being grilled on a spit by Jewish Hollywood Devils, he was furious. He made plans to invade Russia – before the last reel!
In 1917, Martin and Osa departed on a nine-month trip through the New Hebrides (Vanuatu) and Solomon Islands. The highlight of the trip was a brief, but harrowing, encounter with a tribe called the Big Nambas of northern Malekula. Once there, the chief was not going to let them leave. The intervention of a British gunboat helped them escape. The footage they got there inspired the feature film Among the Cannibal Isles of the South Seas (1918).
PORTSMOUTH — A 55-foot schooner known affectionately as “Bogie’s Boat” after its former owner, the late movie star Humphrey Bogart, arrived recently in Melville for a complete refit and restoration.
The yacht built in 1935 arrived at Loughborough Marine Interests LLC about three weeks ago after being hauled by truck in a custom-built cradle from San Francisco.
“We will be embarking on a huge refit and restoration of the yacht starting next month,” said Joseph Loughborough, owner of the company. “We basically have to take the boat apart and rebuild it stick by stick.”
Getting the contract for the restoration of the yacht, which Bogart named Santana, is very exciting because it is so historically significant, Loughborough said.
The owners of the boat surveyed it in California to find faults but they missed a lot of things that need replacing, he said.
“We have done a couple of her sister ships so we have a pretty good idea where to look a little harder,” he said.
He estimated the refit and restoration would take 18 months with crew of eight or 10 workers or even 15 experienced workers in some instances. The work is likely to cost about $1.5 million.
“She is going to be gorgeous but there is a lot of work to do,” Loughborough said of the Santana. “I mean really a lot of work.”
Much of the significant history of the yacht is connected to the period from 1945 to 1957 when Bogart owned and sailed it. Although his love affair with Lauren Bacall is legendary, his son Stephen said Santana was really his father’s great love affair.
“Apparently Lauren Bacall wasn’t very fond of the boat,” Loughborough said. “This was the boys’ boat.”
That assessment is confirmed by a quote often attributed to Bogart: “The trouble with having dames on board is you can’t pee over the side.”
He is said to have spent 35 to 45 weekends a year aboard Santana and frequently raced the yacht.
Since Bogart’s death in 1957, the Santana has changed hands many times. It has been featured in articles in Cruising World in 2005 and Sports Illustrated in 1981.
Until last year, it was owned by Paul Kaplan, part owner of one of the largest boatyards in San Francisco Bay.
Kaplan sold it in October to a group with connections to Nantucket, Mass. The group had it hauled to Melville for restoration. Loughborough said the group wants to remain anonymous.
“These guys say they are not going to do much racing, but as soon as it’s done they will be racing,” he predicted.
They are from California and intend to bring the yacht back to the West Coast, he said.
This is not the first time the Santana has been in Rhode Island.
The Santana sailed in the 1938 Newport to Bermuda Race and won the schooner trophy. It returned 30 years later, but had less success.
Loughborough said his previous experience refitting two other yachts built by yacht designer Sparkman & Stephens helped him win the contract for the Santana.
A growing talent pool in the Newport area also helped.
“If someone was going to rebuild a wooden boat 20 or 25 years ago, everyone would say, ‘Go to Maine,’” Loughborough said. “I have been here since 1986 and the whole classic boat movement has kind of generated a talent pool on this island and it’s just getting better and better.”
He cited the graduates of the International Yacht Restoration School in Newport as a factor in the development of that pool.
Loughborough pointed out some of the work that will be needed to restore the Santana. The teak deck and mahogany furniture are worn. Teak stands up better than mahogany, he said, so he might use it to replace the mahogany. Stainless steel pieces on the yacht will be replaced with brass as was originally used. The new owners want it to be as original as possible, he said.
They may even replace the refrigerator on board with an ice box.
“We will remove every other plank so we can see the framing,” he said. “Anything that is preservable on the original boat we will preserve.”
‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’
Irene Westhaven raised eyebrows when she told her friends at college she was kin to Benjamin Franklin, who had come to Connecticut to put together the First Congress. What she did not dare tell them, was, she was heir to the Dharma-Shave company, and was worth seventeen million dollars. To be this rich, and that beautiful, would render her the campus monster, a hunchback. In order to keep her mouth shut, she began to memorize poems – many poem! If they knew she was the smartest woman to ever attend Radcliffe, they would crucify her!
Growing up on a farm in Watsonville, ‘The Artichoke Capital of the World’ she was rendered an orphan when a dust-cropping plane came hurtling out of the sky like a giant comet, and slammed into the Westhaven home. Irene was away visiting her grandmother in Carmel.
Dorothy Witherspoon was an old Beat Poet who talked George Sterling out of committing suicide on several occasions. Alas, she gave up. For decades she endured the title fellow writers lay on her….’Black Widow’. Even though she was a lesbian, the rumors she broke George’s heart, would not desist. How a lesbian could be a grandmother, was the town puzzle. The ancient authors who wrote books on Communism and Socialism, who clung to life in their quaint little writer’s bungalows, felt vindicated. They now spread a rumor Dorothy was a witch who caused that bi-plane to catch fire.
“She was driven by a well-deserved loneliness. She put a hex on that pilot.”
Benjamin went to Harvard. Like his father before him Ben’s father was a cooper. They made the best oak barrels on the East Coast. They had one rival, the California Barrel Company in San Francisco. It was expected of Ben to go to college and come up with a better barrel – and destroy the family rival. He didn’t want to argue with his ancestors, because after three hundred years there wasn’t much room for improvement.
Ben began to feel like a unnecessary appendage, a gimpy arm that would soon wither and fall off. The Westhavens began to consider him a parasite going along for a free ride – that they enjoyed for generations. Not one of the established Westhavens had improved the family product. How what Westhavens are chosen to receive family money, remains one of the world’s foremost secrets.
“I wish I knew!” Ben told his levitating lover whose family owned Lima Bean fields in Oxnard. “I would can it and sell it!”
Ben dropped out in his second year and announced he was going to spend the family grubstake on a trip to Tibet. He had met a girl from California that had become a Buddhist. She claimed she had learned her outstanding love-making techniques from a Englishman in Nepal who got her hooked, then un-hooked, from Opium. She claimed they levitated when they expericenced a mutual orgasm.
The first thing Ben saw when he entered the monestary, was ten boys getting their head shaved. He was transfixed. The monks did not use a lathering brush, or amy lubricant, yet the hair came off like fresh fallen show. Pretending to go through an initiation, Ben alas asked the question he longed to ask;
“Who makes your razors?”
Ben was taken to the head monk who took him deep into the mountain where a forge was glowing red like the eyes of a dragon. Here he was shown the prototype, an ancient razor with an ivory handle whereon was carved a dragon.
“This razor once belonged to ancient Scythian traders who brought it out of India. We were shown how to forge the metal, but, the trick is in how to sharpen it. Ben was taken to a whetstone that never stopped turning. Monks with one large arm cranked the stone as they chanted. When the razor was judged sharp enough, it was taken to a murky pool where swam blind Coy fish. The master monk ran the edge through the heart of a dead hog, then dipped the razor in the water. Ben let out a strange sound as he saw the fish sucking on the blade.
“They have very tiny teeth that puts on the final edge.”
Ben’s mind reeled. He was in that certain light. He heard deep chanting.
The first thought was, how much do these fish cost, and could he get them to the States on board the ocean liner. He then set up his camera, and took photographs.
“I want to make these razors in America. Do I own your permission?”
“Of course, it is the Buddhist way to be generous. But, your will need a ancient whetstone and master turners. If they turn to fast, or turn too slow, you will cut into the scalp of the initiate. If sharpened correctly, one need never sharpen them again. For this reason, they will cost you a pretty penny. Is that how you say it?’
Ben rubbed his chin.
“I’ll just take some of the fish! You can keep your Turners.”
On the voyage home Ben worked on his master plan. He was proud of himself to realize in an instant that if he replicated the Tibetan Dragon Razors, and sold them, then he would be out of business. He wanted to make a killing, which meant the average male would buy ten inferior Dragon razors in his lifetime. Then, out of the blue, popped this idea; one would mail their dull razors to THE DHARMA-RAZOR COMPANY where it will be specially re-sharpened by Master Turners form Tibet, and the sacred blind Coy fish. There will be pictures of these monks on the box. Most American men had become seriously attached to their Dragon blades, even considered them members of the family. This annual re-honing of the sacred blade costs a little less than buying a new razor, which is what they will get back in the mail, because – this is cost-affective.
“As good as new!”
Inside the box, is a tiny scroll bound by a red silk ribbon. Ben’s silent Tibetan partner spent most of his day authoring wise sayings which a machine stamped out. Customers loved this ‘Touch of the Orient’ and were on their phones exchanging wise sayings. Then, one day, a farmer without a phone, rendered his pearl of wisdom on five signs, then, stuck them in the ground next to the highway that ran past his farm.
The rest is history. A steady stream of yellow school buses drive up to the Dharma-Shave plant every day, and out pour the latest brood of suckers, they squealing with delight to see the blind sucking Coy fish put on the final edge of the razors that are dunked over an over again – just for show! Then, here come Buddhist Turner monks dressed in orange robes, to hand the children a sucker. The sleeve on their developed arm is pinned up, and the kids take turns feeling their muscles. Then, in awe, they touch the dragon tattoo.
All the Sacred Turners are secretly bussed in from New York’s Chinatown, and given a fifty pound dumbbell.
Not one male, or female, who got a sucker, ever bought any razor that did not have the plastic dragon handle. Ben, had reinvented the barrel. For stepping out of line, all the Westhavens disowned him but his brother, Charlie, the father of Irene Westhaven, who some say was the most beautiful woman in the world. But, now she is dead, killed by a rogue wave.
WITHIN THIS VALE
OF TOIL AND SIN
YOUR HEAD GROWS BALD
BUT NOT YOUR CHIN
Dharma is a word without direct translation, but implies ‘religion,’ ‘duty,’ and ‘righteousness.’ It derives from a Sanskrit root word meaning to uphold or sustain. The concept behind Dharma is anything that upholds or sustains a positive order. For example, an individual, a family, a community, a nation, and the universe all help uphold order.
A-Dharma is the opposite of dharma; it is the failure of the individuals in the system to maintain the system. The children do not grow up, the police do not protect, the educators do not teach. If there is too much a-dharma then the entire system breaks down, and families, communities, nations, even societies break down.
Frank Rosefish could not believe his hands were trembling as he poured the developing chemicals in the tray. He was overly concerned about maintaining a professional decorum in the presence of Susanne Plantard, because he wanted to rip her clothes off, grab her by her love handles, and fuck her doggy style. It was all he could do to control himself when around Ms.Old Driftwood Face as he called her within days of employing her as his assistant. There had been trouble with other female assistants. Frank could not work with a man. When he interviewed her, and beheld how ugly she was, he believed he had come up with a solution.
Then he saw her perfect buttox, the tapering of her abdomen to her mound of Venus, that set atop her statuesque legs with erotic perfection. He saw all this – thru her clothes! In a week Frank felt he was going nuts. Three days ago he asked her if he could photograph her, naked, in the round warm sand dunes “with a bag over your head” he stopped himself from adding. When Susanne blushed, Frank wanted to vomit. Her face looked like a bloody pound of rancid hamburger meat.
“No. I don’t think so. Not today. Not any day. If you ask me again, I will got to town and tell the sheriff.”
Artists are very picky and choosy creatures – on the inside! But, when they try to express their genius, outside their work, they can come off like un-restrained sex fiends, total lunatics and rape-artists. Only the great muses of great men understood this dilemma and were able to get past the highly critical, and forever horny, guard at the door.
Picture yourself as an empty canvas, and, here come the master to put his paws on you. Here is an old dog with a huge red boner – every time! This is how the innocent pure white canvas sees us. We want, and get our way. Now hear ten pounds of clay saying this to the sculptor;
“No. Not today. I have a headache. Will your inspiration wait till morning?”
Plantard was homely, but not ugly. When she saw the rock at Rocky Point appear out of the fog thanks to the wonders of chemistry, she looked at Frank, who winced. In the red light of the dark room, she looked like the picture of Dorian Gray. Frankly quickly turned back to the task at hand, which was to expose Don ‘The Juan’ Roscoe……..as a murderer.
“There!” Shouted Susanne! “Oh my God, he pushed her!”
“Holy shit!” sounded Frank! and went round and round in a tight circle as if he had to pee his pants.
“Holy shit! ” and Frank shoved his face into the tray for a close look.
“Look at the expression on his face. It’s pure evil!.”
Susan shoved her face into the tray, and gasped!
“No! You’re wrong! He’s reaching out to grab her and keep her from falling!”
“What the fuck are you’re talking about? have you gone insane?”
“No, look, His eyes are filled with horror and alarm! He loves her!
Frank knew he was one of the world’s foremost photographers. He knew how the human eye can deceive. He knew he wanted this to be the shot of a lifetime. He wanted Don to be guilty of murder. He slowly turned to Susanne.
“How could you!” Frank asked with red in his eyes! “You ruined my shot, You betrayed me. Why did you do it?”
All of a sudden, Frank saw his hands encircling Susanne’s throat, He began to squeeze hard until her eyes bugged out. Then, he had an epiphany. He had in his hands, at his mercy, what he had been avoiding all his life….ugliness! Why, what is so ugly about ugliness? Buck up man! You’re an artist! Susanne, his beautiful and ugly assistance, had exposed his major flaw, his weakness.
Frank grasped Plantard’s head in his creative hands. Her mouth was open to his passionate kiss. They tore at each others clothes, then sunk to the floor.
As the photo of Rocky Point become fully developed, you heard Susanne and Frank come together in perfect harmony. The Bohemian Romance of the Century, was on. Frank couldn’t wait to tell his friend Picaso, show him his first portrait of Plantard, the Grotesque French Hunchback of Notre Dame.
That was a huge mistake. What dirty trick didn’t Picaso employ to steal frank’s muse! When he finally did, he did his best work. You can read all about it in the infamous Beat Porno Book ‘Fuckfish’ that is only sold at the City Lights Bookstore in San Francsisco.
Antonin Artaud was found dead with a copy of ‘Fuckfish’ in his lap. He had just uttered these last words to his nurse.
“It is true. Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder.”
fuckfish1. A person who is such an asshole that he supasses any name or remark.Damn man I hate you so much…. you are a fuckfish!
‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’
In 1948, Suzanne Plachette, the beautiful apprentice to the world famous photographer, Frank Rosefish, lifts the heavy camera of her master, and climbs to the top of the rock. Frank has gotten too old to make this climb. Suzanne understands a gauntlet has been passed. Positioning the legs of the tripod on the jagged rock was no easy task. Her heart racing, she sees her shot. She changes the lens for a close-up and presses the button with her thumb.
“Hurry up!” Frank shouts up to his understudy, he doing his best not to notice the strong wind has blown her skirt up to her thigh. Distracted, and annoyed, the young Parisian climbs down the treacherous rock, carefully. If she stumbles, her chance to be a famous photographer, would be at and end.
The next day, Suzanne brings the newspaper to her master’s Carmel bungalow. Together they read about the woman who got swept off Rocky Point by a “rouge wave”.
“This doesn’t make any sense!” declares Rosefish. “This is bullshit! Who in their right mind would go tide-pooling here?”
Having photographed every square inch of this coastline, Frank knew this was a very dangerous place. A fisherman was swept off this rock a week prior. There had been an eclipse of the moon. This woman had lived in Carmel most of her life.
“She knew better.” Rosefish uttered slowly as he let out a puff of smoke after taking a long draw from his meerschaum pipe.
Suzanne was distracted, as she took in the handsome man in the Sea Captain’s uniform. He was informing his fans he was sailing back to San Francisco on his famous yacht, the ‘Bohemian Roe’.
“That’s him! That’s the man I took a photograph of. He was standing next to this striking young woman. I got a close up just as you called to me. When I looked up, this woman was gone!
Rosefish took the pipe out of his mouth and lay it down on the oak table. Teacher and student looked at each other for what seemed an eternity. As one they made a beeline for the darkroom to develop what would turn out to be – the shot seen round the world.
You can get Ed Weston’s photographs of Robinson Jeffers, at Tor House. Has Lacy Buck handed them out to the Inner Carmel Circle? Her father’s partner, Sydney Morris, mishandled the estate of Brett Weston – too!
I began ‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’ last year. It is a experimental novel employing Wikipedia. This was a way to keep the memory of creative people alive by employing them in fiction. Truth has proven stranger than fiction. Because I am disabled and receive government money, I have much time to do research. I am more than an Art Expert. I own a Creative Intuition that all creative people respect – even after death!
What needs to be established in a New Branch of Law, where Creative Legacies are put in a new legal light, where parasites like Vicki Presco and Stacey Pierrot are quickly identified – and dismissed. Jeffers believed we are a Nation of Muses, not ugly lawyers who give handouts to the meanest nastiest and most aggressive people on the planet – who as I type – are destroying the meat that feeds them. We may never be a Nation of Laws again. Law and Justice has failed me – big time! We creative folks need a Soup Nazi at the door. If you are a greedy evil shit-head……….
“No input for you! No money. Get out!”
“I don”t think of it in terms of money. I do it just for the love and excitement.”
Here is what Sydney Morris said about the creative estate of Brett Weston;
““We had considered trying to manage the estate and running it as a business, but in view of what we had to deal with, in our opinion to run it as a business entity would have been long and arduous and maybe not successful,” says Morris. “Erica”s lawyers and my lawyers felt it would be in the best interests of the estate to dispose of substantially all of the collection.”
Basically what Morris did was give the bad business people that helped Christine achieve failure and bankruptcy – along with the recently divorced husband – a second chance at making it all work. They failed like the first time which was blamed on Rosamond’s dysfunctionality in Snyder’s book, along with choice dysfunctional family members. The more family members out of the picture, the better, was Morris’s remedy for making money, and nothing but money! If there was any adventure and love to be had by my family that was once titled ‘The Greatest Soap Opera Ever Made’ it was put in suspense while Morris did his thing.
“According to Morris and former estate co-executor and Weston friend Bob Byers, there were 29 versions of estate plans for Weston during his lifetime, “the common theme being gifts to lady friends and family members and to ultimately take care of [Weston”s daughter and sole heir] Erica,” according to Morris.”
“In looking back at Brett Weston”s life and career as an artist, one is struck by the degree to which his art is inextricably linked to his relationships with women. Married and divorced four times, Weston engaged in countless personal relationships with women, many of whom assisted Weston professionally.”
Easton! Weston! What are the odds! The Bentons and the Westons should have joined forces with the Eastwoods to make the ultimate Carmel Reality Show. Now bring in Rena and her Glamazon sisters.
‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’
Greyhound ran a bus out of L.A. to San Francisco that took fifteen hours to complete because it stopped at every bum-fuck town in California, the places time forgot. This was the Lost Soul Run, the Ghost Bus. It picked up young men who had to get away from the small towns they were born in. They went looking for jobs so they could get out of their parents home. They dressed them like dorks, made them wear dorky clothes so they would get hired and not come home. The Army and Navy wouldn’t take them, because there was something wrong with them. They would meet other rejects and losers on the bus. They would strike up a conversation, and move to the back of the bus. Young Mexican mothers clutching children to their bosom, shut their ears and eyes. Service men began to board. They were on leave. They had come home to their kinfolk, but, after loving embraces were exchanged, there was nothing to do. If there was a bar in town, it was full of angry old Oakies and Wobblies.
One could have a warm and engaging conversation on the Greyhound for the price of a ticket. For $6.50 cents, you could get companionship, and love, if just for a little while. You could buy a bottle of Gin for $1.25, and sneak it on board to share with your new friend. You arrived in San Francisco at 5:30 A.M. and have breakfast with your good buddy in the produce market. You could rent a room in a sleaze-bag hotel for $2.50 cents. Here, you could be yourself. For twenty bucks you could have the Bohemian experience of a life-time. Fuck France and Gay Paris!
This bus ride was soon titled ‘The Faggot Wagon’. Montgomery Clift and Ronald Reagan were faithful passengers. They preyed on the young men looking for a leg up in life, their first contact with the outside world. When Raymond Burr took a ride, he told spooky tales, he owning one of the largest collection of Occult literature in the world. It was like getting a college education. After the war, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso boarded the Faggot Wagon. ‘Howl was written, and first recited on the Ghost Ride.
Juan Carlos used to ride the dog, but he was no faggot. He was desperate to find a woman, a wife. There were very lonely young Mexican ladies on the bus. Many of them had born a child out of wedlock. They were abandoned Madonnas who moved from relative to relative only during the darkest of night….ashamed. Where does shame go? Where does it dwell?
Juan was a melon picker, a hunchback who was ugly as sin. Sometimes he would bring his guitar along, and sing. But, what really blew everyone’s mind at two in the morning, is the classic Flamingo guitar concert he put on. Some very classy men used to board, in disguise. The conductor of the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra was a paying customer. His musical ear would get out of tune, and needed honing. Juan put a new edge on the great endeavor to master ones craft.
Juan had soul. No one could dispute this. Riders would testify they reached nirvana listening to Juan, he taking them on an inner journey as they watched the yellow lights come on in the kitchens of the farmhouses that passed like ships in the mystic night. Juan’s fingers were the cosmic engine that propelled the passengers forward, into the coming of dawn, when one could barely make out the silhouettes, stooped migrants in the fields, picking beats and lettuce. You could hear their thoughts in the oppressive monotony. How do they do it? How does anyone do anything?
In a short while, Juan would become the husband of the most beautiful women in the world, Irene Westhaven.
Sometime in his first year, Corso’s mother mysteriously abandoned him, leaving him at the New York Foundling Home, a branch of the Catholic Church Charities. Corso’s father, Sam “Fortunato” Corso, a gruff garment center worker, found the infant and promptly put him in a foster home. Michelina came to New York but her life was threatened by Sam. One of Michelina’s sisters was married to a New Jersey mobster who offered to give Michelina her “vengeance,” that is to kill Sam. Michelina declined and returned to Trenton without her child. Sam consistently told Corso that his mother had returned to Italy and deserted the family. He was also told that she was a prostitute and was “disgraziata” (disgraced) and forced into Italian exile. Sam told the young boy several times, “I should have flushed you down the toilet.” It was 67 years until Corso learned the truth of his mother’s disappearance.
‘Anatomy of a Rogue Wave’
Don Roscoe met Ronald Reagan at the Hollywood Bowl. Don was acting as a scout for his father who had no say about who was cast in ‘Hellzapoppin’. There is this German Control thing. Don was checking out the Dinning Sisters who looked like they would be singing some of the tunes in the movie. Ron was hanging around in their dressing room in hope they would get him a job as a spokesperson for the Greyhound Bus Company. He was pouring it on as they got ready for their show.
“I think travel by bus is the wave of the future. Americans are ready to abandon their cars and their conceit that goes with. Individuality is in right now, but, too much freedom can be a bad thing.”
Don wondered why the sister’s were ignoring Ron. As they filed past him on their way to the stage, they whispered him a individualized, but collective musical warning.
“He’s been smoking Ju-Ju Juice! said Ginger.
“He’s high on reefer!” whispers Jean – with a wink!.
“Whatever you do, don’t smoke Ju-Ju Juice with Ronny!” adds Lou.
All of a sudden, Ron has Don by the arm, and is leading him to the grassy knoll above the bowl.
“Come, lie down in the grass with me, and look up at the stars. If you stare up for a while, you’ll see them. Here, inhale some Ju-Ju Juice.!”
Don took a toke, and was surprised at the quality. Then, this popped out of the closet. “It’s true, gay men always have the best shit.”
“This is some good reefer! (Suuuuuuuuuh!) Where did you get it?”
“It’s not marijuana, it’s Ju-Ju Juice. There’s a big difference. Reefer makes you a real liberal and a slave to Communism, while Ju-Ju, enhances your free will and freedom of choice. Chosing to smoke Ju-Ju will prove to be a big first step for you. Wait and see.”
Don oppressed his homophobia, and listened the first tune the Dinning Sisters lay on their audience in the warm LA night. Don began to go on a little – excursion. Who’s driving this bus?
Don let out a chuckle when he saw it was Red Skelton dressed like a clown. He honked his horn and waved! All of a sudden, Ron’s elbow gives him a painful jab.
“Did you see that?” Ron shouts!
“The flying saucer! That one had its landing lights on!”
What reality Don had hoped to entertain – was gone with the wind! As he took in the sister’s next tune, he is grocking on American Imperialism and his friends in Cuba. Maybe they should move their gambling tables and slots to Brazil. And, awaaaay we go!
“You know, I have a fantasy about shooting Mussolini with my brother’s high-powered rifle with a German scope. They make the best optics is the world. I hate that communist!”
Don was about to explain to Ron Mussolini used to be a communist, but was now very anti-Communist, when, Ronny changed the dial;
“Do you know I am the only white man who has mastered the Big Namba language. It has great powers of seduction, I used it on the Dinning Sisters last night, and we all ended up in the sack together.”
It was all Don could do, to keep himself from saying;
“Funny, the Dinning Sister’s and I had a great time in the sack together last night, with a couple of bottles of Seagram’s Seven.”
This is when Don heard the phrase ‘LA LA LAND” floating around in his brain. Where did that come from? He began to wonder if he did bed the Dinnings. Was he hallucinating? Ron is tripping. Or is he? Oh my God, is Ron telling the truth? I was in bed with a Faggot?
“I heard Bogie kicked your ass a week ago after he caught you and Lauren smoking a reefer stick together. Is this true? Why didn’t you fight back and kick that little braggart’s ass!”
This time Don just had to say something, but, then came the coup de grass.
“To turn around and a do a dope deal with her – took some real guts! When I become the President of the United States, you’ll be a member of my Cabinet.”
“Did you know I am a member of The Thousand Mile Club? “Leave the driving to us!” You got it buddy!” chortled Ronny, and jabbed Don in the ribs again.
“Tell me you didn’t see that one! I dare you!”
I have elevated the Buck Brevoort family! They are up there with the gods – and I have just begun! I love doing genealogies. This love was proof to Linda, Bill, and Heather, that I was insane – and dangerous! If Robert Buck is reading this blog, then this is his response;
“Insane away! Don’t stop now! I put Ipads on all my charter jets so my customers can read your blog!”
Above is a photo of my Heir, Tyler Hunt, at Jack London’s Wolf House. Jack was a good friend of the poet George Sterling, who co-founded Carmel, and promoted Robinson Jeffers. Patrice Hanson flipped out when I made these connctions. Her blessed Fairy-Wiccan Womb – hates all of this man-stuff!
“Ugh! I squat in forest and give birth to another fatherless child. I queen of the world. Worship me and my goddess seed!”
The law firm of Heisinger, Morris, and Buck, gave Pierrot and Snyder the right to turn Rosemary into Bad Mommy Dearest! Now they got to live with it. This shit, this Rosemary’s Baby crap, is filed in the Superior Court of Monterey!
“No more closeted artist bullshit! Do you hear me!”
I was talking with my man in the field, Spooky Noodles, last night on the phone. He told me Nancy Pelosi bought Joan Crawford’s old house that was used in the movie ‘Sudden Fear’. I get on google to find a link, and discover Joan’s house in L.A. was haunted. I told Spooky I was going to do a regular column titled ‘The Joan Crawford Hour’ starring that Closeted Artist theme that won’t die. Spooky had dropped out of sight after the Cat Lady of Greenwich Village made shrill threats invoking the ghost of Vinny the Chin who roams the streets of the Village in his bathrobe knocking on doors begging folks for a good bowl of squid soup.
Spooky told me he checked into a sanitarium where they show old black and white classics to get patients on the Road to Recovery. This place of healing is located in all places Pacific Grove where the Bentons lived. From the Rosamond home Christine left to attend her sober birthday party at Rocky Point. This party is mentioned by Stacey ‘I see dead people’ Pierrot in her failed novel ‘When You Close Your Eyes’ written by two GHOST WRITERS. The party, and the folks coming to the party, have been disappeared. Spooky! I wonder if Christine old house is haunted. Check the closets!
“Fearing that Christine would steal her brother’s spotlight as the family artist, Christine’s mother, Rosemary, forbade Christine to draw at home. The only time she could express herself was at school or in her closet, by flashlight, when everyone else was asleep.”
Any way, Joan was at the top of the Psychological Film Craze, and many Americans wanted to get in touch with their REAL feelings. She was one of Rosemary’s favorites. I used to watch her studying Joan. Joan came alive in Rosemary. Christine’s portrait of Rosemary ‘Rosemary Circa 1950’ has that Crawford touch that would spring out at you from nowhere – for no reason! Thousands of housewives were doing Joan, because they were bored out of their wits. When their husbands hauled them into to see a shrink – they really put on a show! Many women were put in straight jacket – especially the good looking ones that could pass for a Movie Star! Rosamond really captured the flavor of those wild times.
“Come here little girl and get some of Mommie’s milk. Or, would you like some of Mommies wine – and a good spanking?”
In 1992 I began therapy with ‘Phoenix Rising’ in Eugene. The therapist worked with artists who had donated paintings of a Phoenix Bird after they were cured. She fired me after I refused to do a simple genealogy of my family so she could follow along. I had started my first autobiography ‘Bonds With Angels’. My goal in therapy was to put an end to falling out Christine and I had over what I discovered in her closet in 1979. When I showed my therapist this photo of Christine and Rosemary taken at one of Micky Rooney’s houses, she said;
“Your mother is evil.”
O.K. A little harsh. But, Heather’s mother is evil, and, owns that very clever madness Joan was famous for. So, what we have is ‘The Three Faces of Joan’. Did my therapist see Joan in the photo of my mother and sister, and thus gave an educated opinion from her subconscious?
“Trying to support four children with only a high school education and little help from her alcoholic husband, Rosemary was often enraged.”
Here is a murder scene that Spooky sent me. He won’t tell me from what movie. He said it helped him deal with the threats from the Cat Lady.
“I have faced my worse fears. I am prepared to seize the day!”
OMG! STOP THE PRESSES! I went looking for the clip “No more wire hangers!” and found this! I am blown THE FUCK AWAY! ‘Our Dancing Daughters’ was shot in Carmel!! This is the movie that made Joan a Star! She goes knocking on the door of a quaint Carmel cottage that could have belonged to a Carmel Bohemian Pioneer, such as London, or Sterling. This is my Dream Home.
Last night, I lie in bed composing this blog. I began to realize that Patrice Hanson saw herself as THE STAR of the Rosamond Story. When I couldn’t see who my book was supposed to be about, she became furious! I realized she was jealous of Christine after I told her she was my kin. Patrice saw herself as a Famous Woman Liberationist. I saw that she wanted to be like Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor in ‘National Velvet’ she riding her daughter ‘The Whole Pie’ into our Rosy Family Circle – and claiming it all! The ‘Run for the Roses’. She didn’t know Liz is my kindred.
“Mirror! Mirror in the wall. Whose the fairest of them all?”
In 1981 I stopped at the Carmel gallery and read one of the brochure’s on the coffee table. It said Rosamond was forced to hide in a closet with a flashlight in order for her to render superior works of art. Thia was forbidden, because Rosemary only wanted me to bea famous artist. On night, when I five, I caught her. Rosemary whipped her with a clothes hanger – but good – while I smirked. At five, my heart was already, black!
A couple of months later, I see ‘Mommie Dearest’. I stop loving Christine, and started hating Rosamond, who once gave me much credit for her success.
“You let me look over your shoulder while you painted.”
The ROSAMIND FAMILY ARTISTS are out of the picture. Rosamond was “killed” by a rogue wave. After her daughter, Shannon Rosamond, was falsely arrested by artist, Garth Benton, and Vicki Presco, she disappeared for eight eights years. I was blackballed when I asked who lived in that famous house out at Rocky Point.
There is no longer any doubt that Christine has been leaving me messages. None is more louder than this scene. I can hear the waves breaking on the rocks. Nearby is Kara Bromily doing her Tarot Card Reading of Rosamond, where the Death Card came up.
Our Dancing Daughters is a 1928 American silent drama film, starring Joan Crawford and John Mack Brown, about the “loosening of youth morals” that took place during the 1920s. The film was directed by Harry Beaumont and produced by Hunt Stromberg. This was the film that made Joan Crawford a major star, a position she held for the following half century.
While the film has no audible dialog, it was released with a synchronized soundtrack and sound effects.
“Dangerous Diana” Medford (Crawford) is outwardly flamboyant and popular but inwardly virtuous and idealistic, patronizing her parents by telling them not to stay out late. Her friend Ann chases boys for their money and is as amoral as her mother.
Diana and Ann are both attracted to Ben Blaine (Brown). He takes Diana’s flirtatious behavior with other boys as a sign of uninterest in him and marries Ann, who has lied about her virtues. Bea, a mutual friend of Diana and Ann, also meets and marries a wealthy suitor who loves her but is haunted with her past.
Diane becomes distraught for a while with the marriage of her friends with questionable pasts. She decides to go away and Bea throws a party for her in which Ben declined and made Ann decline as well. The same evening Ann hopes to meet up with her lover, Freddie, telling her husband she is going to see her sick mom. When her mom calls and Ben realizes Ann has lied to him yet again they get into an argument and Ann storms out to meet Freddie.
Now alone, Ben decides to stop by the party where he and Diana realize their love for each other. Meanwhile a drunk Ann follows Freddie into the party only to find Ben and Diana. She makes a drunken scene in which both Diana and Ben leave the party declaring their love but saying their goodbyes to each other.
Bea’s husband comes home to find Bea trying to get a drunk Ann home. As Ann is mocking cleaning ladies and her life (as her mom used her beauty), Ann stumbles and falls to her death down a flight of stairs. Headlines show Diana returning home after a lengthy time away and she and Ben are free to unite
This film was the first in a trilogy – Our Dancing Daughters/Our Modern Maidens (1929)/Our Blushing Brides (1930). The first two were silent with Vitaphone sound effects, the last was a talkie. Joan Crawford had gotten good reviews and got noticed in her earlier MGM roles from 1925 to 1928, giving good performances even in some of the dog pictures MGM starred her in. This film is what made her a star. She literally steps into the role of Diana and makes it her own. From the first scene she IS this energetic and honest flapper.
Shot partly on location in Carmel, Calif., with typically lush MGM production values, beautiful Art Deco sets by Cedric Gibbons and Oscar-nominated cinematography by George Barnes, Our Dancing Daughters was released with synchronized music and sound effects. It was an instant hit, grossing a then-spectacular $40,000 in its first weekend. The movie was followed by two similar films, Our Modern Maidens (1929) and Our Blushing Brides (1930), that reunited Crawford, Page and Sebastian. By that time, however, Crawford had far outpaced her costars to become one of MGM’s reigning superstars.
Why has no tabloid zeroed in on the name ROSEMOND which may be the most dramatic name in history? There are several plays and countless poems written about Fair Rosamond. Christine owned two ‘Rosamond ‘ galleries in Carmel. Did my sister see the movie ‘The Sandpiper’? She did not learn Liz was our kin when she was alive. The outsider who ended up with our infamous, dramatic, and creative legacy, did not know this world famous actress shared the same great grandfather as Christine and I. yet, she claims she is “the caretaker” of our family history.
In looking at the images from Sandpiper, I understood a Great Destiny was at work. Sometimes it takes decades to establish an artist as one of the greats. To put Liz Taylor on the beach at Big Sur is to behold the future, the Great Story, that deserves a Happy Ending. National Velvet was shot at Pebble Beach. Rosamond bought one of Micky Rooney’s home with the money she earned from rendering beautiful women.
I have been wanting to start this thread for a while. Although I am primarily interested in seeing what some of our other members know about this topic, some of you may find this information interesting. I’m a scholar of Buddhist history and I thought I would share a little information on Buddhist head shaving for those who are interested. As with most things related to Buddhism, the following statements apply to MOST ordained Buddhists, but not all of them.
Do monastics have to shave their heads? According to the traditional Buddhist Vinaya (the written rules of conduct said to date to the time of the Buddha to which Buddhist monks and nuns are expected to adhere), monastics are supposed to shave their heads either once every two months, or whenever their hair gets to be longer than two fingers’ length. In practice, Buddhist monastics in most countries shave more often.
What do they use? Again, the Vinaya stipulates the eight possessions that monastics are allowed to own. In East Asia, this rule was rarely adhered to literally, but in South and Southeast Asia they still take this rule very seriously. These eight items are: one each of three types of robes, a waistband, an alms bowl, a sewing needle and thread, a water filter, and a razor. Modern commentaries say this last item allows monks to use safety razors, or to keep the necessary items related to keeping a straight razor, meaning a whetstone, razor case, and a strop). For example, see: Buddhist Monastic Code II: Chapter 1
From what I’ve seen, it looks like a lot of monastics today shave with DE or other disposable razors. I recall seeing some really cool old Buddhist razors at the main museum in Bangkok that where similar in many ways to the straights we use now. Many Thai monks today use DE razors. Here’s an example:Hair-Shaving Ceremony – Thailand Life
Of the monks I knew in Korea, most used Mach 3 or other multi-blade razors. This of course doesn’t mean that others still don’t use some serious blades. Check out these pictures of a traditional-style Korean ordination, in which the woman’s hair is shaved with a blade the size of a meat cleaver. Granted, these pictures were from a movie, but I don’t doubt that some hardcore monks and nuns still shave with this kind of implement.
Aje Aje Bara Aje
I’ve seen a few examples of monks and nuns who shave their heads with straight razors. Does anyone have any experiences seeing or learning about the ways that Buddhist monks and nuns shave today? I know there are members here from all over the world and I am really curious to read about what you have heard and seen.