Once upon a time, in the nineteen eighties, Cecil B.’s house still stood atop a hill in a neighborhood called Los Feliz, not far from our place in Beachwood Canyon. It was a beautiful spring day, the neighborhood where many luminaries live now, was not gated, and I decided to walk over and enjoy the view.
Now, angels, baronial is not a term I throw around lightly, but the DeMille joint was just that. Placed prominently, sprawling, a statement. Befitting a man who had famously said to his film crew, You are here to please me. Nothing else on Earth matters. That sentiment seems to have echoed through time and I can certainly imagine a current resident of that neighborhood, if not actually uttering those words, thinking them.
Now, back to my blistered feet. Why have they been documented for posterity? I got home, peeled off my shoes and socks and started bandaging them on the kitchen floor, when a certain production designer (then he was an art director) spied what I was doing, ran to get his Polaroid, and inquired if I would hop up on the kitchen counter so he could take my picture.
Damn, I was such an obliging child, who knew I would turn out like this?
