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LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

excerpt from Descent of the Dolls
by Jeffery Conway, Gillian McCain, and David Trinidad

Guest Starring
Wayne Koestenbaum

CANTO SIX

After guest star Wayne Koestenbaum introduces Joey Bishop, Emcee of the Telethon of the Damned, the poets find it’s impossible to fathom “that special bead moment”—Patty Duke flailed by an uncontrollable necklace. Conway speaks with Joan Crawford, a “charitable” lush, who demands that he reestablish her reputation.



                              Introducing Joey Bishop

Joey Bishop, the cystic fibrosis telethon’s emcee, introduces Patty Duke
(Neely O’Hara) in her first rebound appearance after being dumped
by Susan Hayward (Helen Lawson). Joey Bishop’s initial words, intro-

ducing Duke, are “Ladies and Gentleman.” Bishop (“Miss Bishop,” let’s
call him, as poets of a certain generation referred to Elizabeth Bishop)
has a lateral lisp, so he pronounces “Ladies” “Lay-Deej.” His outfit

is black tux, black bowtie, red pocket-hankie. His hair: shoepolish black.
Dyed? Though the “last surviving member” of Frank Sinatra’s Rat Pack,
and though Italian-looking, Joey was a Jew, born Joseph Abraham Gottlieb,

3 February 1918, a mere seven years after Elizabeth Bishop (born 8
February 1911 in Worcester, Mass., the town where Frank O’Hara attended
St. Paul’s School and then St. John’s High). Readers of this epic might wish

to know that Joey Bishop “served as master of ceremonies” at JFK’s
inaugural gala: Jackie Kennedy was one of the “lay-deej” (ladies)
whom Joey Bishop “interpellated” (hailed) with his lateral-lisping intro.

“Ladies and gentlemen, one of the nice things about doing this telethon—I mean,
in addition to raising money”—says Joey Bishop, arms hammily stretched wide
open, as if he were Ethel Merman belting “Everything’s Coming Up Roses”—

“is helping to discover new talent”: his outslung arms, cantor-esque,
bespeak a “false-self” life of trying to please, a personality trained to cajole
and convince. “I think you’re going to love our next performer.” His mode

is mortuary. “Let’s have a nice cordial reception if you will”: he pronounces
“cordial” like “co-ja,” “coe-ja.” Joey Bishop, like Susan Hayward, has done time
in diction’s back alleys, and so he slurs, ruins, bends, crams syllables, mangling

simple words, as Hayward, in the powder room scene, will torque “Broadway”
into “Broad-WAY.” Last night I dreamt I bought an orange and yellow
portable typewriter, the same bright sleeping-pill colors as my “Fabulous Four” Nike

Air sneakers: the typewriter’s keys tipped upward at an abrupt angle,
a cliff-face impossible to climb: I could admire the keys but not master them.
“Lovely Neely O’Hara: everybody, let’s hear it out there”: aggressively Bishop

claps his hands, one loud smack, demanding our applause: thus he wedges Neely
into fame, his pinkie ring, left hand, a quick glint only visible when I freeze
the image for this scrupulous accounting. (“I flunked sand pile,” said Joey Bishop,

about his academic unsuccess. His wife, Sylvia Ruzga, no Sylvia Plath, died
in 1999 from lung cancer.) Why does Joey Bishop (like Tony Scotti as Tony
Polar) seem a “retard” or “cripple” (to use the offensive parlance of V.O.D.’s era),

and doubly sexy as a result? Why does Joey Bishop’s funeral-parlor sleazy allure
symbolically match the “gimp” and “crip” enterprise of a cystic fibrosis telethon?
More germane: Patty Duke’s Miracle-Worker “disability studies” street cred

queerly mirrors Joey Bishop’s mentally-disabled-seeming sex appeal,
his “wah-wah” (Helen-Keller-speak for “water”) lush-lipped oral delivery.
Said simply: you could pile into one corner all the people in this movie

who seem “retarded” (or mentally dented): Sharon Tate, Barbara Parkins, Tony
Scotti, Paul Burke, Martin Milner. In the other corner you could pile the people
who seem alert, bright, avaricious: Patty Duke, Susan Hayward, Lee Grant, Naomi

Stevens, Jacqueline Susann. Joey Bishop is emcee of the “retard” pile, or, to put it
less nastily, the “lobotomized” pile. Co-ja la-deej: cordial ladies. Miss
Bishop, there’s something pornographic about your undertaker sexiness, your

bit-part status, your tux, your pronunciation of “performer” (“per-form-ah”), my
knowledge that Sylvia Ruzga has dibs on your naked body, tuxless, at home
(faced with a dolled-up tanned Jewish/Italian man, instinctively I imagine

his wife or mother undressing him): crucial to V.O.D. is the magnetism of the miscast,
the ignored; the fuckability of the unclassifiable, the rejected. The extras, minding
phones at the cystic fibrosis telethon, are women. Each is a Sharon Tate or Barbara

Parkins understudy. Each types, takes dictation. They are Joey Bishop’s minions.
They are the silent (Helen Keller) back-up chorus for Patty Duke’s number,
“It’s impossible”: dumb chorines. Joey Bishop’s other films include Johnny Cool,

A Guide for the Married Man, Betsy’s Wedding, Mad Dog Time, Pepe, Onionhead,
The Naked and the Dead, The Deep Six. He was a frequent panelist on What’s My
Line?, Password, The Hollywood Squares, Celebrity Sweepstakes, Liar’s Club,

Break the Bank. The Joey Bishop Show ran on ABC from ‘67 to ‘69. Nothing more
bottomed-out than being an emcee, a guest star, a cameo, a bit player,
speechlessly taking dictation while Patty Duke lipsynchs “It’s impossible.” As Elizabeth Bishop

put it in “The End of March”: “A light to read by—perfect! But—impossible.”
(A poem she published in 1976, the year I graduated from Prospect High.)
Joey Bishop reminds me of school speech-and-debate failures: my mincing,

inauthentic mouth: our coach’s Marlo Thomas hair, mirroring Jackie Susann’s:
I gave a speech called “Man’s Inhumanity to Man,” with Holocaust
excerpts, tearjerking. To emcee—to be extracurricular—is to be damned.


                                          * * *



      



It’s a rotten business, I know, but I love it! We are watching a girl perform
on a telethon, a slim but curvy girl-next-door singing her heart out; a girl
belting it out and not yet belting it back, a girl whose lover is watching her

from the sidelines, God, he loves this girl, this little milk-drinking carny veteran
pre-Hollywood embrace, this adorable stray dressed in a red turtleneck, grey
A-line skirt and sensible shoes, those delicious tits encased in a power point bra,

the double-strand chain he bought her at Orbach’s executing a perfect figure
eight across her white lace cross-your-heart. He is in love with a girl who
is just starting out yet well on her way, a girl who is going to have tongues

wagging, a girl just about to burst. A girl on the brink. An explosion waiting to
happen. A girl just brimming with talent and energy; a girl who is going to make
him a very happy man someday, a girl who is his. Cut to: a man, leaning against

a mahogany desk, a scotch in one hand, a phone cradled against his shoulder,
trying to light a cigarette without taking his eyes off the TV; a man who has just
stood up and taken notice. Deep drag, face suddenly lights up, sets down drink,

transfers receiver to free hand, manic soliloquy ensues. “Rod, I’m looking at a girl
who is gonna knock L.B.’s socks off. She’s extraordinary. A spitfire. A pitbull.
Not quite a long cool drink but knock off twenty and she’ll look six inches taller.

Send her a plane ticket, book her a bungalow at the Beverly, and then get Lotte
Burke on the phone, it’s time to slenderize, goodbye profiteroles, hello Obetrals.
We’re gonna go heavy on the contour and highlights, bring out her bones, slim

those hips, bang out a heavy fall, footwear c/o Frederick’s, put the emphasis
on OOOOMMPH. And Rodney? If she brings some suitcase pimp boyfriend
with her—KEEP HIM THE FUCK OUT OF MY FACE.”

Easter Sunday, 2008. I sit here surrounded by my Patty Duke collectables
(dug out, upon rising, from various closets). Patty Duke Paper Dolls (1964);
“inspired by The Patty Duke Show,” this Whitman set features two

dolls (Cathy with pageboy, Patty with flip) and “31 outfits with accessories”:
“Clothes ready to punch out – no scissors necessary”. Two books: Patty
Duke and Mystery Mansion (also from Whitman, 1964: “Authorized Edition

featuring the characters created by Sidney Sheldon for the well-known
television series THE PATTY DUKE SHOW”) and Patty Goes to Washington
(Ace Books, 1964: “It’s Panicsville on the Potomac when those two terrific

teen-agers of TV’s PATTY DUKE SHOW invade the Capital!”). On both
covers: shots of beaming beflipped Duke from the same photo session, her
exuberance as hyperbolic as the copy on the inside page of the latter:

“Television’s PATTY DUKE SHOW has captivated audiences and
critics alike with its freshness, warmth and humor, and with the radiant
performances of its talented young star. Playing the demanding dual

roles of Patty Lane and her look-alike cousin, Cathy, the Academy Award
winning actress makes the weekly series that bears her name a double
delight for the whole family.” Various issues of 16 Magazine from the

mid-sixties, one with a Patty Duke “Super-Giant Autographed Signed
Pin-Up” centerfold, another with the article “Patty Duke: How Love
Changed Her Life!” Two copies of her 45 (with picture sleeves):

“HER VERY FIRST RECORD!!! PATTY DUKE SINGS DON’T JUST STAND
THERE. B/W EVERYTHING BUT LOVE.” Patty recorded both songs on
April 2, 1965. United Artists Records released the single on April 27.

“Don’t Just Stand There” reached #8 on the Billboard charts on July 17,
three days before my twelfth birthday. I listened to it over and over.
A dramatic and mournful little number, “Don’t Just Stand There”

depicts Patty’s confrontation with her boyfriend. If it’s over let’s end
it; don’t make me suffer like this. How can you be so unkind? Tell me
what, what, what, what’s on your mind. The song on the flip side,

“Everything But Love,” is a rich girl’s sugary, oddly jaunty lament:
Oh I have everything most girls dream of, everything, yes I have everything
but love. Her singing voice, though not particularly strong, isn’t half

bad. She sounds a bit like Lesley Gore: adept at putting across catchy
pop showtunes. Neither of my 45s is the one I owned as an adolescent;
I picked them up in the nineties, at flea markets in New York. One

picture sleeve is pristine. The other is creased and worn. Underneath
“HER VERY FIRST RECORD!!!” the disgruntled original owner printed,
with a black pen, “AND HER VERY LAST!!!” He or she also took the pen

to the color photograph of snappy, upbeat Patty (wearing a pale blue
blouse and matching headband), adding dark mascara and eyelashes,
a mole on her cheek, and dangling earring. I’m equally attached to

both: the perfect and the defaced. When “Don’t Just Stand There”
began to slip down the charts, United Artists put out Patty’s second
(and yes, very last) single, another distraught breakup ballad called

“Say Something Funny.” It made it (in October ‘65) to #22, and appears
on her LP Don’t Just Stand There, one of five albums spread out on
my floor. The others: “TV’s Teen Star” Patty Duke, the original motion

picture scores of Billie and Valley of the Dolls, and Patty Duke Sings
Songs from Valley of the Dolls and other Selections. I wish you could
see the photograph on the cover of the last: Patty’s all drama-hair

and heavy mascara (this time for real), and looks, bizarrely, like
Jorie Graham’s long-lost identical cousin. I wish I had a turntable
so I could listen to her sing all five songs from the film (in the movie

and on the V.O.D. soundtrack, Duke’s voice is dubbed), but this is
really—according to Gene Kelly, who wrote the liner notes—”the
excited voice of Patty Duke.” He says: “This is the personality of

‘Neely O’Hara’ in ‘Valley Of The Dolls’, the destroying and self-
destructive, self-centered and eruptive singer which Patty Duke
portrays with such power and versimilitude [sic].” Confession:

I’ve been listening, the whole time I’ve been writing this “patch,”
to Patty sing (yep, I own the CD Just Patty: The Best of Patty Duke)
“Don’t Just Stand There” and “Everything But Love” and “Say

Something Funny”—over and over, just like I did when I was
eleven/twelve. What better way to celebrate the most important
religious feast in the Christian liturgical year. What have I brought

back to life? My pre-teen idolization of Patty Duke’s short-
lived singing career? Is that all this amounts to? While Patty,
hair bouncing like a Breck Girl, lip-syncs, beads a-swinging.

I can’t bear to look at Neely’s beads a-swinging
today; I’ve been home for three days—since Tuesday
when I woke up dizzy, stood up, started barfing.

I had to go to the ER on Wednesday—
dehydrated, head spinning, stomach sore from
all the vomitage (French for vomiting?). Anyway,

suffice it say, I’m exhuasticated from
all the interior drama, too—I thought
I was a real goner. Turns out, a dumb

viral infection of the inner ear brought
it on, caused the severe vertigo. Maybe
my “magnet” (of aforementioned Theory) caught

some negative vibes. Let me explain. Wally
and I were watching Gigi on Saturday
night—neither of us had ever seen it. We

struggled through the boring songs that went on way
too long; I think we even fast-forwarded
through some toward the end. Determined, though, we lay

on the bed staring at the screen and waited
for the end credits to roll. The reasons I
suggested we watch it were because I wanted

to see why Little Edie Beale decried
Leslie Caron as the most sublime actress
(I had watched The Beales of Grey Gardens after my

[what seems to be] monthly viewing of Grey Gardens
the weekend before last), and I also thought it might
be fun to watch a Vincente Minnelli (Miss

Garland’s, a.k.a. Helen Lawson #1, loafer-light
husband) directed film. I was wrong on both
scores. When I whined to DT on Sunday night

about how bad Gigi was, he said that both
Auntie Mame and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof were
nominated for Best Picture—and that both

lost to Gigi—in 1958. Better
yet, said DT, that was the same year as
Vertigo—which wasn’t even a bearer

of the Oscar nomination! What madness.
And in the middle of my Tuesday vertigo spell,
here in my Polly Pocket apartment, as

I was moving toward the toilet to hurl, I fell,
head a-swinging, looked up to see the orange cover
of the book DT gave me when he said farewell

and moved to Chicago in what must be over
five years ago: VERTIGO: THE MAKING OF
A HITCHCOCK CLASSIC. Can’t say for sure whether

said “magnet” brought the vertigo on (though I love
musing about such things). Perhaps this all sounds
“dizzy.” (Maybe the Meclizine I’m on?) Above

my desk is a black-and-white picture (that foregrounds
all the other Post-it notes) I downloaded
and printed from the Internet. It resounds

with significance for this scene of beaded
Neely on her go-go podium. It’s a
photo of Joan Crawford (who would’ve celebrated

her 100th [gasp!] birthday last Sunday)
and her daughter Christina answering
telephones and laughing like best friends at a

1968 telethon—attempting
to raise money for Muscular Dystrophy.
A perfect image to take us into the stinking

Third Circle, where the Gluttonous supine in filthy
Aqua Netted rain; telethonettes howl
for fame, hoping the eye of the camera stealthily

crosses their path as they answer calls, prowl
behind the scenes hoping to be discovered,
as a newcomer sings, as phones ring and befoul

the stormy, studio-lighted air. I’ve uncovered
the backstory to the Joan and Christina
photo: while her soap star daughter recovered

from emergency surgery, Joan stood in for Christina
on The Secret Storm (1968-1969)—taking
over her role as a twenty-eight-year-old diva!

The picture shows aging Joan in mid-guffaw, laughing
heartily as a secretly bitter Tina
looks on, attempting to act amused, fake smiling.

(Think diabolically resentful Christina
manqué Carol Harbin in Straight-Jacket biding
her time for revenge and concocting a

frame job of her formerly ax-murdering
mother Lucy [Joan Crawford].) No doubt, a shit
storm ensued when the cameras clicked off, ending

the money drive and their relationship. It
was the last time Christina ever saw her
mother alive. An enormous wiglet

tops Joan’s spiraling hairdo; her daughter
wears no wig, but the locks are full, bouffanted.
They each resemble their counterparts who answer

the phone lines during Joey Bishop’s tormented
telethon, The state of the damned after the Resurrection,
filled with cold, and dizzily swinging beads, rancid

hailstones around Neely’s neck. An audition
presided over by Cerberus, the last of
the Rat Pack, his fame-hungry mouths wide open.

Patty Duke is sitting in a New York hotel room, surrounded
by windows, in what I’m imagining to be a downpour—colossal
(of course), interspersed with sleet, a hailstone in place of the mandatory

exclamation mark; wet, damp, grey (Patty on the making of Valley
of the Dolls: “We were flying blind, in a fog”); she is smoking and eating
scrambled eggs at the same time, one naked toe curled around the other,

occasionally fingering her first good piece of jewelry—a gold turtle
from Tiffany’s that Walter Pidgeon bought for her when she was nine—
or twirling her bouncy ponytail around her index finger; age twenty-one

(“going on twenty-two”), she wants to be treated as an adult, and since
there is no time for small talk (her mother is in the next room, packing
for Patty’s trip back to L.A., terrible weather to fly in, yes, but fly in

she must, so let’s get started shall we? and so begins her “conversation”
with Rex Reed, who describes her as a “candy-box bow-ribbon mouth
of a girl” whose “eyes are red from crying” and who is “summoning all

the strength in her mini frame” to not let any strain show; still simmering
over the journalist who dubbed her “Little Miss Sewer Mouth,” she is trying
not to come off like a “pint-sized Jimmy Cagney,” or a “midget [on] vitamins”

as she makes a little frown that “turns her nose up like a half-nibbled
gingersnap,” before diving into the subject of “Mistake #990,000-B,”
which was allowing her husband, director Harry Falk, to convince her that

seeing herself in Valley of the Dolls would cheer her up (after all,
everyone had told her that she was magnificent in it), but what she ended
up seeing was an “unmitigated disaster,” that required an “air-sickbag

to sit through”; a film that made her look like “Tugboat Annie”
and had her “eat[ing] pills that were filled with powdered sugar
and had to be washed down with booze that was really Coke

and watered-down tea [and] were so fattening that [she] gained
twenty pounds.” (Ed. note: in her autobiography, Call Me Anna, Duke said
that she got back at the director “in sneaky ways,” like camping out next to

the donut box and gaining thirty pounds during the filming—
“Thirty pounds!” she exclaimed. “And I don’t even like donuts!”)


“Our eyes locked and we shared the amazement and joy of standing on top of the world. We’d climbed Mt. Everest together and it was wonderful to breathe the rarefied air.”
                                                                  —Sonny Bono, about himself and Cher, after their first hit


“Candy was so excited, she bleached her hair at a salon called Valley of the Dolls on Tenth Street and was never the same again!”
                                   —Holly Woodlawn on Candy Darling

"Long, slow process:
climbing Mt. Everest.

Short, fast process:
getting a Citibank
personal loan.”

        —Citibank advertisement


Well, it’s been about three and a half months since I sat in the driver’s seat
and this is the best I can come up with? Three measly V.O.D. sightings
diligently recorded in my purple Staples notebook. A long, slow process

to be sure, this climb of ours. It’s amazing, waiting for (or stalling) my turn
at the wheel, how reality seems to teem with such referents. Take Mannix,
for instance. Do either of you remember this popular hour-long crime show?

Both too young probably, not born yet. The series aired on CBS from 1967
to 1975, and starred Mike Connors as Joe Mannix, a Los Angeles private eye.
From an Amazon.com customer review (written by E. Hornaday, who lives,

appropriately enough, in Lawrenceville, New Jersey): “In its eight-year run,
Mannix quickly became a TV staple airing on Saturday’s at 10 p.m. Not only
was it noted for its great writing, acting, unusual camera angles, hot cars and

visuals, but also its violence. Mannix was, by one count, shot 17 times and
knocked unconscious another 55 during the show’s run.” I used to watch it
when I was in high school, baby-sitting for a couple who lived on Labrador,

a cul-de-sac one street over from us. Was I watching Mannix the night of
August 9, 1969? Summer, it would have been a rerun. Consulting Helter
Skelter, I learn that Leno and Rosemary LaBianca would have been on the

road when Mannix was on: they left Lake Isabella, a resort area 150 miles
from L.A., at 9:00 p.m., and arrived in their neighborhood, the Los Feliz
district (where I’d later live, in the mid-eighties), at about 1:00 a.m. Had

the couple I sat for arrived as well? It was only a block, but the husband
always insisted on giving me a ride home. I would have preferred to walk:
a chance to sneak a cigarette in the dark cul-de-sac. Or maybe his wife

insisted he drive me? Most likely I didn’t baby-sit. With the Tate murders
all over the news, my mother would have wanted me home that night.
Confession: in recent weeks I’ve been watching the first season of Mannix,

new to DVD. I won’t wax poetic about the fabulousity of early color TV
shows or the fabulousity of skinny ties. But unmistakably, in several episodes,
D.O.D. beckoned. (I don’t think we ever announced this, but on 5/23/07—

one year into it, one year ago—the title of this collaborative climb became
Descent of the Dolls. Is that an oxymoron?) In one, Mannix investigates a
strange hippie cult. Hard not to think of Manson (two years before the fact)

when drugged-out, barefoot youngsters stagger around in the underbrush.
They will come wearing headbands, with “murder in their hearts.” In another
episode, “Falling Star,” Marian Seldes plays the (villainous, it turns out)

secretary of a fading actress. The original airdate of “Falling Star” was
1/6/68. Later the following year, Seldes would play Anne Sexton’s alter
ego, Daisy, in the off-Broadway production of Sexton’s Mercy Street. A

whiff of cigarette smoke: I knew it was not from a neighbor in the hall, but
from my own true guide. However it was a third episode, “License to
Kill,” that gave me a jolt. It opens with a darkly clad figure hopping a wall

and prowling about an estate. Inside, a couple sits on a couch, drinking,
making out. We learn, before the darkly clad figure creeps up to the window,
that this episode will center around a character whose late name is Tate.

Then, the figure shoots the couple, first the woman, then the man. Then:
Mannix theme, dynamic split-screen opening credits. A few days later,
browsing the Internet, I happen upon this news story: Susan Atkins, who has

spent 37 years in prison for her role in the horrific murders of Sharon Tate
and six others, is seeking a compassionate release; she is dying of brain
cancer and has had a leg amputated. Doctors say she has six months to live.

The first to die. We do have her to thank for squealing, for bringing the truth
about the killings to light. August-December, 1969: the cases still unsolved,
each bush, after baby-sitting, full of murderers, that short walk home in the dark.

As DT recently reminded me,
I’m the only one paying attention to
Inferno’s Cantos & Circles. It’s so JC—

to obsess on peripherals. But a few
things occurred to me re-watching this scene: first,
doesn’t it make sense that Joey Bishop, true

to his status as the less-than-slick, straight-laced
member of Hollywood’s “Rat Pack,” is Cerberus?
He’s really the only one of the five accursed

(albeit cool) stars who wasn’t so gluttonous:
he eventually butted heads with party-
hearty Sinatra and split from the voracious

group; he also remained married, chastely,
to the same wife for fifty-eight years. Second,
the jug-eared jokester guest-hosted, successfully,

The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson
a record 177 times,
so it’s clear he has the mouth to be stationed

at the entrance to this Third Circle. His crimes,
incidentally (this is my last point), also
include a big hunger for fame: he ofttimes

begged Sinatra to let him open his show,
and became known as “Sinatra’s comic.” Only
Bishop could play emcee for Neely’s solo

debut, her first public performance. Joey
emits sound, his throat barking, then falls quiet
as he gnaws the song and rapt applause for Neely.

But let’s continue on with our journey; poet/
guide Frank, you ready? We descend further, into
this movie—circling down an enormous wiglet

submerged in a toilet, filthy, covered with goo.

Listen Jeffery, I kinda resent being accused
of not paying attention to the cantos and circles
it’s not easy to throw in a casual mention of

“Three Headed Dog,” the great Rocky Erickson
song, nor can I come up with a clever anecdote about
the stuffed one that Legs bought at a dollar store

and gave to his editor for his birthday: and just a couple
of pages ago I did mention Patty Duke and her venge-binge
on donuts. What do you want me to do: confess to you

that my pants are all too tight? Well, my pants
are all too tight, and which, like DT’s blind trust
in Wikipedia (under gluttony they had written:

See Bulemia [sic]), is just another one of my current worries
like the pancake size bruise on the top of my right foot
having been stomped on at the Stooges show, even though

I was only on the periphery of the mosh pit, now, could
we please get back to what I know and maybe you don’t?
Such as the fact that Tex Watson once owned a wig shop

called Love Locks? And that Rosemary LaBianca carried
wiglets at her store, Boutique Carriage, as did Jay Sebring
in his salon? Perhaps these are just peripheral facts, or perhaps

they are some kind of clue, or maybe they’ll just lead
us on an interesting path—like my photos of the Beales
done by the Maysles who also brought you Altamont, that other

tragedy that helped end the sixties,
and who also shot some amazing footage of Sharon
Tate in London, dancing with her co-star David Hemmings,

both looking loaded and beautiful and a wee bit hot for each other
as they took time out from filming Eye of the Devil “I am
the devil and I am here to do the devil’s work” is what

Tex Watson supposedly said to Voytek Frykowski
after having so rudely awakened him from his nap.
In L.A., at dinner, Jason had blurted: “Just a thought—

devil’s work—do you think he was referring to the Straight
Satan’s?” referring to the motorcycle gang who occasionally hung out
at Spahn ranch, but only on the periphery, just as John Aes-Nihil

was on the periphery of the crowd that surrounded Meredith Hunter
that night at Altamont, and who recently sent me the following email:
Gillian: Yes certainly. As for Healter Skelter [sic] the Last Super [sic]

was on 8-8-08 at 8 with 8 at El Coyote. We almost got the table but then
they gave us the one next to it and dumped these other people into
the right one and one of them looked like Abagail [sic]. After about

15 minutes Dukey announced to them where they were at
and so forth. The entire Super [sic] was video-taped this time
and we took stills at the talbe [sic] and in front of El Coyote.

Then went to Falcons Lair and got this great shot of the Monstrisity
[sic] house with downtown behind it. Went to the gate at midnite [sic]
and ran into several guys who drove there from Salt Lake City

and some guy who had bought stuff from me in the past. The Graveline tour
guy had been there earlier and apparnelty [sic] there was another séance
at the 3rd house which was on that TV show. Then went to the Ranch

and got there at 1:30 am. Music was being played at the church and this dog
was barking manically [sic]. We drove to the gate and right when we got there
this guy called the Art Bell show and claimed he was at that moment flying a private plane over

Area 51 which was incrediable [sic] in that the last time I was on
that bridge Legs was talking to the church woman about Area 51
since she claimed her husband was a test pilot there. As we drove

down Topanga I kept the cam on for the entire call
getting all the car-lights out the window. I found more phtos [sic]
such as a shot from above of Red, Blue and Sue and another

of Red and Blue and several interior shots of the house and
more exterior ones and Red by the camp fire and so on.
                                                                     All for now, John

“When Anne meets dreamy Lyon Burke (Paul Burke) over a tube of lipstick, it’s love at first sight. Lyon becomes even dreamier in Anne’s eyes when he lands Neely a spot on Joey Bishop’s Cystic Fibrosis Telethon. Neely belts out ‘It’s Impossible,’ the first of the movie’s gonzo showbiz ditties. Duke’s interpretation of a stage performance is a sight to behold. With vocals by Gail Heideman, Duke tries desperately to ‘sell’ the song, but it’s no use. Even her jewelry is working against her. At one point, her beaded necklace amusingly outlines her breasts.”

                                                                              —www.coolcinematrash.com

“As Neely will do, she storms out of Helen Lawson’s musical and surfaces upon the stage at the annually televised Cystic Fibrosis telethon (there’s a metaphor in there somewhere). She storms through her next song, appropriately called ‘It’s Impossible,’ and because the rendition is so relentless her double strand of beads takes over. We’re first curious and then transfixed by this swinging necklace. As if rewarding our patience, near the song’s climax, as Duke continues shrugging and mugging, the beads separate and then magically loop themselves around both of her breasts. The song is a bummer, but in the world of Valley of the Dolls, with those beads (and the film editor) working overtime, Variety (and then seemingly every other newspaper in the continental United States) can report YOUNG SINGER WOWS AUDIENCE, and a star is born.”

             —www.lamemovies.net

"None of the film seemed corny and indeed I did find it shocking and brutal, full of mean people doing awful things to these pretty girls. If anything struck me as ‘dirty’ and unsuitable for kids, I have to say that my mind did flips when in this musical scene this necklace of Patty Duke’s takes on a life of its own, eventually framing each boob in glittering beads. I don’t think I heard a word she sang! Boobs were new to me then (let’s be honest, they still are) and I couldn’t take my eyes off of that offending necklace. I thought it was done on purpose, like some dirty special effects joke that only adults understood.”

                                     —Kenneth Anderson, on seeing V.O.D. in 1967 at age ten (user comment on
                                        the Internet Movie Database)

A few nights ago, before an AA meeting, Brooke told me and Steve
a funny story: in high school, she judged a playwriting contest. Every
entry, she said, contained a scene in which one of the characters threw

him- or herself down on the ground and cried, “God!” or “Dear God!”
or “God in Heaven!” There was even an Hispanic character who, once
he’d hurled himself to the floor, howled “¡Ay Dios mío!” The three of

us howled, and I naturally thought of Neely in the alley at the end
of the film, a heap of existential blubbering. All that runny mascara.
A nudging reminder: my turn to write. The night before that, another

nudge: at the end of another film, Angelica Huston descending (via
elevator) into the Inferno, one of her own making. Aren’t they all?
Character is fate. Profound, I thought, when I first read that; still think

it says it all. Most people victims—many hopeless, malignant—of
their own unexamined stuff. Translate “stuff”: thoughts, feelings,
words, deeds. I (a Jefferyism) The Grifters. Not many can match

Huston’s brilliance in that role. Jane Fonda in Klute. Gena Rowlands
in Gloria. Davis in several: All About Eve always, though today (casting
her mannerisms to the wind) I’m leaning toward Now, Voyager. Ellen

Burstyn also in several; today’s pick: Resurrection. Annette Bening in
Being Julia. Carmen Maura in Law of Desire. No, Women on the Verge
of a Nervous Breakdown. “¡Ay Dios mío!” I cry, as I throw myself into

another rabbit hole, one of my own making. Anne, patient and saintly
guide, sits in a plastic frame on my desk, smoking, smiling knowingly
(© Rollie McKenna, from the same shoot that produced the photo on the

back of Transformations), reminding me that this scene, first and foremost,
is about beads. In her suburban sunroom, posing in a white wicker chair
and surrounded by striped pillows and potted plants, white statue (Grecian

lady pouring water from a jug) in the background, Sexton wears a white
blouse and skirt, and a single strand of black plastic beads. A point of
honor, these plastic beads. The first time my teaching was observed, I

happened to be discussing, in a college-level Introduction to Poetry class,
Confessional poetry, Sexton in particular. When I played a tape of Anne
reading a few poems, I passed around a copy of Transformations so students

could see what she looked like. The colleague observing the class later
wrote (he meant to do me harm): “There were hints that some of the
students didn’t care for Sexton. It occurred to me that their judgement

may have had a basis in social class. The photo of Sexton seemed to
heighten the social difference between our students and Sexton. She was
posed in white dress and pearls as she sat at the window of her upper-

middle-class home.” Pearls! They’re clearly plastic beads. This inaccuracy
bothered me more than the fact that my colleague was plunging the proverbial
dagger in the back. (He also pointed out that I used words like “Zeitgeist”

without explaining to my students what those words meant: “In my experience,
such terms need to be explained to undergraduates.”) His ploy backfired on
him: he was removed from my tenure committee, and his deleterious letter

stricken from my file. The quotes give me away: I saved his letter, tucked it in
my immortality box (So it has come to this) for posterity to read and be appalled
by. St. Anne of the Black Beads nods approvingly. Observation: in the photo

on my desk, the beads fall naturally between her breasts. But in the one on
the back of Transformations, the beads slide to the right, and loop around
her right breast. All she needs is another strand, to loop to the left, and the

beads would crisscross in the style in which we (demented Valley fans) have
grown accustomed. Last night, in preparation for today’s patch, I rewatched
the beginning of Thoroughly Modern Millie. Doug Powell (months ago now)

suggested I take a look at it when I told him we were on the current scene
(he’d asked about our progress). Beads, it’s all about them: Julie Andrews
bobs her hair, raises her skirt, and dons a strand of green beads. Of course

her boobs get in the way of the desired flapper drape: Gee, I wish my fronts
weren’t so full . . . they sure ruin the line of your beads. So she fashionably flattens
her chest. (Incidentally, Thoroughly came out in 1967, same year as Valley—

year of beads, year of breasts.) Anne’s attire (blouse, beads, skirt) reminds
me of Neely’s, who’s still singing. And Patty Duke and Joey Bishop remind me
of two anecdotes that have been hovering about since this canto began. The

first: Bob Flanagan, who suffered from cystic fibrosis, once showed me an old
newspaper clipping, an article about a cystic fibrosis fundraiser he’d attended
as a child. He knew, from my poems, that I was a Patty Duke fan. There she

was, or rather, there she and he were—Patty Duke (Oscar-winning TV teen
helping those less fortunate) and Bob Flanagan (future Supermasochist, who
would publicly hammer a nail through his penis), arm in arm, mugging for

the camera. The second: in the late seventies, my college friend Rachel
Sherwood heard about a casting call for poets, and dragged me to one of
the major studios for an audition. We were given passes and shepherded

into a conference room with a dozen or so other hopefuls, and each asked
to recite a poem for none other than Joey Bishop. A new variety show was
supposedly in the works, and he (or someone) was interested in having poets

appear on it. Rachel and I were the only authentic poets in the room; the rest
read their amateur rhymes with over-the-top gestures and inflections,
desperate to impress Mr. Bishop, desperate for a few precious television

minutes. I dourly read my poem “Dream Creatures,” and remember feeling
humiliated—humiliated to be lumped with such desperate characters, humiliated
to be auditioning my poem (pearls before swine), while Joey Bishop, who that

afternoon could be seen on Match Game 77, sat there stone-faced. Rachel, though,
was great; Mr. Bishop should have recognized that, and discovered her like he
does Neely, crisscrossed beads and all. This canto ends with Neely still singing.

A few summers ago, I went to see
a staged reading of Valley of the Dolls in
Provincetown. The cast was composed mainly

of local drag queens (though Michael Cunningham
played the role of Lyon Burke). It was a lot
of fun, save one major disappointment: the damn

beads never looped around Neely’s boobs, not
even once. I was appalled. (To be honest,
the drag queen who played the coveted part

of Neely sucked.) One scene did stand out as best:
Jen’s French movie was turned into an amusing
lesbian porn film—Jen being chased and seduced

by Miriam, Tony’s sister! There’s something
oddly sexual about two men in wigs,
dressed in panties and amply stuffed bras, making

out in a bed to Frenchy music. And bigwig
drag queen Varla Jean Merman (“the illegitimate
love child of Ethyl Merman and Ernest Borgnine”)

played the role of Jen. A few months ago, late
June maybe, someone posted the video
footage of the cystic fibrosis—wait,

muscular dystrophy—telethon that Joan
Crawford appeared on in 1968
(aforementioned a while ago in this canto).

She’s introduced by Jerry Lewis (the great
humanitarian and comic); Joan stumbles
out in her over-the-top shiny gown, ornate

bib necklace, and tremendous wiglet. She dazzles
the crowd and TV audience with a reading
of a poem, “The Clumsy, Falling Down Child.” She hurls

melodramatic sentiment and irritating,
predictable rhymes at the camera. The
highlight: Joan screams out unexpectedly

(in an angry tone) right in the middle of the
recitation: “Muscular Dystrophy.
POUNDROUS, POUNDROUS NAME! For a clumsy, fallen

down, helpless lame! For trying, but dying
all the same.” Then she bows her head, sheds a tear.
After slurring through her banter with Jerry,

she introduces Christina, “My dawter” (sheer
genius highfalutin pronunciation).
Christina walks out, greets Jerry, while austere

Joan looks on. But Christina’s conversation
with Jerry is cut short: Mommie Dearest
grabs Tina’s arm, pulls her away, uses diction

more truck driver than star as she addresses
her, “Come on—we got work to do!” They sit
at the phone bank and prepare to pose for their last

photograph together. Re-YouTubing the clip
just now made me think of Frank, my indifferent
guide. I typed his name into the search box, hit

“enter.” Up came a post of him reading the brilliant
“Having a Coke with You.” I watch. I watch again.
And again. My obsessive re-watching is fervent,

mechanical, like the body of Charlie Chaplin
in Modern Times: spasmodic, repetitive,
dislocated—an automaton. Amen

for YouTube, that other world where so many live,
are still singing. Wait! During my present viewing
of Frank’s clip, he pauses, looks back at me, rather pensive.

“Conway,” he says, “ready to move on? Living
your life in here isn’t really, well, kosher.
Things can get pretty irritating and boring

and dispensable. Shall we move on?” “Great author,”
I begin (“Oh brother!” Frank replies), “I just
want to watch the Joan clip once more, watch her

drunkenly slur her words—it’s the choicest
posting since that one last year (which was removed!)
of Joan in pink cowgirl hat at LAX,

riding on an electric cart, being interviewed
completely sauced, just before a trip to England
to film what must’ve been Trog—her last film. I was glued

to it for weeks before it was yanked.” “I’m maddened,”
says Frank. “But do what you have to do, and I’ll meet
you in the next Circle.” I re-click Joan, fund-

raising for dystrophy: “POUNDROUS, POUNDROUS—oh, we meet
at laast,” she says, looking straight out at me! I freeze,
total shock. “Me?” I say sheepishly. “Yes, it is you I greet.

Bless you, gay New York poet. You’ll never be
O’Hara, but still, you are gay, and you are a
New Yorker. I’ve been wanting to speak you, geez

for years now. You and that Trinidad! Two gays
who seem to be obsessed with me!” I stumble
for words: “Gee, Joan, I mean Miss Crawford, what can I say?

I . . . I —” “Never mind that. I want you to humble
yourself before me—a star of the first magnitude:
sign off and go back into the world to bumble

about as you always do, but from now on allude
to my generosity and kindness—my work
for charities, for example, like this one. You’d

be beginning the necessary groundwork
for paying back the karmic debt you owe me—
all these years of mocking me, being a jerk,

laughing at me, imitating me derisively!”
“Gee Joan, I really don’t know if I’ll be able
to change my ways so decidedly, so swiftly.”

“You must!” she screams. “Don’t make any more trouble,
Conway. Go back into the world, restore my good name!”
“Sorry,” I whisper to Joan. “It’s Impossible.”

Her straight gaze grows twisted and awry. “POUNDROUS NAME,”
she continues, easily slipping back into
her poem, “for a clumsy, fallen down, helpless lame.”

             Keep watching those beads—you won’t be sorry.