Some women like shoes. Some dig purses. I love coats. And I have lots of them.
I own a vintage Biba coat, which means nothing to most people, but I bought it for 5 pounds at the antiques market on London’s Portobello Road in the late 70’s. Though I have a few designer coats, it isn’t about the name for me at all. It’s about covering up and looking good when I am probably wearing sweats and looking faintly homeless underneath.
I screened a documentary about my dad the other night, and in a little speech before the movie I stated that some chicks in this town spend on a purse what I spent on the whole budget of my film.
One day, my son Oliver had these friends over. The girl made a passing remark that she liked my coat. Boy, was she sorry. I said “If you like this, you might also like this,” then I came out to the pool where they were talking wearing a different one. She oohed and aahed. At that point, I just went into full-blown modeling every single coat I owned, or at least the ones I adore. She was a model herself, so I thought she might like my show. Only, it took over an hour. An hour of her life and mine spent digging in my closets to find stylish coats that I’ve purchased over the years. Poor Oliver.
Each year on my birthday, my husband either goes hunting for a new coat on his own or he might go with me to pick out a cool one. And then I wear the shit out of it. If you see me in the market, I will be wearing that year’s model, and you can only guess what’s under it. Not pretty, trust me.
Recently at a party, I sat with my friend Lynne and we stared out at the crowd, commenting on this person or that. Pointing to the old lady parked on the couch that never moved the whole night, I said, “Look Lynne, that’s me in the near future!” She said, “Yeah, but you’ll be rocking a cool new coat.” (more…)
The most memorable thing about the Friday night Y-Dances to me was Wendie Miller’s perfect flip. I don’t know why, because, to be honest, she wore that flip every single day to school. Okay, sometimes Wendie had just a simple — but thick — and also perfect ponytail. When Friday nights rolled around in the fall and those dances became the highlight of our week, I would long to achieve the Wendie Miller “do.”
My mother had gone to beauty school, so she knew her way around the current hairstyles, but makeup was more her specialty. She worked as assistant to George Masters, the famous makeup artist. Together, they did people like Ann-Margaret and Jackie Kennedy. But there I was, nearly a midget. (Sorry, I have always called myself that, even though it is not politically correct. Let’s pretend it’s still the 60’s. Midget. Shortest girl in my grade. Except maybe Susan Slutsky, who was a touch shorter. No, I’m not being politically incorrect again — her last name really was Slutsky.) (more…)
My first home as a grown up was so bitchin. It just was. The location was movie set worthy. Right on the Strand, same beachfront as the Santa Monica Pier just steps away. The little funky bungalows and homes were an art colony. We were all actors, musicians and, okay, one sweet guy was our local postman. I lived there with my boyfriend and my beloved, fat Siamese cat Cosmo.
When the boyfriend was either at work or school, I would crank the heat way up, shut all the windows and fall into a near coma of sleep. It’s a miracle I survived and didn’t succumb to carbon monoxide poisoning. Cosmo would get hungry while I slept and feed himself; not an easy task because he had to climb up on a shelf, knock the box down, pull out an individually wrapped bag, open it with his teeth, then paw out each piece of dry food. He was very respectful of my sleep, never waking me up.
On many of these days, I feel like my life might have been saved by my friend Peter. He would come wake me up around noon so we could head over to our favorite little Mexican place on Pico — Campos (for taquitos). These were the days that I never ate breakfast and went straight to lunch upon waking.
When my first child, Oliver, was in pre-school, there was the perfunctory final meeting with his group of loving teachers. One bit of advice stood out. Maybe when he starts kindergarten, you can encourage him to lose the costume and makeup that he insists on wearing daily.
Who was I to discourage the distinctive fashion choice of my four-and-a-half year old son? I wore costumes to school every single day of my life — in high school, mostly. One day I might wear holsters and fake guns. Next, I might walk my plastic duck on a leash into the classroom, take out a toy tea set and have a pretend tea party. And I miss my matador costume; I would wear that right now if I still had it.
So there was Oliver in “big boy school” and he decided to not wear the face paint, but he did rock his new 1950’s-style greaser jacket. He had just seen the movie “Grease.” (more…)
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And now I will tell you my behind the scenes story.
My dad produced a live rock and roll television show on Sunday nights on NBC in the late 50’s called Music Shop. My brother and I did get to hula hoop in the pilot for this show. But, I was a nudge. Ha, like was a nudge, past tense. I think my first words were, “Daddy, I want to be an actress, let me star in something”. If my dad had something going, he would often humor me and give me a small role. But, this was my first role. Not much of one, really. James Darren sang his hit song Gidget to me. Oh, just watch the clip and let me finish with the other part of this story. (more…)
Do you remember when Zsa Zsa slapped a policeman in Beverly Hills? It made all the papers. Made the nightly news. People might have assumed she was just a hot head. I have news for those people. He deserved it. Big time. If he’s the guy I’m thinking of, and I’m pretty sure he is.
The cop sported a mustache that was so retro in style, yet not hip in the least. For that ugly mustache alone he deserved that slap. He was a cowboy on his motorcycle moving in and out of the traffic without awareness of other drivers. He also spun around on his horse, I mean, motorcycle, on some mornings to give my handicapped father shit about being dropped off in front of his favorite deli. My father knew this routine well. He would ask whoever was driving him to drop him off directly in front of places to make it the easiest on himself for a quick entry. Or, as he called it: “a straight-in job.” And sure, he was double-parked, but there was another lane and rarely any traffic at that time of day. My dad would be threatened with a ticket but he would just keep moving and yelling at the cop. And the next day, it would start all over again. (more…)
I was never walked into a temple. Never. Not by my dad, the Jew. I thought being Jewish meant eating lox, bagel & cream cheese in a deli. Because that’s what my dad, the non-religious Jew told me. When we ate at Nate n’ Al’s, he would announce loudly as he seemed to be pointing to the food, “We’re Jews!!!”
I sang with my friend Cindy Lou Carlson in her church for the Christmas pageant. Those rehearsals alone put me in a church more times than I was ever in a temple — at least until my kids and step-kids became B’nai Mitzvah.
I’m assuming my mom was some sort of Christian, but your guess is as good as mine. She never walked us into a church and never spoke of any religion. So, there you go, two parents – one gentile, one Jewish — who offered zero religious guidance. We called ourselves half-and-half. This was pretty commonplace in Beverly Hills, though each family would often choose a side and go to temple or church. Christmas or Chanukah.
We celebrated Christmas, tree and all. Show business was up and down and some years we had big-time gifts. The trees were bigger in those years. At other times we might have skimpy trees with few gifts.
One year, I scored. We all scored. My dad had a friend who had a TV show and he finagled a bunch of freebie popular toys of the day for us. I coveted Patty Play Pal. She’s all I ever wanted. I wonder if there were Chatty Cathy people and Patty Play Pal people. I just dug how big that doll seemed. I was little, so for me she was huge. That year, my mother got her new hi-fi and played it continuously Christmas day. Holiday paper and ribbon were strewn about as Bobby Darin belted “Mack the Knife.” And I got my big-ass doll — a new friend in my wonderful fantasy-filled life. My brother got shit he wanted. We had pogo sticks and stilts. We were a very happy family with a house filled-to-the-brim with every hot toy and gadget.
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Xmas in Palm Springs is like an oxymoron. The palm trees sway, the sun shines bright and it’s often hot and balmy. It’s where Beverly Hills families often went. Where some were lucky enough to have vacation/weekend homes.
We were lucky to “know” someone. My dad was always up for a freebie and one winter vacation we borrowed his friend Alan Freed’s house. Alan, the New York disc jockey known as “the father of rock & roll,” had in fact coined the phrase “rock and roll.” Poor Alan Freed. Sometimes when we were there to visit him and not on our own, I would make him sit and listen while I auditioned for him, singing the hit Allan Sherman camp song, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh (Here I am at Camp Granada).” I was convinced I had a great voice, but in truth could not have been more off-key.
Hello Mudder Hello Fadder
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The Fishell family lived a few blocks away because they were one of the lucky ones who owned their own home in the desert. The Fishell girls were very grown up and popular. All the boys gravitated to them. My dad was a friend of their dad Dick, an older father like my own, with a hot, younger wife, also like mine. To be honest, my parents had been divorced for years, but we went everywhere together as a family. Very modern, way ahead of their time. Maybe no one even realized they were divorced.
The twins, Jeannie and Jackie Fishell were a year younger than me, in fifth grade, and Robin was my age and also in sixth. Every day we hung out as a large group of pre-teens. Robin was probably too mature for me so I hung out more with Jeannie and Jackie. At night we had spin the bottle parties with lots of boys who remember our peck of a kiss to this day. Like John Sofro who would later marry one of my BFF’s — Barbara Dudley. (more…)
I was WAY ahead of my time. I liked graffiti. As a teenager, I invited all my friends to draw or write all over the wall in my bedroom. And I, in turn, often wrote on bathroom walls. I am not condoning it — and should be embarrassed by it — but at the time I even boldly signed my name to the thought or poem or whatever I had written. Sometimes at school, which is just crazy if you think about it. I would write something silly like, Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, so FUCK YOU!!!!!! (A regular Emily Dickinson.) And then my signature: “By Fredde Duke.” First and last name. Didn’t want anyone else getting credit. Not that there were many other Fredde’s using the girl’s bathroom.
One day, I get a note sent into the classroom for me. It was from Mrs. Friedman, the dreaded Girls Vice Principal. Uh oh, I thought, better come up with something about why there is so much graffiti around with my name attached. I slowly walked the long halls, head down, trying hard to devise a believable excuse. But somehow I was still cocky and sure-of-myself that I could pull off getting out of trouble. There was no denying the truth. If anyone took a trip to my house on Roxbury, there it would be in big black crayon (not spray paint) — the same raunchy, unoriginal, Roses are Red poem; the one that my mother would not clean off or paint over long after I moved out — and in fact, would leave there for potential buyers to see during the sale of the house.
I’ve yet to come up with a great lie when I head into the Girls Vice Principal’s office. And already seated there is a group of really beautiful girls from my grade. It was like a dream and suddenly you are somewhere else and you’re not sure how or why the dream just changed location or people. I’m still in my head, working out that excuse and not registering what is going on. That’s when Erica Farber’s face comes into focus. We called her Ricky, and she was the faintly elusive, always gorgeous, every-Jewish-boy’s shiksa dream. I also see my friend Janet Rasak, to me the most beautiful girl; exotic, Lebanese, smart, and extra sure of herself, but never stuck-up about any of her assets. And Betty Hakimoglu, so cute, unique, Turkish. I’m in a room with all these beauties when we are told that we are the ones that are up for Princess and Queen, the ultimate prize in popularity and grandness at Beverly Hills High School. Only the greatest of beauties have reigned before. So, I’m thinking, why am I in this group? This must be a prank or some clerical error. But NO, I’m informed that there were SO many votes for me that I will be up for both Princess AND Queen. What the fuck? They say this doesn’t usually happen. I’m scratching my head and mostly relieved that I’m not going to prison for defacing public property. Instead of jailbird, I might be Homecoming Queen. (more…)
I had the annual physical. I asked the right questions. At least the right ones for me. My mother had a stroke in her 50’s; my dad had many strokes and then died in his 80’s after suffering a heart attack. Dr. Oz is suggesting everyone get carotid artery ultra sounds. “ Let’s set one up” I said to my doctor. Then later in my appointment, I ended up revealing the amount of butter and sugar I eat. Daily. It’s not the sugar I’m concerned about. It’s only one little slice of cake per day. I do tend to eat too much bread and butter at times though. All my friends are on detox diets or gluten free. I’m the last man standing. Even Benjy succumbed recently and he not only doesn’t smoke (so proud of him) but now he’s a clean eater. It’s almost no fun. There’s no one left to eat forbidden foods with. Like chips. Fries dunked in mayonnaise the way I like them.
Today was the 1:15 appointment to get that scan. The first call I got in the morning was my friend Andrea who had scored a croissant from the new French bakery in our hood. I already know I’m a fan of Alain Giraud’s croissants from his other restaurants. I’ve been waiting for a good restaurant to open in the Palisades for the full 20 years I have been a resident.
Second call of the morning was my daughter wondering what I was doing for lunch. Perhaps I’d like to meet her at our favorite, the Beverly Hills Hotel coffee shop. I tell her, I would love to have lunch but she must meet me and go with me for this scan first. Oh, and we will be on my side of town. West of the 405 freeway. Let’s just say Santa Monica.
During the brief appointment with a technician, I remembered that my doctor had said let’s wait for the results, meaning not just the scan but my cholesterol and everything before going full speed ahead with my bread and butter addiction. Everything was smooth sailing. Cholesterol results are fine. Well, maybe there is a touch of plaque for this artery scan and I’m not perfect. Oh, well. During the exam, the dude was telling my daughter and I that eating well and exercising are the key. Before we left the office my wacky daughter looked at the tech guy and asked about some gland on her neck. We left the office and I whispered, “He isn’t a doctor.” Then suddenly she announces loudly in front of all the patients in a cardiologist’s office that she’s craving hamburgers! (more…)
