by Dana Miller

It has been written that birth is the beginning of death. I don't want to get all maudlin on you, but all of these birthdays lately have got me thinking about those whose time is up.

I've celebrated so many birthdays over the past month, moths just flew out of my wallet. It must be fall’s onset of cold that produces so many babies in June, July and August. Summer babies are said to be filled with optimism. The dead days of summer seem ideal as well. If you are to be scattered out to sea, best let your loved ones get a tan while tossing you. And seems to me there is enough immediate grief surrounding death that one can forego the drama of wind and rain of a cold winter’s day, stepping on graves with guilt to reach an open hole. To live and die in the sun. That's the ticket.

As I write this, it was exactly 12 years ago, on the cusp of summer, that my next-door neighbor killed himself. He was a fine actor and an outstanding man named Brian Keith. Brian was best known as the star of the TV shows Family Affair and Hardcastle & McCormick. He starred in plenty of movies with folks like John Huston, Bette Davis and Marlon Brando. He had one hell of a career. Brian was a barrel-chested ex-Marine who by his own account “didn't understand fags.” That was, until he met this one. Well, maybe he didn't understand me, but he enjoyed plenty a good chat with this poofta.

By the time I met him, Brian wasn't so much lonely as he was introspective. In 1997 his daughter Daisy committed suicide without leaving a note. We would sit on the deck, staring at the ocean and he would tell the tales of a life once lived. Brian was very ill, but he still liked my hooch. It didn't occur to me until after he passed that the conversation inevitably returned to Daisy. To the old Marine, Brian Keith was a man who had faded away. He had lived, but now was gone. He talked of Hollywood highlights with almost third-person distance. I liked the old curmudgeon. Why kill yourself? Life's gonna do it anyway. Twelve years ago today, at 10 in the morning, Buffy, Jody and Sissy's Uncle Bill, Brian Keith, put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. He left no note.

Brian had done a movie back in 1957 with a gent who became a notorious queer, Sal Mineo. The movie was called Dino. Brian and Sal had first performed it live on CBS's Studio One back in 1956. At the time, Brian told me he didn't know Sal was gay. But over a beer forty years later, he mumbled it didn't much matter.

Sal Mineo would be 70 today. He was once a movie star; Giant, Rebel Without a Cause, Exodus, The Longest Day. He was nominated for two Academy Awards. Not so much a leading man, but one hell of a supporting player. The 1970s were tough on Mineo. It was well known in tinseltown he was gay, and he didn't do much to hide it. He loved the blond boys. When I was in college in the mid ‘70s, I would sneak away from my downtown dorm and drive to Studio One (now The Factory). Sal Mineo was a bit of a fixture there. Once Mineo was out of the closet, the movie parts dried up and he was relegated to guest roles in TV shows like Columbo, Police Story, Hawaii Five-O and My Three Sons. He directed a groundbreaking prison-themed play at the Coronet Theatre titled Fortune and Men's Eyes. It famously included a scene where Sal raped a young Don Johnson center stage every night. One evening in 1976, returning from a rehearsal at the Westwood Playhouse of the play P.S. Your Cat Is Dead, Sal Mineo, at the age of 37 and all of 144 pounds, was knifed to death in the alley behind his $75 a month garden apartment at 8563 Holloway Drive below Sunset. The building still stands today. Some say it was the "Rebel curse." Co-stars James Dean, Natalie Wood and Nick Adams all died in an unseemly manner.

I can't help but think and wish that somewhere the Marine and the queen are kicking back on the shoreline of something, throwing back a few and reminiscing of their extraordinary time together and separately under the klieg lights. Birthdays and anniversaries such as they are. They both make me wonder what will be and what could have been.

To lift from the lyrics of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Dammit, Janet! My friend Janet Hubert is writing a book titled Perfection Is Not a Sitcom Mom. It will be published early next year. Janet played the mother on the Will Smith show Fresh Prince of Bel Air. She was fired from the show after 70 episodes in 1993 and replaced by Daphne Maxwell Reid. It's been 16 years and the girl still holds a giant grudge. She has always contended that Smith sabotaged her and other actors on the show. She swears that Smith, arguably now the world's biggest movie star, was mean, vile and manipulating. Full disclosure: for years off-and-on Janet and her sweet boy Eli lived with Ryan and me when she was in L.A. for an audition or a part. Her permanent home is New York, but she would need to spend months at a time here in Hollywood. I love Janet and Eli, yet have walked out of many a room imploring her to just get over it. Let God, let go. Advice she clearly has not taken to heart. Since Fresh Prince she has worked a lot in sitcoms, commercials and Broadway. Janet is very spiritual and a great mom but the resentment she holds for Will Smith is overwhelming and, frankly, crippling. She likens being replaced on the show to “murder.” I am quite certain carrying about the angst and hatred is not healthy, and indeed the unresolved feelings must be toxic. So perhaps writing this book will be cathartic. I do hope it helps. I just wish there was another way. I can't imagine it will help her get a job in Hollywood, but obviously sanity and peace of mind is more important than a gig. Sadly, it's just not a book I'll read. I feel like I know the bile backwards and forwards.

Theirs is on the South Lawn and measures 1,100 square feet. Ours is at 417 Norwich Avenue and is massive by comparison at just less than 8,000 square feet. But, alas, Michelle Obama's vegetable garden is staying and West Hollywood's must go. The White House has had a five-month run. We're close to 25 years. For a quarter of a century the wonderful Fares family has allowed local gardeners to toil and till for free. Today, Norwich Garden accommodates 27 gardeners who grow everything, including tomatoes, corn, cucumbers, beets and roses. The gardeners pay just $5 per month for a plot. Yet personal issues are forcing the family to sell the property. They will likely let the gardens stay until the spring/summer crop is harvested. This is the last of our community gardens. Others on Havenhurst and Detroit have already closed. Mayor Abbe Land told me, "The city is working on two new spots." Bravo. Seems to me a community garden is important and a salve we can't afford to forfeit today. Living is not enough. We all need a little sunshine, greenery, flowers and food birthed with the help of our own hands.

I truly enjoyed Citychannel 10's live streaming video of this year’s Pride parade. I watched Councilmember John Duran and Deputy Council Lisa Belsanti host the affair on my computer from home and it was one of the most pleasant parade experiences ever. There were clearly a couple of elements that added vast quality to my exposure. John and Lisa had great energy. They never let it down. But the home run was in the commentary. Good, bad or indifferent, so much of our parade is pedestrian based. Lots of organizations march together in solidarity for whatever it is that wets their whistle. Between the scripts read and the first-hand knowledge of both hosts, I was able for the first time to understand who, what and why each group was marching. Plus, they were able to fill the gaps between parade elements. I don't really need Bob Eubanks during the majestic Rose Parade, but John and Lisa indeed increased my delight in the procession of our Pride pomp exponentially. I honestly didn't know what to expect and was really very impressed. Once again, process improvement via the internet.

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contact me: malibudana@aol.com