We have a grand time when we visit Los Angeles (pronounce it “Angle-eez,” with the hard G, if you please). As movie buffs, we get a kick out of just driving around the various neighborhoods and imagining who once lived in the bungalows we’re passing. Lucille Ball, f’rinstance.

Then there are the more substantial residences that the familiar stars of the Golden Age of Hollywood moved into, once they’d hit it big.

In our several trips to Tinsel Town, we’ve never taken one of the commercial tours of the stars’ homes, but we suspect they tend to focus on the abodes of contemporary stars—Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts, Justin Bieber—at the expense of the former residences of your Humphrey Bogarts, your Bette Davises, your Una Merkels. And who can blame them? It’s always good policy to give the people what they want, and we who are more interested in seeing where and how the stars of yesteryear lived are undeniably in the minority.

There are guidebooks that provide pointers that allow us to catch a glimpse of where Bogart, Davis, and Merkel lived, worked, and played, of course (we’re partial to Richard Alleman’s Hollywood: The Movie Lover’s Guide: The Ultimate Insider Tour of Movie L.A.), but what if one doesn’t have the wherewithal (or accrued vacation days) to to arrange a Southern California sojorn?

In that case, one turns, as one tends to do these days, to the internet—specifically to Image-Archeology.com and their collection of vintage linen postcards that depict the residences of those performers who made our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents laugh, cry and tap their toes (though not simultaneously).

Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks’ home, Pickfair	Jean Harlow’s Beverily Hills residence	Claudette Colbert’s hilltop residence in Hollywood

At this delightful site, one can gaze upon a palatial Hancock Park home while imagining Buster Keaton stepping out to pick up the morning paper, compare contrast two of Groucho Marx‘s Beverly HIlls homes, and kill two birds with one stone as you assess the love nest once blissfully shared by a pair of stars who were married once upon a time, Dick Powell and Joan Blondell.

And the list goes on—Myrna Loy, Harold Lloyd, Ginger Rogers, Barbara Stanwyck; one could grow breathless reciting them. All the cards, from A to Z (well, A to Y—Loretta Young is the last star on the list) are in terrific shape and lovingly presented. We encourage all our readers to experience a little California sunshine by spending some time there.

The witty and erudite Dick Cavett has a new book out. Talk Show: Confrontations, Pointed Commentary, and Off-Screen Secrets is a collection of the very worthy opinion columns Cavett’s written for the New York Times over the past few years, and in that book he tells a story about Jack Benny that is one of best we have ever heard.

We spent several years in the 1990s tending bar at Mickey Mantle’s Sports Bar on Central Park South, and if we hadn’t guessed already that fame came with a price, we certainly learned that lesson in our time at Mantle’s, where we saw not only the Commerce Comet himself deluged by fans, many of whom behaved questionably, but dozens of other celebrities as well, from both the sports and entertainment worlds. (Just as an aside, O.J. Simpson, who had not then yet fallen afoul of the law, was the one celeb who created the most excitement when he dined at Mantle’s. The buzz in the room while he was there was palpable.)

We don’t consider it telling tales out of school to say that we saw the Mick have run-ins any number of times with customers who had crossed a line, and generally, there was blame to be placed on both sides. In Mickey’s case, to be frank, alcohol generally played a role in his turning surly, and on the customers’ side — well, alcohol again often played a role in their penchant for placing unreasonable demands on the former slugger. After all, even a Hall of Famer likes to enjoy a brief meal with friends from time to time.

It’s that double-edged sword of adoration that Cavett’s story about Benny touches upon, and so aptly. The finish is a little coarse, for the more sensitive souls among the Cladrite community, but frankly, we wouldn’t change a word of it. It just goes to show how even a soul as gentle as Benny—by all reports, the loveliest and gentlest of men—can be beaten down by the devoted attention of fans.

As Cavett tells it, here’s how the story goes:

When Jack Benny first came on a show of mine, I suddenly blurted, “Isn’t it a drag, Jack? Constant recognition?” To my surprise, he blurted back, “I like being famous!” A rare admission at any time.

He elaborated: “I go to a night club, I get a good table. I go to the theater, I get the best seats. At the country club, the steam room attendant gives me the best towel.” Then came, delightfully, “And ya know, kid, what the best part is? People are generally glad to see me.”

I declined to remind the great man of something I had witnessed years before when I was writing for Jack Paar. Mr. Benny, as I then called him, was on that night’s Paar show, and when taping was over I made my habitual point of getting into the elevator with one of my heroes. So did a bunch of audience members. The son of Waukegan looked smart in his belted, classic Burberry.

For what follows, younger readers will need help with the trademark Jack Benny references, so dear to the memory of those of a certain age.

First, someone asked, “Do you still drive the Maxwell?” Then came, “Are you really cheap?” This of course triggered, “Do you really keep your money in that underground vault?” Before we reached the main floor there was time for several more, including the inevitable, “Do you really not pay Rochester much?”

Realizing that he must have become numb to being asked these same questions for decades, you had to admire the gracious way he nodded and smiled. He was a very nice man.

When the doors opened, the civilians all rushed out to astonish their friends with reports of whom they had met and actually spoken with.

Jack put his arm around my shoulder and in that soft voice, said, “Ya know, kid, sometimes ya jes’ wanna tell ‘em to go fuck themselves.”

Speaking of Dick Cavett, we’ve had occasion to meet him a few times over the years. Not in any formal setting, but just bumping into him at various spots around the city. As fellow Groucho Marx devotees, we’ve felt comfortable in approaching Mr. Cavett and telling him of our appreciation of his work and our shared admiration for Groucho, and he’s always been nothing less than gracious and warm.

We honestly think you could do much worse than to buy his book for several of the people on your holiday gift-giving list.

We thought we’d mention it a day early, so that you can devote a little time to planning how you intend to observe the occasion: Saturday, October 2, marks the 120th anniversary of Groucho Marx‘s birth.

All of the movies Groucho made are available on DVD, and there are some terrific collecions of his hilarious game show, You Bet Your Life, available as well.

Most, if not all, of the books he wrote are available, too.

So it’s up to you how you do it, but really, don’t you think you should spend some time with Groucho on his birthday?

We think so, too.

Just to help you out in a pinch, here are the very memorable first few minutes of the first Marx Brothers movie we ever saw, Horse Feathers (1932):

One of the first places we went upon receiving our driver’s license (and the mobility that came with it) some—gulp!—36 years ago was the miniscule (and long since defunct) Mini-Mall Theatre in north Oklahoma City. They featured old movies there, mostly comedies, and we wanted to see a Marx Brothers movie. We had become intrigued somehow with the Marxes—Groucho, especially—but had never seen one of their pictures.

The bill that evening was Horse Feathers (1932), followed by Duck Soup (1933). As Horse Feathers opens, Groucho is being inducted as President of Huxley College. Following his introduction by the outgoing president, Groucho begins his speech this way:

“Members of the faculty and faculty members, students of Huxley and Huxley students—I guess that covers everyone. I thought my razor was dull until I heard his speech, and that reminds me of a story that’s so dirty I’m ashamed to think of it myself. I came to this college for one reason: to get my son out of it. I remember the day he left for school, a mere boy and a beardless youth. I kissed them both goodbye.”

Groucho was off and running, and so were we. From that night on, we couldn’t get enough of Groucho, Harpo, Chico, and sometimes Zeppo. The Marxes quickly became our avocation, and an avid one at that. We were initially drawn most strongly to Groucho, who was cracking the jokes we would had made if we were clever enough.

But we also loved Chico’s puns and crazy piano stylings and, even more, Harpo’s innocently mischievous ways. Over the years, our affection for Groucho has not faded, but we’ve grown ever fonder of Harpo. Our appreciation for the second eldest Marx may have been fueled by our increasing knowledge of—and appreciation for—the great silent comics such as Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, and Charlie Chaplin. We’re convinced that, had Harpo not been part of a family act that very much relied on dialogue and wordplay, he could have been right up there with those comic greats in the silent era.

By all reports, it wasn’t hard to love Harpo. Everything we’ve read (and we’ve read just about everything there is to read on the Marxes) suggests that he was as lovely a fellow as you’d ever want to meet, kind and gentle and fun-loving (the term that so often gets used to describe him is “childlike”).

Harpo’s autobiography, Harpo Speaks!, is still (or, perhaps, again) in print, and we highly recommend it to you. We have enjoyed it more every time we’ve read it, and Ms. Cladrite, who has to date viewed only a couple of Marx Brothers movies, found it an engaging and charming read.

But we also want to recommend a delightful web site of which a pal made us aware recently. It’s called Harpo’s Place, and is described on the home page as The Official Arthur Harpo Marx Family Online Collection. It’s a lovingly crafted tribute to Harpo—the man, the actor, and the father—and it has no other agenda than to celebrate and commemmorate his life and career. There’s nothing for sale on the site (heck, we almost wish there were), and it’s loaded with material even the most devoted Marxist might never have seen before. Harpo’s Place is clearly a labor of love, and that labor has paid off in a delightful site that we heartily recommend to you.

Check it out, and tell ‘em Cladrite Radio sent you.

Read more