As I write this, CNN's website is reporting that the condition of Joe Dimaggio, The Yankee Clipper, Joltin' Joe, has improved and that he is talking and sitting up in bed. It's been a roller coaster ride following the illness of the 84-year old slugger. First he's dying! Then he's not dying! He's on life support! He sat up and said hello! Joe Dimaggio is one of the special gentlemen whose paths I have crossed, and if I shed tears every time I hear the news about Joe, I take comfort in knowing that he occupies the same soft spot in the hearts of so many Americans.

I first met Joe on the lot at Universal Studios back in 1953 or so, just after I got my contract there. He was on the lot to visit his pal and paisan, Lou Costello, who was filming the latest Abbot and Costello comedy. Joe was enjoying huge celebrity status then because he was very publicly dating Marilyn Monroe. When Joe stopped by the Abbot and Costello set, Uni's publicity department made sure that I showed up at the same time for a photo op with Joe. He was handsome that day, with a shy smile and ready charm, and I admit to a bit of envy that Marilyn had someone like Joe in her life. (I saw the pictures in the publicity office, but they were never released. One of those would be a collector's dream for the Ebay Auction.)

Joe had a taste for glamorous blondes. His first wife, Dorothy, with whom he had a son, was a stunning platinum blonde who wanted to be an actress. (Dorothy and I shared an acting coach, Betami Schneider.)

Fast forward: a little more than ten years later.

It was perhaps a year after Marilyn's death when I heard that Joe was in town, staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I was nursing a broken heart because of a different baseball player, Bo Belinsky. Because of my love affair with Bo and associations with other athletes, I thought that Joe and I would have some acquaintances in common, so I rang his room and we chatted for a while. Before we hung up, he asked if I would like to have dinner at the hotel. Being afraid that Joe would think I was trying to get publicity through his past association with Marilyn, I suggested that he come to my house instead. "Bring some Will Wright's ice cream," I suggested, "and we'll watch TV."

"What flavor?" he asked.

"Chocolate almond for me," I answered. (God, how I miss that L.A. institution, Will Wright's! What ice cream! It was so rich that your tongue felt slick from the butterfat for an hour.)

Joe showed up at my house dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and tie, and carrying five pints of Will Wright's finest in assorted flavors (including chocolate almond).
My bedroom was the focal point of my house then-as it is now-for more than the obvious reasons. Aside from sex, I spent (and spend) a good bit of time in bed. Rest is important to me. I believe it is the secret to staying young looking and healthy. So, I made it my habit to have friends (even the ones I was not sleeping with) into by bedroom to watch television, play cards, and socialize.

I invited Joe in, and the maid served the ice cream with plenty of napkins. We sat in the middle of my bed (Joe looking a little formal in his blue suit), sampling the ice cream and watching the tube while we talked. It soon became obvious that Joe was in a blue funk. He had just returned from vacationing in Hawaii with a long-time close friend who was, Joe had just discovered, dying from heart disease. And though Joe and Marilyn had been divorced for some time when she died, he was deeply wounded by her loss and she was still a palpable presence in his life. When I brought up the fact that I had seen Marilyn in New York shortly before she died, he made it clear that he did not want to talk about her. Instead, he spoke wistfully of the days in baseball when he was at the pinnacle of his career, recounting the names of those who were no longer alive.

The ice cream eaten, Joe asked if I minded if he smoked. I said I didn't mind if he smoked outside, and suggested that it was a good opportunity for us to look at the view from my backyard patio. We gazed out over the twinkling L.A. nightscape while Joe had a cigarette.
Not long afterward, Joe left. No sex. We kissed good night in the driveway standing next to his car. I think Joe thought that I was too young for him: he was in his mid-fifties; I was in my early thirties.

A few months later, I was filming an Aqua Velva commercial in Fort Lauderdale. Bo and I were making an attempt to get back together while he was at the Phillie's spring training camp in Clearwater on Florida's other coast. Most of the commercial was in the can, but there were a few pick-up shots to do the next day and I had an early call. My plan was to get to bed early, finish the commercial the next morning, and hop a plane to Tampa to meet Bo.

I dragged myself back to my hotel room, exhausted after the long day's shooting. The desk gave me a telephone message. It was from Joe Dimaggio. I called him; left a message. He called back and asked me to come down to Miami for dinner at the Yankee Clipper hotel where he was staying.

How often this has been the story of my life: too tired from working. This, kids, is the other side of a glamorous life in the movies. Ask anyone who's done it.
I told Joe that it was more than I could do, even though I would have loved to see him. Apologies all around. We rang off. I went to Tampa the next day and an eventual blow-up with Bo. It would have been light years better to have had dinner with Joe Dimaggio.

Now, with Joe fighting the good fight in a hospital in southern Florida, I wish I could tell him how much he has meant to me. How much he is a symbol of things good and true, of a gentleman and a fine sportsman. I wish he could know that he represents the best things in all of us, the things that humans ought to brag about: grace and class, humanity and love, and, yes, courage.

The most exciting moment in baseball is the homerun. One individual, defying all odds and armed only with the slim bat of courage can, with one perfect swing, make us feel for that instant that we are better than we are and send our spirits soaring over the fence and into the centerfield seats.

For this little blonde, Joe Dimaggio will always be a homerun.

Recently, my email has shown me new faces and places in cyberspace that are part of the Hollywood landscape in their own way.

A website, hosted by a young woman named Kim Rosenthal, pays homage to the other M, Jayne Mansfield.

Jayne's life and mine have been strangely tied together, though I did not have the same connection with her that I did with Marilyn. (Jayne grew up in Texas and came to Hollywood later.) I indirectly influenced her career when I turned down a play called "Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?" which had been written for me by George Axelrod. Jayne, then unknown, took the role and became a star. In the summer of 1967, Jayne filled in for me at a supper club in Biloxi, Mississippi when I was held over in a play in New York. Driving from Biloxi to New Orleans with her children in the car, her driver slammed into the back of a truck. Jayne was killed, but her children survived.

I made a special trip to meet Jayne's ex-husband, Mickey Hargitay, and her children by him, shortly after her death. After we chatted for a while, Mickey walked me to the car, hugged me, and thanked me for coming. Raising Jayne's children would be a sizable chore, and I wished Mickey and his new wife the best.

Driving home alone, I thought, "Am I lucky? Or am I the next victim?" After that I didn't care too much. I went to Vietnam.

Kim's website is a loving tribute to Jayne. Stop for a visit and sign her guest book at: www.angelfire.com/nj/jaynemansfield

Finally, I received an email recently from one John Clark Gable. That's right, he is the son of the King himself, Clark Gable. Gable died before is son was born, and John's mother told him little about his father. He had seen my article about this website in the National Enquirer and fired off a simple question via email: what was my father like? I was pleased to be able to tell him that he was a kind, generous man who treated me like he'd known me his whole life. I put John in touch with Howard W. Koch at Paramount Studios. Howard is an old friend who directed me in a couple of movies. He was also a young assistant director on a couple of Gable's pictures, and has many good stories to tell about The Man. Of course, I have a few of my own. John, Howard, and I plan to get together over lunch to swap tales about the most famous actor of all time.

 

The common denominator of these stories is the continuing interest in what I increasingly think of as my era. There's something that'll make you look twice for gray hair. An era all your own. Of course, it's not just mine, but often I find myself answering questions for fans, writers, and just the curious about Hollywood in the 50's and 60's. And there are so many unanswered questions. Kim and John want to know what things were like. Their questions can only be answered by a survivor, a category that I am happy to be in. I feel like I'm doing my part to bridge the gap between the old (and not-so-old) Hollywood when I answer these questions. And I am eternally happy that nice people like these and many others have taken the time to write and ask.

Eric Douglas, son of Kirk, at Mark Harris' party. He's giving me a squeeze that a girl just doesn't forget. He's the sweetest guy!
	Group singing "No Business Like Show Business," led by host, Mark Harris holding his microphone. Left to right, guest of honor, Virgina Obrien, Terry Moore, Barbara McNair, your humble narrator, and Grace Robbins.
	Margret O'Brien and me. This party had two O'Brien's from the same studio, MGM.