The Tale of Two Lovers

With his mischievous grin and saucy wit, Joe Orton could get away with just about anything.

So when the working class 20-something Brit moved to London to try his luck at acting, nobody questioned it.

Although he was a fair actor, with impressive physique and genuine charisma, it soon became clear the stage wasn't meant for Joe. He was an incredibly talented writer and his dark, dry humor shocked and delighted everyone who read his essays or short stories.

In 1951, Joe met and fell in love with an older, middle-class guy, Kenneth Halliwell, who seemed lonely and lost. Life hadn't been very fair to Kenneth. When he was 11, he had watched in horror as his mother was stung by a wasp and choked to death in front of him. When he was 23, he woke up one morning to find his father dead from a suicide in the kitchen, his head still in the gas oven. Both incidents had left the shy kid devastated.

Joe and Kenneth felt a deep understanding to one another. Joe, being so outgoing and joyful, brought Kenneth back to life. Kenneth, reserved and observant, brought out a more serious side in Joe. It was a perfect match.

The two started writing stories together, such as Lord Cucumber and the Boy Hairdresser. Their honest and humorous accounts of homosexuality raised eyebrows but didn't get them published at the time.

Bored by their lack of success, the two young men became pranksters.

In their spare time, they stole more than 70 books from the public library and defaced the covers before returning them. For example, on one cover they drew a naked middle-aged man with tattoos. Unfortunately, the library system didn't think the vandalized covers were very funny and both men were prosecuted. They spent six months in jail.

While Joe was in jail, something about being alone in a cell changed him. He had hours upon hours to think creatively and ponder about the world. His writing started to change. It became more mature and fresh and exciting. By the time he was released from jail, Joe was a changed man.

He started publishing unique and hilarious plays, such as Loot, which were gaining national attention. Critics either loved or hated him. Celebrities wanted to hang out with him. It was swinging sixties London and he was one of the hottest figures in town.

Unfortunately, his boyfriend couldn't bring himself to bask in the success.

Kenneth grew more and more jealous of Joe's growing fame and talent. He was bitter that Joe seemed to have moved on professionally, away from him. Whatever happened to writing stories together? He felt left behind, even though he was always at Joe's side, invited to the hottest parties and traveling the world on exotic vacations.

Kenneth started taking anti-depressants to ease the pain. His sulky, resentful attitude turned off most of Joe's new famous friends, who would invite the hot 30-something playwright to parties on the condition that Kenneth had to stay home. The two men began to grow distant.

On a warm August night in 1967, Joe decided he was going to break up with Kenneth the next day. After all, their lives were going in opposite directions. Joe had already fallen in love with another guy and wanted to see where that relationship went. It wouldn't be fair to string Kenneth along anymore. Plus, Joe was on top of the world. Tomorrow, he would be meeting with The Beatles to discuss a screenplay he had written for them.

But tomorrow never came.

While Joe slept, Kenneth took a hammer and bashed his boyfriend's skull nine times. Blood splattered all over the bed, the walls, and the floor. Then, Kenneth took an overdose of pills, killing himself instantly.

Heartbreakingly, Joe remained alive in his bed for several agonizing hours, before finally succumbing to death himself. The bodies of both men were found by their chauffeur the next morning.

Today, it still remains one of the most gory and disturbing crime scenes in London's history.

And just like he feared all along, Kenneth has been forgotten. He is merely a footnote in literary history.

The muse and murderer to a brilliant mind that was simply crushed too soon.

(kiss my shades)

He was fucking crazy.

It was what we loved and hated about him.

Will came wrapped in an emotionally broken package, carelessly stapled together with an over-consumption of liquor.

Almost everything that poured out of his mouth was fiction. He was in a rock band. He had his graduate degree in art. He was going to be famous.

I knew him long before we became friends. But I remember the minute it changed. We were standing outside Jonny's downtown loft one winter evening, sipping champagne and tipsily reciting lyrics from Hand in Glove.

"I used to hang out with Morrissey back when I lived in LA," Will casually told me, flicking a spark of fiery cigarette ash onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

I laughed at him. It wasn't true. But I didn't care.

"You're gorgeous," he told me seriously, looking into my eyes.

I smirked back.

We spent most of our nights running around town, chugging wine from the bottle and puking in alleys. We danced in neon-lit gay bars. We snuggled together, watching horror movies. We climbed rooftops for no reason. We were such an all-American pair.

The man with tattoos. The girl in the sun dress.

Lounging on the sprawling lawn outside the art museum one summer afternoon, he asked me to run away to St. Louis with him. It'll be fabulous, he said. We need to run away together, Jenny Bunny, it would be so fabulous.

So fabulous, so fabulous.

I laughed into the sky.

"So fabulous," I whispered, watching the clouds stare back at me.

A warm spring evening, we met at one of our usual hangouts. He was with a boy.

"I'm so in love," Will said, gazing at the cute curly-haired guy smiling back at him. "This is it. This is the rest of my life."

"When did you two meet?" I asked.

"Two days ago," Will said, dreamily.

I smiled.

They stayed together for more than a year.

At 2 a.m. on a chilly fall night we found ourselves at a park overlooking the river. Sitting on a rock.

"I love you, Jenny Bunny," he said.

I love you too.

"You're the most fabulous girl I know," he said.

You're sweet.

"Let's run away together," he said.

Where?

"Santa Fe," he said.

Okay.

(But we stayed.)

It wasn't long before his life completely spun into oblivion. Drunk nights led to emergency room drama. His temper got out of control. He used people, especially his boyfriend. We all started to avoid him.

And the lies. So many exposed. What was real? What was fake? Who was he? Did he exist?

After a nasty break-up with his boyfriend, he moved back to his hometown, a few hours south.

He called me several times. Laughing. Talking. Lying.

And then we had our first and only fight. Bitterness was spit at each other. Goodbye.

We were out of each other's lives.

I thought I would never see him again. And I was right. I'll never have that chance.

Two days ago, his life was taken away as recklessly as he lived it.

And as I'm still trying to digest this reality, all I can do is think about those two words he always brought up.

Run away.

Don't they know it's the end of the world.

Clueless. Girl, Interrupted. Eight Mile.

Her films defined a generation. But when your career hits a snag, the Midas touch of Hollywood turns to ash within the blink of an eye.

With rumors of prescription drug abuse and anorexia, the film offers stopped coming. She clung to whatever independent or low-budget movie she could score, no matter how terrible the script.

She fell in love with a con artist, who flaunted himself as a rich, powerful producer with connections. After they married, the financially struggling actress was paying off her unemployed husband's debt.

In the final two weeks of her life, she was so sick with pneumonia, her lips were blue. She could barely breathe. Yet she was still playing nurse to her ailing mother and husband, who were also sick. Her domineering husband convinced her that they didn't need a doctor.

One afternoon, she was on the floor, unable to breath, her face turning blue. She refused to go to the emergency room. Instead, she told her mother she was going to die. Nobody called 911.

Five hours later, her prediction came true.

After her death, the bitter reality became painfully obvious: If Brittany Murphy had seen a physician at any point before her death, she wouldn't have died. By not seeking medical help, Brittany Murphy had essentially killed herself.

I've always seen myself as one of those 'show people.' My earliest memories are wanting and needing to entertain people, like a gypsy traveler who goes from place to place, city to city, performing for audiences and reaching people.

 

Everybody has difficult years, but a lot of times the difficult years end up being the greatest years of your whole entire life, if you survive them.

God forgot to give me the jealous bone.

I'm a giver. I have learned to be selective of the people in my world, because if I love someone, I will give them my blood, whatever they need. In doing so, one can end up with little left for themselves. It's a lesson in self-preservation that I'm still learning. If you don't have yourself, you have nothing to give.

I don't even take myself seriously, so how could I possibly take Hollywood seriously?

I have always wanted to be really tall for a day. That's kind of a superficial thing. I'm 5'3, but for one day I would love to be 5'9 and tower over everybody.

 I can't believe that people actually know my first and last name. I think it's really, really, gosh-darn neat.



 I think to call my mom and I best friends is almost an insult to our relationship. She's the greatest in the whole wide world, and I don't feel closer to anyone. She's a pillar of strength, and she doesn't flaunt it. She has this will - she just knows she can get through things. It's inspiring.

 

It's easy to get wrapped up in sharing everyday life with a partner. It's fun to get lost in love and romance. It's the best. But holding on to yourself while doing that is the most important thing.

 

I would like to be very, very, very, very old.

The Fallen Starlet (Haunted Hollywood Part II)

"I'm heading out to the drug store to meet some friends."

Uncle Walter looked up and smiled kindly.

"Have fun, sweetie," he said.

Peg Entwistle smiled back.

She exited the charming white bungalow she shared with her uncle and headed up the sidewalk. Golden sunlight pierced through the bright blue sky. The smell of gardenias wafted in the air.

It was truly a beautiful day.

She twisted and turned through neighborhoods and eventually wound up in the dusty brown hills. She was so lost in thought she didn't even realize how far she had walked in such a short period of time.

Up ahead, Peg could see the outline of the Hollywoodland sign. The looming dirty white letters seemed almost disappointingly abrasive against the vast Los Angeles skyline.

Without hesitating she started to walk up the steep brown hill. She slid down. Hitching her long dress up, she clawed her way up the chalky dirt mound. Out of breath and sweating, she eventually reached the top. She was right behind the massive 50-foot sign.

Peg wistfully stared out at the breathtaking view, through each giant letter. God, Los Angeles was stunning.

All of the sudden, she heard a noise behind her. She snapped around. Nobody was there.

"Hello?" she called out.

Silence.

She took off her coat and folded it neatly, placing it on the ground with her purse. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that somebody was watching her.

She climbed up a workman's ladder on the back of the "H" and stood on top of the letter, peering down at the cityscape below.

And then she performed a perfect swan dive straight down.

The 24-year-old died instantly.

Peg was born in London in 1908, but grew up in New York City. Her mom had died when she was very young, and then when she was a teenager, her father got run over by a car.

After high school, she pursued theater and her natural talent and girl-next-door personality earned her success on Broadway.

During one of her stage productions, sitting in the audience was a girl named Bette Davis, who turned to her mother and whispered, "...I want to be exactly like Peg Entwistle."

In 1932, Peg moved to Los Angeles to see if she could try her hand at movie-acting. Fortunately, her Uncle Walter lived out there, so she was able to live with a watchful guardian, rent-free.

Within the year, she dabbled in stage work and was eventually signed to RKO Studio and cast in a major film production, Thirteen Women. The sweet-tempered blonde couldn't have been more thrilled. She was going to be a star!

But when the film was released, the movie received scathing reviews from critics. RKO dropped Peg's contract like a hot potato.

The 24-year-old was heartbroken and grew severely depressed.

And then one afternoon, she climbed the Hollywood sign and killed herself.

A hiker found her body a couple days later, with her suicide note tucked inside her purse.

 In an ironic twist of fate, just mere days after her death, a letter from the Beverly Hills Playhouse arrived at her uncle's doorstep. The theater wanted her to star in their latest production, playing the role of a woman who commits suicide.

Although she has been dead for exactly 80 years, Peg isn't exactly...gone.

Dozens of people over the past eight decades have reported seeing a forlorn blonde woman in a white dress roaming the grounds near the Hollywood sign.

So in the end, her dream of becoming famous did come true.

Peg is forever known as the Hollywood Sign Girl, the ghost who haunts a landmark representative of hope and success, and all the glorious tragedy that comes with it.

Peroxide Blonde (Haunted Hollywood Part I)

"Open the fucking door!"

A chilly breeze enveloped Thelma Todd's scantily clad body.

The glittering lights of Hollywood danced around the building, but the gorgeous starlet was too drunk and too cold to care. After a night of partying at the hottest nightclub in town (and had she gone to a few other places? She couldn't remember. The whole night was a blur), she was now at her boyfriend's apartment. She didn't even know how she got there.

She banged on the door again.

"Let me the fuck in, Roland!"

No answer.

"Please!"

She burst into tears and finally turned around and stumbled down a never-ending staircase. She tripped on the last step and fell down, scraping her bare knee. The world seemed to be spinning. God, she felt like puking. All over Roland's doorstep. Maybe his crazy wife would step in it.

The thought made Thelma smile.

As she walked over to the garage, the star-lit sky faded into pitch black.

The next morning her dead body was discovered inside her running Lincoln convertible, sitting in the garage. Her favorite slinky cocktail dress was clinging to her body. An expensive fur coat wrapped her body protectively.

Despite the bruises on her throat, the two cracked ribs, and the broken nose, the police determined the 28-year-old's death was an accident. She must have gone to her car, turned it on inside the garage, and then passed out drunk, dying from carbon monoxide poisoning, they stated in their report, ignoring the fact that she had clearly been beaten up beforehand.

But people in Thelma's life knew better. And when the details of the peroxide blonde's scandalous adventures were revealed, the public became obsessed.

This was not a girl who died of carelessness.

This was a girl who died of murder.

And there were many people who wanted her dead.

A decade before, when Thelma was a 19-year-old beauty queen on the East Coast, a talent scout encouraged her to try her luck in Hollywood. Upon the move, she quickly discovered fame and fortune in the movie industry. She played the sexy blonde in a string of hit comedies.

But behind the camera, the vivacious actress was a hot mess.

Thelma was dangerously attracted to older, rich men who physically abused her, just like her own father had years before. And she was obsessed with sex, constantly spreading her legs for every guy who offered a simple compliment. She couldn't help it. She craved feeling gorgeous. She needed to feel desired. Without sex, she felt worthless and that was a feeling which terrified her.

She was also addicted to diet pills, stemming from her studio contract, which stated that if she ever gained more than five pounds, her career would be immediately terminated.

Her partying lifestyle introduced her to a rough crowd. Her first husband was a gangster who beat the shit out of her. When Thelma finally left him, she secretly worried that one day he would take revenge. It was a fear always nagging in the back of her mind.

In 1931, Thelma fell in love with her married director, Roland West. His wife, Jewel, didn't bother her. She was annoying and her looks were fading and she clearly couldn't please him in bed. Obviously, no competition.

Plus, she wasn't planning on being entirely faithful either. Thelma couldn't help being attracted to other men and was too weak to fight off her sexual temptations.

In fact, it was her unfaithfulness which was the reason Roland never opened his door for her that crisp December night. He was inside, bitterly ignoring her drunken pleas, too proud to take her back.

And then there was Lucky. Thelma didn't even know how she got herself wrapped up into that mess. Lucky Luciano was the scariest mobster in the Los Angeles area.

When Thelma and Roland opened up their restaurant, Thelma Todd's Sidewalk Cafe, a year before, it had become an overnight success, attracting the Hollywood in-crowd and tourists. Thelma couldn't have been more proud. Here she was, proving to the world that she was more than just a pretty face and nice piece of ass. She was a businesswoman. A real powerhouse!

But one day Lucky just appeared in her life. They'd slept together a few times, after downing bottles of Dom Perignon. He'd rough her up a bit, but nothing she couldn't handle. Then, one afternoon Lucky told her he wanted to take over her nightclub for the mafia. Outraged, she told him to fuck off. The look in his eyes told her she might have taken things too far.

And amidst this mess, this circus of a life she'd created for herself out in paradise, Thelma wound up dead.

The fake friends she'd collected at her side wept for the cameras and told reporters it was a "shock."

Almost exactly two years later, Thelma's ex-husband murdered an actor at the very same nightclub where she had last been seen.

Her lover, Roland, became a recluse and never made another film. He later confessed to murdering her on his deathbed in 1952, but since he was mentally unstable from a stroke, the police dismissed it.

Her money-hungry mother, Roland's bitter wife, and a string of lovers also appeared as possible suspects. But nothing could be proved. And the police, eager to wrap up the media frenzy, stopped analyzing the situation by labeling it an accident.

To this day, nobody knows what really happened to Thelma that night in 1935.

Nobody knows who did it.

But that person got away with it. And they took the details to their grave.

Leaving Hollywood with the mystery.

Summer of '96

When I was 12 years old, I begged my parents to let me be a junior counselor at a summer camp a couple hours away from town.

Shockingly, they said yes.

The sprawling ranch was in south Florida, near an Indian reservation. There were horses, goats, pigs, rabbits, and other farm animals.

The camp's mascot was a gigantic pot belly pig, Big C, who was gentle as a lamb. He would roam around the ranch, to the delight of the younger children. It was tradition for anyone who saw Big C to shout out "Big C comin'!"

When I was introduced to my bunkmate, Brittany, I was in complete awe. With sun-soaked blonde hair, a gorgeous face, and a bored expression, she was like a 13-year-old Heather Locklear. When she lit up a cigarette inside our cabin, blowing the smoke through a cracked open window, I knew she was the coolest girl I'd ever met in my life.

Even Brittany's background was glamorous, at least for a generic upper-middle class girl like me. Her father was in prison. Her mom was a bartender. Brittany said words like "fucking-A" and "bitchballs" which I had never heard anyone my own age utter aloud before.

She decided we were going to be best friends and I went along with it. Unfortunately, being bffs with Brittany meant I had to alienate myself from all the other junior camp counselors at the ranch. They all despised her. She never gave them the time of day and when she was forced to talk to one of the other girls, she usually spoke with condescending coolness.

"These other girls here are so fucking-A!" she would groan at night, flicking her cigarette out the window while simultaneously reading Seventeen. "Thank god I have you, Jen."

After a couple weeks of being at camp, Brittany convinced me to sneak out of the ranch almost every night. We would climb the bulky wooden fence and run out in the fields towards a cluster of large trees. Even though I was terrified of heights, I would allow Brittany to coax me up a tree and sit in the branches, gazing out at the stars or the faded lights of the Indian reservation in the distance. I would never climb up as far as Brittany. I would stare up at her, with envy, wishing I could be sitting on the top branch, with my blonde locks flowing in the wind.

One night, we huddled together on a lower branch, and watched in awe as a group of American Indian men, wearing nothing but jeans and cowboy boots, herded a pack of horses in the field right beneath our feet.

Everything about Brittany seemed so grown up. She might have been 13, but she acted 16, at least.

"God, just looking at that tree makes me horny," she once said, pointing to a weeping willow across the lake. "Doesn't it make you horny?"

I nodded enthusiastically, not having the slightest idea what she was talking about.

Another evening, she made me pierce her upper left ear. She already had her ears pierced, but wanted a third hole. Our laughter turned to shrieks of horror as I stabbed her ear with a pin. She had to wear her hair down for several days, to hide the grotesque swelling. Every time I apologized, she laughed.

With a week left into camp, Brittany's school friends showed up one night, with some older boys, in a rusty blue Mustang. Brittany left with them and didn't come back until around 3 a.m.

The next morning, I went to breakfast and immediately noticed something was wrong. Kids were crying. The older camp counselors, college students, were whispering to each other. Some of the camp leaders, the adults, were pacing back and forth, looking stunned.

When I found out the news, I was speechless. Apparently Big C had been slaughtered at the ranch that night. Someone, or some people, had attacked him and cut him open, spilling his guts out. His blood had been splattered and smeared all over the campground.

I felt dizzy with nausea that someone could be so cruel to such a beloved pet. Big C was such a gentle creature. He never would have hurt anyone. He loved everyone. He was so trusting. I went into my cabin and threw myself on my bed and cried. Who could have hurt Big C?

The police were called in. Camp was cancelled. With only a week to go, the ranch owner was so devastated, she couldn't even finish the summer. All events were cancelled.

Brittany had become so attached to me that summer, that she ended up persuading her mom to pay out-of-district tuition to send her to my middle school, about 45 minutes away from where she lived.

I wasn't terribly thrilled by the news. I had cooled our relationship since camp ended. For some reason I felt weird around her now. I didn't find her that entertaining anymore. I certainly no longer wanted to be like her.

Her transfer to my school eventually worked out for her, regardless of me. She instantly became close friends with the popular kids in my school. I rarely saw her in the months before I ended up moving to Nebraska.

In the back of my mind, I always knew what had bothered me about the night Brittany had come home. I always knew why I had severed our friendship without offering her a solid explanation.

The night Brittany had come back from hanging out with her wild friends, she'd reeked of an extremely strong, musky odor. I couldn't pinpoint what it had been at the time. But now, I'm almost certain: it had been blood.

But it hurt too much to put the pieces together. So, instead, I let them fall.

Once in a while, when I think of the summer of 1996, I don't really dwell on Brittany, or the friendship we once shared.

I simply remember lounging on a cold tree branch, feeling a soft breeze run through my hair, watching the horses gallop below in the star-freckled moonlight. Basking in a taste of stolen freedom. Wondering if that's what heaven felt like.