Agnes Moorehead and Her Relationship to the Creation of the Universe (Hollywood’s Dark Decade: part 2)
At the end an alley, a block and a half north of Hollywood Blvd, on Vine St., was a concrete wall, bordering a parking lot, with barbed wire across the top. Sprayed in sprawling jagged letters across this wall was the announcement, “AGNES MOOREHEAD IS GOD.”
The first time I saw it was in 1989, walking to The Palace, which was up the street. I was seventeen and very excited to go see The Stray Cats for the first time. They had just returned to the music scene after a hiatus in performing and were touring on their new album, Blast Off!
Agnes Moorehead is God.
What a strange, philosophic statement to arrest ones thoughts and inspire speculation. Was this meant as a joke? Surely, with the variance in occult beliefs in Hollywood, one could imagine that the character of Endora, the flamboyant witch, from Bewitched could be a catalyst for such an outlandish statement. Could it be a social statement, made by a fan who had insight into the rumors that Agnes Moorehead was part of Hollywood’s elite hidden gay community? Perhaps, someone shooting up in the alley, one night, had been overcome by a vision of the truth and felt compelled to share it with the world.
Whatever the reality might have been, this particular piece of graffiti had staying power. Having looked for the declaration of deity in 1992, when attending a performance of Rex Weiner’s play at Theatre/Theatre, called Be-Bob-A-Lula, about Eddie Cochran and Gene Vincent and produced by Adam Ant, it was still on that concrete wall. Each consecutive time I walked down Vine, I looked for it, and it was there.
The Stray Cats concert was wild. As the curtains parted and the band played their opening number, Bring It Back Again, the entire crowd swelled and began to surge, uncontrollably. The mob was in control and soon, no one could make move, because people were packed so tightly and no amount of effort could help control where you wanted to move. Pushed dozens of feet with no ability to stand ground, everyone had to consent to the will of the crowd.
Almost immediately, a man got on stage, and before security could get to him, he dove off the stage and landed on me. I sank, with him, into the ocean of people and, on my hands and knees in the dark, could see only dozens of legs. Agnes Moorehead save me! My friend, Tony, who, fortunately was 6'9", had a long reach and was able to grab me by my collar and pull me up.
For several minutes, I felt the man who had stage dived struggling at my feet; I was unable to help him. Eventually, he either crawled off or I was carried away, as the audience shifted direction.
Vine St. had already held musical significance for me. The year before, on October 1, 1988, I had used an elaborate plan to get out of school so that I could attend the presentation of John Lennon’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, in front of the Capital building. Yoko Ono had spoken, emotionally, and the crowd of 1500 people spontaneously broke into a rendition of Give Peace A Chance.
Even though, during these darker years of Hollywood, much of the glitter had been lost, there were still moments of fleeting beauty and historical excitement all around. South of the boulevard, we would marvel at the old phone booth with a broken pain of glass, from where Michael J. Fox, when he was a struggling, out of work actor and not being able to afford a phone of his own, would call to check in with his agent. Eating at Musso & Franks Grill, a once illustrious spot for celebrities, that was now mostly vacant and rundown, we saw Donna Pescow, most famous for her roles in Saturday Night Fever and the TV show, Angie, sitting alone at the bar and having her lunchtime cocktail.
On a side street, marked on an unimpressive door, was the Max Factor museum. This was a one-room shop where the history of make-up in Hollywood was presented. The curator, an old and kind lady, showed us the wig worn by Billie Burke, who had played Glenda, the Good Witch, in 1939s, The Wizard of Oz. Many of the cast had been sent on a tour of the country, by train, to promote the film, and, so Burke would not have to continually have to have her extensive hairdo in perfection condition, as the train hit each city, Max Factor had made her a wig.
Would it not make more sense that Billie Burke is God?
Agnes Moorehead won out, though, every time. For she had the graffiti.
Years later, after I had moved out of state and had started a very different life, I had returned to Hollywood one evening. I found myself, instinctively, walking toward Vine St. Searching for the site, I reached an alley and turned my head to the left. There it was. I could see that it had been painted over, time and time again, but still, like ants rebuilding their hill, the spray paint had mysteriously, spiritually reappeared.
It had made me smile to know that, even though my beloved Hollywood had since evolved into a very different sort of town than the one I had known, some things hadn’t changed. Of course, now, more than two decades after that, the retaining wall and parking lot that the alley led to are long gone. Victim to New Hollywood.
Still, I imagine that one day, the words will magically reappear and then a new generation will be blessed by the cryptic benediction:
AGNES MOOREHEAD IS GOD.