Swimming In Red Ink
July, 1964
Nowadays, life in Hollywood is presided over by the telephone. You sit and wait for the crisp secretarial bulletin that you are about to be levitated from the Limbo of "availability" to the Beulah Land of "firm assignment."I sat. I waited. These unstrenuous activities took place in an ingratiatingly seedy hostelry called the Montecito, an Alhambra-ized lean-to in which transient theatrical and literary New Yorkers polish their sunglasses and eye the phone.I asked not for whom...
