Wayne Michael DeHart    (June, 2021)

Two heads are better than one, it is often said. But over the years, I have noticed that it’s usually the second head on the scene who sings that tune. And more often than not, that tune is an overly-loud, off-key, in-your-face, rendition of “My Way.” Which reminds me of . . .

the night Mamie Van Doren, leaning forward on bended knee, sang that very song on what was reputedly her 40th birthday, her face hovering just 10 inches above mine, looking straight into my eyes. Then, as she crooned the final note, she suddenly swerved her head sharply to her left and kissed the guy who was right next to me smack dab on the lips, to a rowdy ovation from the tanked-up troops in the small club. Now, a cynic might say he got the kiss because Ms. Van Doren had determined, from 10 inches away, that I had been battered by the notorious Ugly Stick and so veered abruptly away and planted one on the snockered buck sergeant who himself was no Bo Belinsky, if you know what I mean. Regardless of the ignominy I suffered being suddenly shut out like that, she left quite an impression on me (had she gotten any closer, that impression would have been two big indentations on my forehead!), and so when I got back home and bought my first car, a yellow Mustang, I got a NH vanity plate that read – what else? – “MYWAY”.

To come full circle, that night just proved that two heads were NOT better than one for me, because had that guy’s head not been damn near ear-to-ear with mine while we both admired and practically inhaled the grandeur of the Twin Peaks, I would have been the victor and enjoyed the spoils. That would  lend credence to my point that the second head in is part of the problem, and not the solution, though I expect that kiss thief would beg to differ. These many years later, I remain certain there have been nights where a distraught Mamie couldn’t sleep and walked the floor back home in California,  sadly regretting that on a night long ago and far away, she chose to kiss that frog, rather than this frog. She recently turned 92, and when she plopped down to a piece of birthday cake, maybe, just maybe, she remembered that fleeting interaction more than 50 years earlier in a distant land, when she bit enticingly into a 40-candle cake in the midst of a boisterous bevy of admiring men. Perhaps she hummed a few notes of “My Way,” and wondered if I am still out there, somewhere, over the rainbow. And in my dreams, indeed I AM somewhere in a distant land – in Africa, with a different Toto, blessing the rains on the Serengeti, clicking my heels, and repeating to myself, “there’s no place like 10 inches from Mamie Van Doren’s . . . lips.” Then I wake up, shake it off, savor the sweetness of an inviting piece of airy angel cake, a tribute of sorts to the heavenly Ms. VanD,  and then go about my day, my way.

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Writer’s Notes:

(1) From what I have been able to determine in the years that followed, Ms. Van Doren apparently celebrated her birthday milestone at most of the stops she made on her three-month, sickness-curtailed second tour in Vietnam. I now know that her 40th birthday was actually February 6th of that year, which would seem to have preceded the very beginning of her tour, which research indicates ended in late May or early June. The experience described above took place on a night in late April, so I suspect she had regularly crooned “My Way” as a routine part of her in-country performances before that magical moment when she looked through my eyes into my very soul. (I tend to think she wanted the guys at each stop to know she looked THAT good at age 40 living her life her way and enjoyed the erotic imagery of blowing out the candles on the makeshift cakes that were presented to her onstage.)

And finally, I suspect there were more than a few of us who came under her spell from 10 inches away before she returned home after falling ill. But on the night of this encounter, we two enamored frogs both felt like princes in our respective ways. Here’s hoping my kiss-winning compatriot has not yet “croaked” and has, like me, been forever grateful for that light in the forest, that rainbow in the dark, that escape to remember.

(2) The Bo Belinsky reference is to Ms. Van Doren’s flamboyant fiance’ from the early 60’s, as featured with Mamie in one of the photos below. The late Mr. Belinsky, at that time a pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels, gained instant notoriety for a number of both on-the-field and off-the-field reasons, some good, some bad. The guy was scandalously charming and bigger than life, and was said to have Hollywood starlets for breakfast. No frog, that fellow.

(3) In my newly-assigned role as a DaNang-based classified courier, who always traveled alone in-country, I found myself bunked down at a MACV transient dive, near a barebones Saigon EM club, awaiting my itinerary for some up-country assignments. My one and only visit to that humble establishment followed a fortunate stumble upon its setting. I walked past the place in the early afternoon and saw a handwritten poster hyping Mamie Van Doren, who would be performing there that very night, about six hours later. Couldn’t believe it, coming out of left field like that. (Bo would have liked that baseball reference, I think.) I went in, and noticed there were only a half-dozen guys in the place. There was a slightly elevated wooden stage, some bar stools, and quite a few square tables, most with four chairs. A few of the tables were really close to the stage and were vacant. Since I was just killing time anyway, I decided to park my butt in the closest chair to the stage and wait it out. I mean, geez, this woman had been, along with Monroe and Mansfield, one of the celebrated “3M’s” – three renowned Hollywood blonde bombshells of the ’50’s and ’60’s. Six hours was nothing.

I got a Coke from the bar and plunked myself back down. Thought of home. Thought of the one that got away. Thought of Mamie Van Doren’s pair of golden globes. (The kind she kept front and center every day, not the film awards kind, though she was a presenter in 1954 and handed one to Foreign Press Association of Hollywood President Jose Haas. Handed him a Golden Globe, that is. Write that down. Might be a Jeopardy question someday.) I nursed that Coke for an hour or so. Still hardly anyone there, so I went back to the bar, risking my seat, to get another.

At some point, guys started to come in, and a surly NCO came over and told me if I wanted to keep that seat, I would have to order some food, or move to the bar. So I slowly sipped more Cokes and ate snacks and fries for the next four hours, until the place was full and the show began. Small-talked with the other three guys who landed at my table. They immediately began to swill down the beers and become boisterous, drawing glares from the guys running the place. (In that smoke-filled arena, an overt air of bravado and swagger overrode the mindless chatter that rolled from the tongues of these restless rogues and renegades. I smelled a lot of bullshit in that very same air.)

I found myself in the awkward position of trying to disassociate myself from them, lest they be thrown out before the show even started, and me along with them, via perceived guilt by association. I couldn’t distance myself physically from them because I wasn’t about to give up that damn seat, so I had to play it smart. The tables were all diagonal to the stage, thus two of the chairs could be strategically slid, from adjacent sides, to that point where a corner of the table abutted the stage. My slide into one of the two prime positions was a fait accompli even before the three stooges parked their noisy butts down. They survived the potential purge and the show started with all four of us still manning our positions front and center at that table. Eventually, and amazingly, the dazzling dame parked herself directly in front of my stage-touching chair after she blew out the birthday candles and announced the Anka/Sinatra song about folks always doing things their way.

She started singing on both feet, then dropped down to one non-knobby knee about halfway through the song. Then down she came onto the second knee, before gradually leaning in closer, to the aforementioned 10 inches from this New Hampshire guy’s face. There was cleavage aplenty spilling out my way (pun intended) and I think I had one eye on her eyes, and the other on the prize. She was so close, I was grasping for breast, er, I mean, gasping for breath. I was riding high and fast, approaching Boner City at a heart-racing pace. Just as she completed the last note of the song, she leaned in even closer to me, placed her right hand on my shoulder to steady herself (here it comes!), and then suddenly slid her head smoothly to her left, taking those lingering lips away, and planting them on the mouthy (pun intended again) invader from California (and there it goes!) He had managed to maneuver his head uncomfortably close to my own sometime during the song, into her peripheral vision, and thus reaped the rewards from the combination of her surprising swivel and his self-serving, sinister act of invasion of another man’s hard-earned, staked-out head space. The scoundrel stood and looked around, took a bow, then smirked at me as he plopped back down onto his seat.

“Smug bastard,” I thought. Six hours I had invested in that spot, hoping for some kind of souvenir moment, and all I got was a great view of the parting of the C’s (okay, D’s), the good vibe from her right hand gripping my semi-muscular shoulder (truth be told, it was a great right hand, many say the best right hand) and this sad story to bring home. But, as she seductively strutted her own butt back to the center of the stage after lighting him up, I quickly realized just how fortunate I was to have come that close to striking gold. I tried to joke good-naturedly with the A-hole, telling him that it must have been because I was too short for her pouty-mouth (not to be confused with potty-mouth) to reach mine. He stood about 6’2″-ish, making his equally fugly face more accessible to her at that moment in time. Simple. Logical. Makes sense, right? Then I added that I was thankful that she had been so concerned about me that she didn’t want to risk smothering me in her moon pies. I explained to him that she must have felt herself falling forward, and was actually just looking out for my safety and well-being, as well as her own, by balancing herself on me while making that sudden pivot to her left, where he and his beer mug just happened to be loitering. I said, “Imagine looking like that and being considerate as well.” His eyes glazed over. I think I lost him at “moon pies” because California and all. He stumbled away with his buddies.

Missed kiss aside, Mamie Van Doren, ladies and gentlemen, what a peach! What a pair! The lady of the night made my day – and did it her way.

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P.S. Re: the photo at the top: At the moment she made that turn to her left, I felt like that punching bag she manhandled, my ego beaten down and at risk of being deflated. If only I were taller . . .
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Mamie is the one in white shorts.

Good things come in threes!

Mamie and her “Bo”

This is the way SHE thinks she was looking at me.

This is the way I think she was looking at me.

Of course, right?