Have It Your Way
A 3-star French restaurant is meant to be an experience—and Maxim’s of Paris certainly performed on the recent evening that separate parties were hosted by Christina Onassis Andreadis and her uncle, Stavros Niarchos. As proof that the Onassis-Niarchos feud was not buried with Ari, the two clans refused even to glance at each other though seated at adjacent tables. Christina chatted ostentatiously with her 24 guests, even when the band serenaded cousin Philippe Niarchos’ 23rd birthday and the rest of the house applauded. As for Philippe’s father, he spent the evening glaring at his plate. The only diner who was oblivious to the palpitating tension was an American tourist who chomped away at his food contentedly. But then, how many previous $100 grande cuisine meals has Gov. George Wallace partaken?
St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery in Rockville, Md., where his parents are buried and where he himself sought to be interred, has finally received—35 years after his death and 27 years after hers—F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Local prelates had originally refused the author’s mortal remains because of his lapsed religious practice and because his works were at the time deemed unacceptable by the archdiocese.
Look It Up
R. Buckminster Fuller, 80, an architect, engineer, mathematician and philosopher is about to become a TV pitchman for Funk & Wagnalls New Encyclopedia. The 27-volume series, on which Fuller served as a contributor, will be sold in supermarkets, but when he taped the spot, Bucky’s price was met by his pride. Scripted to say no one would appear at anyone’s home, he insisted on ad-libbing that there’ll be no “salesmen knocking on your dome.”
Why does Richard Chamberlain dread returning from England (where he’s spent most of the past six years) to Los Angeles? “There’s a killer thing” in Hollywood, he says. “People rush like piranha fish to celebrate your downfall—there’s joy in another man’s failure. I’m not a million-dollar star, and that’s the only standard Hollywood goes by. The last time I was there I rented a car and drove to a little market. An old newspaper dealer I know called out, ‘Hi, Rich, how’s it going? Are you working?’ I had to tell him I wasn’t. And suddenly I felt destroyed. I wasn’t working and I wasn’t driving a Rolls or a Mercedes and I thought, ‘I’m a failure, I’m washed up.’ It’s the kind of reaction you could only have in Hollywood.”
“He can lead an almost normal life with 15 minutes of treatment daily” is the medical report on the patient who’s 2 just returned by private Lear jet to Graceland mansion in Memphis. No, not the 2 frequently ailing Elvis Presley, but his 10-month-old pup Getlo. The chow, victim of a congenital kidney malfunction, spent two days at Boston’s Copley Plaza Hotel and then more than two months at the West Boylston, Mass. home of a vet from the New England Institute of Comparative Medicine. Costly dialysis or a kidney transplant were authorized by his master, but so far haven’t been needed. An earlier statement that Getlo had been flown home in August has now been revealed as a ruse by the head of the Institute: “We didn’t want to tell anyone, because we were afraid the dog would be stolen and ransomed.”
•Erhard Seminars Training has signed up yet another Hollywood type—Cloris Leachman. But when the teacher described the EST secret of sex—”When you’re hot, you’re hot”—Cloris, whose husband of 23 years, producer George Englund, maintains a separate residence, had to contradict: “When you’re hot, he’s not.”
•He never went to Yale, like Cavett, and he never made network, even momentarily, like Merv. But TV talk jockey Mike Douglas obviously has certain syndicatable charms. He debuted in 1961 at $400 a week, and has just now got his latest raise—another $15,000 a week, for a total of $2 million per year. Yeh, but that’s a production package deal with a token for the host? No, chirps Mike, “it’s all in my pocket.”
•Wackiest of all the post-grapefruit fad diets must be Dyan Cannon’s watermelon-only regimen, which she swears cleanses her system. It does nothing for her weight, but then, says Cannon, 38 (and that’s just her age), “I’ve stopped judging myself by society’s standards that say a woman should be reed-thin—it suddenly hit me that I’ve got curves and might as well enjoy them.”