Graumann's Chinese Theatre.

I saw Frank Sinatra in concert five times. One of those times, I think it was at Radio City Music Hall in New York, Sinatra finished with his signature song, New York, New York, and then strode off stage. He doesn't come back on. That is to say, Sinatra did not do encores. When the concert was done, the last song sang, Sinatra left. So while watching him at Radio City Music Hall, the crowd lingered a little longer than usual, thinking Sinatra was gonna come out and sing again. Finally, a booming announcement in a somewhat peeved voice said over the loud speakers, "Mr. Sinatra will not be doing an encore."

Angie took me to see Graumann's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. I wanted to see John Wayne's footprints. I wanted to see them for two reasons. One, I loved John Wayne. Two, in Katherine Hepburn's book, ME, she says, "John Wayne had the smallest, daintiest, little Irish feet." I never believed that sentence. So I saw John Wayne's footprints at Graumann's Chinese Theatre today. He had tiny, dainty, Irish feet. If I had to guess, I'd say about size 7. At the most.

The stars down Hollywood Blvd. are terribly disappointing. First of all, Ange tells me that anyone can have one, practically. You just have to pay $2,500 and have someone from the Hollywood Walk of Fame Committee nominate you. It wasn't always like that, but it is now. That became painfully clear when I saw Erik Estrada's star right next to Tyrone Power's star. Almost made me throw up a little in my mouth.

But what stuck with me, what made me saddest, were the blocks of cement with the handprints and footprints and signatures and little comments. To have your name and feet and hands commemorated at Graumann's used to be a big deal. Actually, I suppose it still is. There are some modern-era folk there; Spielberg, Harrison Ford, Robert Downy Jr., Travolta, a few others.

But, not surprisingly, it was the old ones that fascinated me. And for a different reason than you might expect. I was really mournful looking at them all. Sunny day, crowds of people, Asians snapping photographs like crazy, and I was unexpectedly sad suddenly. And after a bit, I realized why. There was Humphrey Bogart, he's written, "Sid, don't you dare die till I kill ya'!" I could imagine the night he wrote that. It said 1946. Guffaws from an adoring crowd, more drinks when he got to the restaurant, congratulations, Sid Graumann picks up the tab, laughter all night, he stops on the way out, sees what he's written again, laughs, into the car, a wonderful night, memorialized forever at Graumann's Chinese Theatre.

Twelve years later he died an unimaginably painful death at the hands of a cancer that ate his insides out.

I kept looking. Gable, who I will always remember turning, smirking, lighting perfect, thirty feet high, eyes flashing, Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. He'd signed, "Thanks, Sid. What a night!" Died 21 years later from a massive heart attack, his chest so painful he couldn't speak, his assistant said his mouth was open in a silent scream for over a minute.

Myrna Loy, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Rock Hudson, John Huston, Fred Astaire, Jackie Cooper, Paul Newman, Yul Brenner, George Burns, Jack Benny.

All living, laughing, breathing, happy. Stepping onto the wet cement. Cameras clicking, flashbulbs popping. Cocktails flowing, women grinning.

All dead now, some in particularly violent and gruesome manners. Others just getting old and slipping away.

I stood there in that large, patio-type area, surrounded by tourist outlets, and imagined the cameras, the smiles, the suits, maybe tuxedos, the bright kleeg lights, the beautiful women, furs, high heels, laughter, brill cream, cologne, perfume, cigarettes, cigars, booze, breezy, Santa Anna weather, names shouted from the crowd, wisecracks, quick explosive laughter, smiling.

And they're all gone. That moment, that night, that great night at Graumann's Chinese Theatre. Dead people now.

All glory is fleeting.

I was saddened by the footprints. The signatures made by sticks or index fingers. The comments there forever, witty at the time, I'm sure, now just sort of quaint. Reminded me of my own mortality and the mortality of my friends and of Angie. Made me think of wonderful nights I've had and how they are really just old, black and white photographs with girls laughing in the background, a little out of focus, holding drinks in conical, plastic cups.

Made me realize how important it is to absorb when we're in the very exact precise complete total unaware midst of happiness.

Mr. Sinatra will not be doing an encore.

See you tomorrow.