Hollywood Hereafter
by Louella Parsons

Joan Crawford threw one of her famous indoor barbecues last week, and we were lucky enough to be invited. Among the hot attractions: Bob Cummings, Fatty Arbuckle, William Randolph Hearst and, of course, old Beelzebub himself, the Devil. Hearst's companion was the radiant Marion Davies who, on a dare from actor-assassin John Wilkes Booth, jumped into the bottomless pit. We all howled.

Cecil B. DeMille would love to make another epic. He's gone around to the dead studio heads — Louis B. Mayer, Sam Goldwyn, the Warner Brothers — who all say he "doesn't have a chance in Hell." After a few flaming drinks at the recently destroyed Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, DeMille lamented: "If Spielberg were dead today this film would get made." I had to agree with him.

Frank Sinatra can't believe his good luck. Ava Gardner was just assigned to his quadrant. And speaking of coincidences, dead pinko Paul Robeson and that little ol' pea-picker himself, Tennessee Ernie Ford, had the same cremator.

From the land of the permanent tan, that's all from Hollywood Hereafter.