VIET VETS SHARE SPOTLIGHT AT BENEFIT

Sitting in his wheelchair, Vietnam veteran Butch Olmstead surveyed his surroundings Saturday night from a box seat near the front of the Hollywood Bowl and pondered the meaning of the Doobie Bros. reunion concert and veterans benefit.

“I think we’re being patronized,” Olmstead, who came from Santa Barbara with friends, said matter-of-factly. “It’s been 15 to 20 years since the war, and only now we’re beginning to get recognition. We went to war for the same reasons they did in any other war, but the system let us down. I think it’s a little late for all of this.”

Minutes later, the Goodyear blimp droned overhead, its neon sign alternately spelling or flashing “Welcome Home Vets.” Seeing it through Olmstead’s eyes turned what was undoubtedly intended as a sincere gesture into a glitzy example of “Vietnam Chic”--which, with “Platoon” and all, seems to have made the Vietnam vet this year’s cause celebre.

Olmstead and blimps aside, others in the sellout crowd of 17,000 seemed more interested in welcoming the reunited Doobies than reopening old war wounds. That common goal promoted good will and unity between vets and civilians throughout the evening, as well as raising $350,000 for the Vietnam Veterans Aid Foundation (VVAF).

“We need this healing process,” said Vietnam vet Steve Androff, now a movie art director. “Benefits like this help not only the vets, but help heal the rest of the (country) because they need that, too.”

The crowd, median age 35, seemed dressed down for the evening, considering the vast numbers of late-model European cars in the parking lot. Instead of designer-dressed couples sipping Dom Perignon and munching sushi, the Bowl’s box seats were mostly filled with denim-clad partiers chugging Corona beers.

The VVAF had given free tickets to an estimated 2,000 vets--including ones from Canada, France and Australia. (A group of high-spirited Canadian vets stood outside the Bowl before the show seeking a taker for one free ticket. Their prerequisite was specific--she had to be a MASH-unit nurse.)

By some estimates, vets comprised as much as 50% of the crowd. While some vets were easy to spot by their berets, fatigues or other military garb, others simply blended in the regular crowd. And there were some people on hand who didn’t blend in with anybody.

Michael “Little Elvis” Myers, who served in the Navy, dressed according to his current occupation--Elvis impersonator. Black pompadour shining and smoked eyeglasses in place, Myers was there “because I use a lot of Kenwood’s speakers” (Kenwood was a show sponsor).

“I’m a Doobies fan,” he acknowledged, adding “You know, Elvis did a couple of their songs.”

Of Vietnam vets’ new-found prominence, Myers commented: “I think its because the people who can get the message across--the media--used to hate vets and didn’t really want to hear their story. Now they’re finally pro-vet.”

Elvis impersonators aside, Angie Dickinson, Clint Eastwood, Peter Falk and Sally Kellerman were among the surprisingly few real celebrities in the crowd. Possibly the preponderance of vets in normally choice celebrity seats drove any remaining big names backstage.

From box seats to the high-altitude benches in the back, conversations were equally divided between the Doobies and the vets.

“Doobies!” Amy, Valerie and Debbie sang out in unison, when asked why they’d come to the concert. Did they know who the concert would benefit?

“Oh, sure,” Debbie answered, taking a pull off a bottle of wine, “The vets . . . I should know, my husband’s a vet.”

But her husband--who is “in the music business”--doesn’t like big crowds so he stayed home, she added.

Orange County real estate developer Andy Zumpano, 26, didn’t seem terrifically involved in either topic. He wasn’t old enough to be thinking about Vietnam in the ‘60s, or, for that matter, even the Doobie Bros.

So why was he on hand?

“Actually my boss got four tickets from a business associate, and he gave me two,” Zumpano said.