The Dimension of Celebrity: 8-by-10

Our friend Thisbe, reared in Colorado and now living in a tiny town in Japan, was asking the question every good visitor to the City of Angels asks eventually: Do you really see movie stars here?

Why yes, we said, and proceeded to regale her with tales of the then-Pamela Anderson on the back of then-rock-star-boyfriend Brett Michaels’ Harley- Davidson, of Matt Dillon at the adjacent table at a French restaurant in Hollywood, of Michael “Kramer” Richards in the vegetable aisles at Hughes Market in Studio City.

“Wild,” she said.

“Yes,” we agreed.

But perhaps not as wild, we decided later, as enjoying a nice pastrami sandwich beneath a photograph of drag racer Don “the Snake” Prudhomme at a Northridge deli, or taking in a chicken taco and an 8-by-10 glossy of Michael Jackson at a Studio City Mexican restaurant, or having your pants hemmed under the two-dimensional eye of a Danny DeVito photograph at a Santa Monica tailor shop.

To better understand a city that is largely defined by celebrity, a visitor on a 12-hour layover before returning to Japan and locals alike could certainly haunt the Viper Room, Spago and the charter jet companies at Van Nuys Airport in hopes of a live “sighting.”

But more fun facts, strange associations, and possibly insight, can be gathered by studying a few choice walls.

It’s a peculiarly L.A. institution, the 8-by-10 glossy dropped at the local deli or dry cleaners or carwash. Often signed in a hurried scribble (“Sid, thanks for the great fender repair”) they memorialize the visit of the neighborhood movie star, or desperate wannabe, or the veteran character actors with well-known faces and groped-for names.

Through the decades they cling unmoving to the walls, or shift in rank as the stars fade and the wannabes flourish or vanish.

“The L.A. Rams used to come in here, 35, 40 years ago, to hide from the owner and drink,” says Bob Frenn, the longtime daytime bartender at the Valley Inn in Sherman Oaks.

A 50-year-old joint with a century-old mahogany bar, the Valley Inn is within spitting distance of Ventura Boulevard yet all but invisible to the unsearching eye. It is perfect for football players, boxers, journalists, actors and other ne’er-do-wells to sneak a drink or a quiet bite and leave an autographed photo and maybe a story.

Sugar Ray Robinson, Count Billy Varga, Bob Hunter, the dean of Los Angeles baseball writers, all keep an eye on the place.

So does Jane Seymour, via a new, very large, portrait.

Now, it was theoretically possible to garner a few bits of Seymour trivia last fall by stumbling upon Seymour’s husband, actor-director James Keach, as he hosed down the family home in Malibu to save it from a wildfire. But even then, you probably wouldn’t have learned the really cool stuff, like where Jane’s father-in-law, Stacey Keach Sr., hangs out: here. And you definitely would not have been enjoying one of Frenn’s tasty beverages at the time.

Speaking of in-laws . . .

Start quizzing Giovanni Roberto, proprietor of the San Carlo Italian Deli in Chatsworth, about the now-peeling portrait of a manic-looking Hulk Hogan, and he’ll tell you the Hulkster was a good customer. Keep quizzing him and he’ll tell you that the Hulkster’s mother-in-law adored his cannoli.

Hogan tops what one might call Roberto’s Wall of Safety and Italian Opera Singers with photos of city firefighters, actress Veronica Hamel of “Hill Street Blues” fame, Mario Lanza, and the officers of the LAPD’s Devonshire Division from a few years back.

Look closely at the portrait of the police and you’ll see a visitor to the Devonshire station that day--Bernard Parks, then an LAPD commander, now the chief of police.

“I work for them,” he says, explaining the police and fire photos. “They work for me. They are my customers.”

And take a second look at that framed one-dollar bill. That ain’t George Washington’s face, it’s Mario Lanza’s.

“I’m Italian!” he says.

And speaking of Italian surnames . . .

At Pink’s chili dogs in West Hollywood--where celebrities stand in line like everyone else--a young, smiling Tony Danza stares out from the wall, along with dozens of others. Nothing unusual about that. But didn’t we just see another Danza photo at Roberto’s deli? Yes. And, before that, at the Valley Inn? Yes.

(Danza is a former fighter, Frenn will tell you, and his photo fits in reasonably well with those of legendary heavyweight champ Jack Dempsey and 1930s middleweight Jimmy McLarnin.)

That was also Danza’s autographed mug at a Westside dry-cleaners, a Hollywood tailor shop, and another tailor in Santa Monica. Clearly, the man eats well, dresses well, photographs well and drops off glossies well.

If a deeper, or at least broader, understanding of the city and its residents can be gleaned from the photos of the famous, perhaps a bit can be learned from the glossies of the nearly famous--where they are hung, to whom they are signed, which dark bars display them and which stick to known quantities.

Danza gets a TV star’s display at the Westside dry-cleaners. Michelle Pfeiffer, though, gets the spot of a big-screen siren. Even Pfeiffer’s photo is still just off-center above the counter, though. The most prominent position goes to director Steven Spielberg.

“He’s having trouble at Playa Vista,” a worker named Wan explains, offering extensive detail about the travails of Spielberg’s SKG DreamWorks and its effort to build a studio on property south of LAX. Many of the problems center on possible environmental damage to the land, he says.

At the ends, and on one far wall, are more than a dozen photos of people not so easily recognized. Susan Adkins. Robert Fullmer. Trish-Lyn. The frames are generally more rickety than those holding the marquee names. There are more women than men, as seems often to be the case with the lesser-knowns, and the women typically get slightly better display spots.

But the arrangement could quickly change.

“Any could be famous, anytime,” Wan says. “Like me.”

Times staff writer Roberto Manzano contributed to this column.