The Sunset Strip Diaries

by Amy Asbury

  Even though there was chaos coming from all sides of me, I felt in my element within all of this craziness. I felt so happy to be around people who weren’t staring at me because they thought/heard some horrible thing about me. I felt happy to be in a group of guys who laughed and partied with me like I was one of them. When I went back to school, I walked with my head held up high. I was in a crowd that those kids could never penetrate. They would be laughed right out of the clubs. It eased my nervousness at school and even made me friendlier, because I felt happy.

  Little did I know, I was about to get even happier.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Valley of the Dancers

  Jimmy was peeved by my weekends with the guys, but I convinced him they were old friends and it was platonic. I told him I looked at them like brothers (brothers that wore makeup and pink). Although it annoyed him, there was nothing he could do if he didn’t want to take me with him when he went out to his hangouts. The guy had worked hard to get to where he was socially; it took him a long time to create a name for himself and gain credibility. He had endured who knows how many days of rejection before being accepted into the personal lives of these cool people who were featured in magazines and on television. If taking me along with him was going to get in the way of that standing, then there was no question in his mind: I was simply not going with him. It wasn’t up for negotiation. I wrote in my journal that summer:

  Jimmy is painting this huge mural on the wall at the Cathouse and they say they are making him ‘alumni’ next. I guess I am happy for him, but it seems like they are stringing him along sometimes. It is a really big deal for him to be in that group along with Axl Rose, Taime Downe, Riki, etc. They get to wear a special leather vest and be studs I guess. It seems similar to rushing a fraternity. I guess to be initiated, you have to sneak into the Universal Studios lot, climb up to the window of the house used in the movie Psycho, slap a Cathouse bumper sticker on the wall inside the window, and then take a Polaroid picture of it. Apparently they have all gotten away with it, but I know he is gonna get caught. He will do anything for them. He would probably even dump me if they asked him to.

  I don’t know if it is because I finally stopped asking him to go to his hangouts and it worried him, or he knew it was going to be a great show, but Jimmy finally invited me to the Cathouse one night. He said I could bring Cristabelle. There was some special, secret performance that was going to occur, during which some of the guys from Guns N’ Roses were going to jam with some other famous guys. I was finally going to the friggin’ Cathouse. I could check it off my mental checklist. The thing that sucks is that I was always drunk for these great performances of world famous bands, so I can’t even tell you if they were great or horrible. I just remember keeping my eyes straight ahead and not looking at anyone, trying very hard not to let on that I was a sixteen-year-old that had no business being there. Inside, I felt really lucky and special, and was delighted that Jimmy took me.

  Jimmy moved from his condo into a house with one of his buddies, who lived only fifteen minutes from my grandmother’s place. I saw him after school sometimes, and in the daytime during the weekend. We left our separate social lives out of the equation and spent our time being lovey-dovey and romantic. He was a great guy, but he had his issues, like most of the people in Hollywood. For one, he drank entirely too much and did stupidly dangerous things like running across the freeway in the middle of the night, dodging cars. And, like I mentioned previously, he was always fighting. One time he knocked on my window in the middle of the night with his pale face full of blood. He was shitfaced drunk with his head kicked in. His blue eyes were dazed looking, his black hair caked with dirt and blood. He said he got knocked out by some guy and while he was on the ground, a girl kicked his head with her boot.

  While Jimmy went out with his buddies and got into trouble, I continued to frequent The Strip with Razz and Michael on the weekend nights. We went to see bands like Jailhouse, The Zeros and Blackboard Jungle. I started to go there every single weekend, each weekend being more exciting than the last. I didn’t seem to notice that I never paid a dime for a cocktail or an entrance fee. I just thought everything was free. Now that I look back, I see that other people were paying for me. While Razz and Michael were relatively popular with the doormen and often did get me in places for free, I am sure that Razz opened up his wallet more times than I realized.

  It didn’t take me long to realize that it irked Razz and Michael that I had a boyfriend. If a guy they were impressed with thought I was cute and asked them about me, they had to tell him I was taken. They always rolled their eyes when I said that I wouldn’t cheat on my boyfriend. I knew I would be a much bigger asset to them if I were single. I was sort of hurt knowing that they would offer me up like a sacrificial lamb if it would increase their social standing, but I also knew that it was all I had to bring to the table. I couldn’t chip in for the twelve packs we drank before we went out, I couldn’t drive and I wasn’t putting out to any of them. There was no other way for me to pay my dues.

  I turned seventeen that September and entered the twelfth grade. I was finally a senior. I signed up for journalism, the stock market club, and the literary magazine. I still had my long hair dyed bright purple and I took to wearing Jimmy’s Cathouse shirts to school with Lip Service shorts and purple suede cowboy boots. I loved my style; I finally felt comfortable in my own skin.

  There was a girl in my journalism class named Tricia Griffith. I had seen her around school and remembered that she was not liked by many people for one reason or another. She was rather obnoxious and had been beaten up by girls at school just for having a big mouth. She was half Iranian and half British, the Iranian appearing to be dominant. She had large, dark eyes with black eyebrows; smooth, dark skin, and a prominent nose. Her hair was peroxided orange, the color that appears when someone with dark black hair tries to go blond. It was quite frizzy and damaged looking, with ragged, fried ends. None of that mattered to the guys though, because her body was slammin’. She was tall and thin, with long legs and big boobs.

  I was minding my own business one day, writing some stories in my journalism class, when she came through the door cracking gum and crowing about her life in Hollywood. My spine stiffened and I straightened my Cathouse shirt. Whoa, whoa, whoa (cue the sound of horses being pulled by their reins) …Slow down there tiger, I thought. I knew for a fact that she had no Hollywood life, or I would have seen her. I was the only one at school in the Hollywood crowd at the time, and I didn’t want some loud bitch walking around squawking about how she was part of the scene. It was me who owned it, not her. Please.

  I was torn between arguing with her and befriending her in order to keep my enemy close and snuff out any competition. She spoke of her French glam rocker boyfriend named Pierre. Pierre? I thought that name was ridiculous. No popular Hollywood guy would give himself a name that didn’t end in Y or IE or at least have some Z’s in it somewhere. It wasn’t cutesy enough. Even Jimmy’s name walked a fine line, but at least it ended in the “ie” sound, which was a literal requirement.

  Journal Entry 12/1990

  That BITCH named Tricia is talking about glam bands and Hollywood again, the things that are MY domain! It makes me feel faint and gives me a lump in my throat to hear someone I despise so much talk about something I completely love! I saw her “glam” boyfriend drop her off at school the other day. He was so ugly. He had a shoulder length ‘fro and wasn’t even skinny! Some Glammie. She would die if she knew what I did this weekend. I was with Jimmy over at Riki Rachtman’s apartment with Taime Downe and the rest. I have to hide that I am any sort of fan though; I have to be very unimpressed. Dammit, I want her to know how great my life is! I have to brag to her! No one else could appreciate what I get to do and who I get to meet!

  One day Tricia saw the bright strawberry red Swingin’ Thing flyer inserted in the cover of my clear notebook and asked to see it. We started talking about the band and then about our boyfr
iends and what clubs they frequented. I found out that although she was still in high school, she lived by herself in an apartment. I was impressed. Her parents were in England, where she resided previously. She talked a lot about the Hippodrome, a hot nightclub in London. She also talked about Carnaby Street or some street that was similar to Melrose. I secretly rolled my eyes. I thought, Europe? Please! That was no Hollywood! Who would want to be in London when they could be kicking beer cans and stepping over bums and trash in Hollywood? There was NO comparison as far as me or my in-crowd friends were concerned. I had quickly forgotten how much I worshipped London as a young teenager because I was so caught up in my scene.

  She then said she had never been inside an actual Hollywood club. I perked up. I can show off! I quickly invited her to the Swingin’ Thing show at Gazzarri’s that weekend. She wanted to bring her boyfriend, which I thought was a no-no, but I couldn’t change her mind so I invited Jimmy. I thought, She and her dumb boyfriend will realize how cool I am and how outdated and ridiculous they are, and I will be queen of the world; residing on a throne of leopard skin and crushed velvet. It was all a ploy for me to pump my own ego and nothing further.

  I knew her big boyfriend Pierre was not the most attractive thing on earth (his lack of hair styling knowledge was no help) and he drove a beat up black Trans Am. Jimmy was thin, had the right look and had recently bought a new black IROC Camaro (they were the shit back then). It was as if he was the upgraded, cool version of her boyfriend. I felt I was cooler than her from the get go. I know, lame, but I was competitive.

  So anyway, off we all went to Gazzarri’s. I loved that place. It was all black inside with big paintings of all of the former “Miss Gazzarri” dancers painted on the wall like cartoons. The girl’s bathroom was a gold glittery box with a star on the door, like a little dressing room. We all ended up getting along famously. I still didn’t exactly trust Tricia, but I wanted to show off. She was no Karen- I wasn’t going to tell her my secrets or do facial masks with her. I just kept her in my little black book as a go-out friend. She was a classic Frenemy.

  That December was the highlight of my year. Jimmy was invited to a private Ratt show at the Whisky a Go-Go on The Strip. I couldn’t believe my luck! Ratt! My teenage crushes! I was so excited. We had press passes, as we did for all shows and concerts we attended. It meant that we were in the VIP room, backstage, partying with the people on stage. I nearly shit my Fredrick’s of Hollywood G-string that night at the Whisky. Not only did I see Ratt play, but I was personally introduced to Nikki Sixx of Mötley Crüe and his wife, Brandi Brandt. You may be thinking so what. But keep in mind: I had been staring into the heroin-possessed eyes of Nikki Sixx all through the ninth grade. He single-handedly threw me over the edge with desire and led me away from the teachings of my Christian school. I can pinpoint it on my lust for Nikki Sixx. Was this a good thing? No! Was I happy to be face to face with the guy whose picture was in my school locker two years prior? Fuck yes. Nikki Sixx was tall with perfect white teeth, green eyes and a gorgeous face; I could barely look at him. I felt like fainting straight backwards. Brandi was beautiful and doll-like, dressed in black with long dark hair and scarlet lips. They were both totally polite and said hello, shook my hand and what not, as if we were at a personal friend’s cocktail party.

  So if seeing Ratt play in an intimate setting and mingling around the Sixxs wasn’t enough, Riki Rachtman brought over lanky, blond Duff McKagan of Guns N’ Roses and a blond chick. I was like, No, no, I cannot be meeting Duff McKagan right now, in a setting of his peers at a Hollywood show. This just can’t be happening. He was tall and hot and I could barely look at him either. He had a drink in his hand, a cigarette in his mouth, and a Sid Vicious chain around his neck. The girl had platinum blond hair, a heart shaped face, cherry colored lips and a white dress. They smiled, shook my hand, and were just as cordial as the Sixxs. I noted to myself that being introduced by someone with credibility was the ultimate way to meet these guys. I wasn’t lifting up my shirt to a roadie in an alley. I felt important; I felt part of the crowd. So I was seventeen, so what? No one knew. We were in Hollywood. It was such a thrill! I am pretty sure I met Warren DeMartini of Ratt and his brunette wife, but I don’t remember if I was introduced or if I just saw them. The night was so spectacular that I honestly felt like I had just taken twenty-five hits of crack. I was completely high on adrenaline. Fireworks were going off inside my head, confetti was sprinkling down in my brain. I wanted to do thirty backflips right there in my cheetah print pumps.

  Jimmy and I continued to hang around Riki and his girlfriend Diane the rest of the year. Diane was very small and tan with really long, golden brown hair, green cat eyes and huge boobs. She was gorgeous. She had a gap in her teeth and a smoky voice. She did a lot of sexy posters- I often saw her picture taped up in guys’ lockers at school. She was always in a see-through football jersey or a bikini or something. She was very sweet and friendly toward me. I liked her a lot.

  Riki knew everyone, naturally, so if Jimmy and I went to a barbecue at his place, we were always graced with the presence of at least one rock star. Riki’s huge cat, Baby, sometimes wore a little cat-sized leather Cathouse jacket when I was there. I think Jimmy painted it for him if I am not mistaken; he made it look like the others. With the exception of possibly staring at that big-ass cat, I am pleased to say that I never did anything inappropriate during that time. I somehow managed not to screw it up and embarrass myself. I was never caught even looking at any of his famous guests or acting as if I were impressed in any sort of way. Again, it was imperative that I remain unimpressed, and I was determined to stay in character. I couldn’t let on that I was only seventeen, or, more importantly, act like I gave a shit. I stayed quiet and calm all of the time so as not to reveal my age or lack of coolness. But I wanted to scream from the motherfuckin’ rooftops and twirl on the hills like Maria from The Sound of Music.

  One night I was walking to a club on The Strip with my friends and I heard some guys yelling from the traffic jam in the street. I looked over to see a big car full of jocks from my high school. I heard one guy yell, “So THIS is what you do on the weekends!” To them, anyone on Sunset was a prostitute. I thought they were such pussies for just staying in their car and being too afraid to get out and join the chaos like I did, but admittedly, it wasn’t for everyone. They would not have been embraced without “the look,” of course. They were jocks. Jocks looking to heckle some freaks. I worried that they would go back to school and announce that all of the rumors about me were true: I was a drug addict/hooker/stripper/porn star. Saying I was going into nightclubs would be too cool, they would have to make up something horrible. And my outfit didn’t help matters: I was wearing a tight, low cut dress with cut-outs on the sides.

  That New Year’s Eve was fun. Cristabelle and I went to a historical Hollywood theater called The Palace, off Vine Street. It was a big old Spanish-Revival style building that had been there since the 20’s. It had operated under several different names, but the building itself was used for radio broadcasts in the 40’s, and television broadcasts in the 50’s and 60’s. In the 70’s and early 80’s it was the West Coast version of Studio 54. By the beginning of the 90’s, it was still a magnificent venue and it was about to host my favorite band: L.A. Guns. I remember having the night of my life watching them play- it was awesome. Razz snuck me into the dimly lit and crowded VIP room (by dragging me straight through without stopping). He was hanging with Kristy Majors of Pretty Boy Floyd most of the night, chatting, laughing, and boozing. Billy Idol even came over to chat with them for a minute, I noted through my buzz.

  Razz started dating a new girl named Missy around that time. His roommate, Dusty, was dating her co-worker, Sabrina. The girls were strippers- but one thing I learned in Hollywood was not to call strippers strippers. They called themselves exotic dancers, or just plain dancers for everyday use. I was fascinated by these particular dancers and their friends. I honestly could not stop staring at
these chicks. They had very long blond hair ranging from sun-streaked highlights to platinum white. They were suntanned, like the beach girls from the Swingin’ Thing show, and they wore very bright colors- mostly pinks (neon pink, taffy pink, hot pink, fuchsia), and metallic gold or silver. They were very bubbly and friendly- I didn’t expect such pretty girls to be nice to me. They called everyone “babe” and didn’t appear to have a negative bone in their bodies.