The Sunset Strip Diaries

by Amy Asbury

  Next thing I knew, it was time for me to graduate high school. I looked around me as if to say What? Really? It’s…over? I was actually enjoying my senior year and kind of wished I had paid more attention to it. I was presented with two awards in journalism at a special luncheon- I was stunned going up to accept the plaques. I was thinking, Me? Really? I felt proud to have written for the school paper, in which I had pushed my way into the title of Sports Editor (though I knew nothing about sports whatsoever), and the literary arts magazine (where they pulled my story on heroin addicts and featured a story of a black bear on a hunting trip instead). I had improved my tennis game and somehow scored A’s in economics and government, of all things. I had become proficient in the stock market club, investing my fake money in stocks each week. I rolled into the class, hung over, and bought and sold stocks like a champ. I was like Gordon Gekko, ready to start corporate raiding up in that bitch. We didn’t have the Internet then, so I had to sit there and scan the Wall Street Journal every day, but I chomped on an apple and made my picks- I was a born risk taker, so my portfolio beat the pants off of the others.

  I couldn’t believe I had made it after how hard it was for me in tenth grade and how I had missed most of eleventh grade for being in the mental hospital. I had somehow thrived in twelfth grade; it was a miracle. Jimmy came to my graduation with loads of red roses and my dad even showed up in a bad suit. We had one last family picture taken, my mother looking thin and frail and my father looking rather tanked. My sister’s eyes were watering in the picture. She was totally uncomfortable, surprised by my father’s attendance. I had a regular smile on my face and looked completely normal. I could bluff better than anyone I knew, and it was no different that day. I looked out at the sunset over the mountains and thought to myself, I will never come to this school again. I will never see these kids again. It’s over. I felt melancholy.

  I spent that summer learning to drive. It was about time! I had finally saved up enough money to buy a car: a pale blue Honda Accord. My mother took me for driving lessons after she got off work each day. She was scared teaching me because I was always blasting music, speeding and making left turns on the tail of other cars without looking to see if it were safe, all during rush hour traffic. It was hectic, but she stuck with it because I would need no further rides from her once I learned to drive. I could take myself to work and community college in the fall. Once I learned to drive, I was never home. I went to Hollywood every second I got, driving back home shit-faced drunk, thinking nothing of it.

  Missy left the scene at that time, and her girlfriends disappeared with her. She ran off with some guy and got hooked on some of the bad shit. I ran into her one time and she was almost skeletal, with dyed brown hair and black clothes. She was not at all bouncy and happy; she was even a little mean. The dazzle was gone, the smiles were gone. She was robbed of her sparkle. Razz wasn’t around as much either because some guy had pulled a gun on the teller who was helping him at his bank and it scared the hell out of him. He was so shaken up that he didn’t go out for a while. That left me with Michael, and he was curating a new crowd of his own.

  While most of the bands on Sunset tried to be attractive, a few took the shock value route, playing up the fact that they were not “pretty.” One of those bands was called the Glamour Punks. They had been around for a few years, but were always breaking up and replacing members, so they were on hiatus at certain points. That summer they had a new lineup and were back in full force, socializing and getting themselves out there. I was interested to see what they were all about.

  Journal Entry 7/21/91

  As The Strip started to fill with people this past weekend, I saw the crowds part: The sickly, infamous, overly-made-up Glamour Punks were trotting up the trashed sidewalk. Michael and I butted into their group and next thing I knew, I was shaking hands with Strange, Skitzo, Spazz, and Dizzy Damage. It’s kind of hilarious that these guys were all polite and shaking hands. The singer, Screaming Boy Mandie, ruined all of that by screaming into my ear as loud as he could (hence the name). He was smiling these wide, snarling grins to his surrounding onlookers. His hair is fire engine red with shaved sides and his eyes are thickly lined, coming to points on both sides. He could very well be Satan, or the closest thing to it. Whatever image he is trying to project for his band- it is working. People are interested in him. The guy has showmanship, he’s got something different going on.

  Strange was very sweet and didn’t seem as hard core as the others, but he had the look and fit in with them physically: skinny, long black hair, pale skin, wearing black leather bondage type pants and a ripped punk T-shirt. Dizzy had his chin and his tongue pierced and was relatively quiet with sad eyes. He sort of looked like a punk Johnny Depp. I can’t remember how the other ones behaved. They were pretty interesting though, something a little different from what I have been seeing. Their logo is “Hated by Millions, Loved by All” and they have a really big buzz right now in the magazines.

  The Glamour Punks caused a general fear amongst the super-glammy bubble gum bands. To be on their bad side was not recommended because they could beat the shit out of most of the people there. Michael befriended them, in a smart social move. He was no fool. It was at that point that our crowd turned from Glam Rock to a little more edge; we were in with the Glamour Punks. While other styles of bands still hung in our set, the Glamour Punks would remain the driving force of the crowd and sit perched at the top of the party scene because there was no one to take them down.

  There were not only new guys on the scene, there were new girls, too. I first saw a girl named Birdie Montgomery in August 1991, a few months after I graduated. I was about to turn eighteen and she had just turned fifteen. The reason I knew that was because she was out one night running around in a tight red gingham dress, announcing to the world that it was her fifteenth birthday. She looked like a young Jessica Alba. She had olive skin and shiny, caramel colored hair that was all one length and curled at the ends. She had perfectly shaped brows over huge, dark Bambi eyes and thick, black eyelashes. She had a gorgeous white smile and a beauty spot above the corner of her left lip. I thought, Oh wow, she is beautiful- but she is really ditzy and young. I saw her another night later that year when I was hanging out with Bobby Berry. He got one look at her face and said she looked like a live Cosmo cover. He dropped my hand and went straight to her, never returning. Word on the street was that she had been dating one of the guys in Guns N’ Roses at fourteen years old- limos sent to her house and everything.

  I saw another blossoming rival outside of The Roxy. I smiled at her pretty moon face and noted her very long, straight, gold hair and pink cheeks. She came over to me and asked me if I knew Birdie. Then I remembered some girl telling me about a thirteen-year-old named Ashley stealing her boyfriend and I immediately knew it was her. I stayed clear of her.

  I couldn't believe that I was one of the older girls on The Strip. I was only eighteen! It had happened overnight- I went from being too young to borderline too old. It was shocking. And with Missy and Cristabelle gone, I was running out of girls to hang out with, so I took a chance and hoped that Tricia might be as desperate as I was. I called her one day and apologized to her for beating her up. What can I say, I was a nice person. No, not really. I needed a sidekick. And get this: She was so bored that she was more than happy to hang out with me again, despite the ass-kicking she received. We were not exactly students of civility.

  The band Jimmy formed with Pierre started to garner interest. They recruited a French friend of Pierre’s as the drummer (Tricia thought he was the hottest thing she had ever seen), named Andre, and a few other guys to complete the lineup. Jimmy and his band felt they were “this close” to getting a record deal. I secretly didn’t want them to make it. I was such a hater. I sat around thinking, Who would buy his records? I felt that the only two Hollywood bands that weren’t a fad were Motley Crue and Guns N’ Roses. Oh...and Van Halen…and Ratt… and Poison…

  Jim
my flew to New York with his band to accompany L.A. Guns at some show, and they met with Polygram records. He said he was riding around Manhattan in limos and was put up in an expensive hotel. While he was doing all of that, I started hanging around a friend of Bobby Berry’s, named Harmony. He was tall with teased, platinum blond hair, a great square jaw, rounded white teeth, and light baby blue eyes. He was a truly beautiful human being, and had no attitude whatsoever- he was almost like a Golden Retriever puppy or something. Coolest guy ever.

  Harmony talked about art galleries, beauty products, Thai food, and Catalina Island at midnight. He liked Ragtime and the ballet, Madonna and lobster at Gladstone’s. He worked in a sex shop selling dick stretchers and dildos, and he used to wear false lashes, garter belts and teddies in his old band. He idolized Morgan Fairchild; he thought she was a goddess. He wanted his jaw to look just like hers. I was like, Dude, it already does. Morgan Fairchild wishes she could look like you.

  In hindsight, I can see that he may have been gay and not out of the closet. His wearing garter belts and teddies didn’t faze me, even though he was taking it to another level than the rest of the guys I knew. Most of the guys were completely normal (well, somewhat) once they were away from The Strip and had their “costumes” off. My gay-dar was completely screwed up from dating these glam guys. How was I to know? Garter belts? Sure, why not? His fondness of the ballet should’ve tipped me off, yes. But again, I was in an eccentric, batty scene that was so much like the Mad Hatter’s tea party on acid, that I didn’t see what was right in front of me. Still, Harmony was one of the nicest, sweetest, and most interesting people I met out there.

  In November of 1991, I went to a new underground club called “The Church,” which was off Cahuenga or something, toward the Valley. A bunch of girls who worked for Heidi Fleiss were there and so were all the Hollywood usuals. It was a real church if I am not mistaken. Inside it was all glowing with neon gravesites under black lighting. It was really cool; a mix of the Cathouse crowd and the Sunset crowd. That ended up screwing me because someone in Jimmy’s crowd saw me walk in with Harmony, and Jimmy dumped me the next day.

  Oh, and I forgot to mention that I single-handedly brought down that place. It was a secret “underground” club, which I guess means operating without license and permits. One night, I was speeding around trying to find the damn place, and I couldn’t locate it (hence it being an underground club). I had the New York Dolls turned up so loud that I didn’t hear the cops behind me with a bullhorn, telling me to slow down and pull over. They thought I was running from them. I finally looked in the rear view mirror and saw flashing lights. I pulled over and played very, very dumb and bimbo-y to the male cops. When I got out of the car, I said I couldn’t find where I was going and I needed help. I mindlessly gave them the address and they tried to help me find it. Needless to say, the place was busted that night and was shut down soon thereafter. Guess I wasn’t playing dumb. I was dumb!

  Around that time, Michael decided to get legitimate and join a band as a singer. After all, what the hell were these people doing on The Strip if they weren’t promoting a music career? Well, partying of course, but there had to be a front. And Michael wasn’t about to go learn how to play an instrument; that would be too time consuming and take away from his social life. So he joined a little-known band called Alleycat Scratch. All of them had long black hair, white skin and wore lots of makeup. They wore mostly Lip Service stuff in black and purple. I don't remember if they were talented or they sucked, because I was usually pretty wasted at their shows. I just know they went from zero to sixty in a week because of Michael’s popularity; they really lucked out. Michael was one of the most popular guys on The Strip; he knew everyone. Alleycat Scratch had a full house at every show and built-in friends to party with every weekend.

  Let’s see…Alleycat Scratch. Devin Lovelace was the guitarist and he seemed pissed off whenever I saw him. He rarely spoke around me and never smiled- but that could be because he found me annoying. He had shoulder-length hair that appeared to be relaxed or straightened in some way. Boa (formerly Bobby) was the bassist and was a little intimidating because he was quick and witty- clearly intelligent. He had long, stringy black hair and huge features. He wore a Charlie Chaplin hat and was pretty social; people liked him a lot. He appeared to be the brains behind the operation. Robbi Black was their drummer; girls went ballistic for him. He was very cute, with puffy lips, pretty cat eyes, and kind of feminine features. He had very long, dyed black hair, almost to his ass. He got along well with everyone and was generally a nice guy.

  With Alleycat Scratch as a front for many, many more parties and much more craziness, we were wasted non-stop. The three other guys in the band were serious about making music, but Michael didn’t really care, he just wanted to party. He moved in with them in a building on the corner of Yucca and Whitley, in a very bad area of Hollywood. I forgot his apartment number at first and stupidly asked the security guard, “Have you seen a skinny guy with long black hair?” He said, “You just described half this building.”

  ***

  Jimmy and I still really loved each other, but neither of us would leave our social lives. They were like families we had created for ourselves and they were more powerful than what we were to each other, I guess. We both got something from our scenes that fulfilled us. Mostly ego boosts and confidence, I think. I don’t even know why I wanted to have a boyfriend. It was absurd. I never saw Jimmy that year! If he would’ve just let me hang out with him as I originally wanted to, I would’ve never ventured off on my own. That really came back and bit him in the ass.

  I turned eighteen that September. It wasn’t some joyous occasion for me, I barely noticed. I was already living as an adult. An irresponsible, crazy adult maybe, but an adult nonetheless. I came and went as I pleased; I was never home. I didn’t have an established family structure because my mother was working two jobs and my sister spent as much time as possible away from the house. I hadn’t seen my father around, which was good. I was still working at the beauty supply store and I started to attend the local community college that fall. I was signed up for film and media classes, which were interests of mine before I turned to the dark side and depended solely on my looks for an identity. It cracked open the hard pod that was my soul. Just a tiny crack. I was so interested in the film class that my heart hurt. It was a class that focused on film noir, mainly Hitchcock. Watching Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window made me forget about my life. I thought the films were so beautifully put together, so gloriously scored, and so perfectly costumed- it was just painfully wonderful. I longed to do storyboards and direct a beautiful movie.

  The media class (Social Values in Mass Communication) was so interesting to me that I read the book in my free time, highlighting passages that I liked. My journalism class also compelled me. I felt a stirring in my gut, swishing around with all of the alcohol. It made me feel like more of a person just to be learning something. My mind craved it. But there was a crazy party going on, and not everyone was invited. I foolishly told myself that books would be there when the party was over.

  There were some hot new faces in town that fall. They wore lots of glittered pale pink, white, and lavender, and had the perfect shade of expensively highlighted hair, which was the color of baby chicks. Despite all of that, they still had beer bottles in their hands and cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. They were always with beautiful, bitchy blond girls. My crowd took them in on the spot; they got the part without having to audition. Their names were Kit Ashley, Freddie Ferrin, Tweety Boyd, and Keri Kelli and they called themselves the Big Bang Babies.

  These guys appeared to have more money backing them than the others. I realized not too much later that Kit Ashley somehow had two different Jaguars and lived in a penthouse apartment on the corner of Franklin and La Brea. I believe he also had a job writing for a magazine of some sort, but that couldn’t have paid shit. Kit was a Bret Michaels/David Lee Roth knock off with a fa
ce like one of the Olsen twins, very cute. Keri was a very serious musician and did not go out partying with the other three as much. He was super beautiful, looked like a model. He had one side of his hair dyed black and the other side bleached white and had it up in puppy-dog ear ponytails a lot of the time. He thought I was ridiculous and ignored me.

  All of the guys in my crowd became best buddies with Big Bang Babies, especially Freddie and Tweety. It was the smart thing to do. They would’ve lost if they would’ve tried to compete with them. I latched onto Freddie first; he was the most approachable. He seemed surprised that I was interested in befriending him and latched right back on to me. Freddie had the same bleached hair, deep blue eyes and a great smile. He amused me for some reason- he was kind of a sad sap, lacking confidence compared to the other three. I hung with him a lot. Tweety was living with an heiress called Tipsy LaFabula in a house in Laurel Canyon. She supported him, naturally. She wore feather boas, huge Audrey Hepburn hats, and elbow length gloves. He was the one who walked up to me before he knew me, asked if I wanted a boyfriend, and then walked away once he heard how little money I made. I love that.