The Sunset Strip Diaries

by Amy Asbury

  Before that, I went over to Razz’s and Teddy was over there. They were bored and stretching their faces in the mirror and trying to chase me with fireplace tools. We finally got up and drank a fifth of Jim Beam between the three of us. Teddy and I were singing the Beastie Boys all loud (“So What’cha Want?”) and he was going to pour me another shot. I didn’t see him and I pulled my glass off the table to drink it and he dumped the shot on the table. We went to Sunset really late and Teddy was picking me up and swinging me in circles and we were falling all over the place. Right after that was when I fell down and hurt my foot. Teddy called me a training-wheel-needin,’ limpin’ motherfucker. We went to a party after that. Razz and Teddy were being overprotective and it was pissing off Lesli, who thought he was with me, I guess. On the way to the party, Razz and Teddy were singing Dramarama’s “Tiny Candles” at the top of their lungs and banging the dashboard of Teddy’s Jeep to play the air drums. Teddy tried to slam the windshield for effect, no big deal. Then Razz tried to do it and the whole windshield cracked! We went to Jack in the Box and Teddy laid all of his food out on the hood and stood there eating in the dark; he wouldn’t speak to either of us, he was so mad.

  Razz showed me a bunch of pictures of himself at fifteen and sixteen. He was shirtless, tan, and lanky, wearing this frosty pink/violet lipstick. He was pouting and striking a feminine pose. In the background were all these pink blankets, a hot pink comforter, and Poison posters on the wall. I asked him what his mother did when he started wearing lipstick and all that. He said she just had to deal with it.

  A woman named Shandy Becker started supplying Teddy with drugs. And I’m not talking some pot or a few pills, I am talking straight-up heroin. He started spending a lot of time with her. Razz and I were concerned. He was no longer funny or cool when he was under the influence. Teddy was another person who I actually liked, because he was smart and very witty. I clicked with him and had chemistry with him, although nothing ever happened between us. For some reason, I saved the process of hooking up for people I didn’t really like, but who were sought after by others. I couldn’t get hurt that way.

  Journal Entry 9/7/92

  I drank another bottle with Teddy and Razz last night and it was no fun because Teddy was insulting me and Razz was crying and depressed over Missy, who he is in love with. Teddy came up with this bright idea to call Shandy Becker; he said it was because she would take us all out and buy us drinks. Razz and I just looked at each other. We knew he shouldn’t be around her. She is always stocked with coke and heroin and Teddy is highly addicted to it all. She is completely fatal for him- she tattooed a picture of his face on her back! It seems as if she uses the drugs to keep him around, and it always works. There is not a time when he will go out with her and come back sober. We told him we didn’t think it was a good idea and he said, “Fuck you guys! Do you have anything better planned? Becker will treat all three of us! I was just making a suggestion! I’m not gonna touch shit.”

  So what happens? We find Shandy Becker at FM Station, go back to her place, and Teddy goes and does lines. We try to leave for hours and he keeps saying, “Just one more shot,” and trying to get her into the bedroom or bathroom for more drugs. She came over to Razz and me with a sad look on her weathered face. “I want to go to sleep,” she said. She wanted him out.

  I always thought she was the one who was cornering him and trying to keep him around. But we saw what was really going on. I found his car keys and stood up with Razz.

  “Teddy, we’re leaving. Are you coming?”

  His back was to us and Shandy’s profile was staring at his face.

  He looked at her and said, “We’re having a barbecue tomorrow. A barbecue…are you coming? They’ll be food there, and...”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Well, then I’ll just sleep here. It doesn’t matter where I sleep, does it?”

  She looked at him and shook her head ‘no,’ even though it was clear she wanted him to stay with her.

  “I’m not partying tonight, Teddy,” she said softly. I looked at her messy, damaged, wild blond hair and bulbous nose. He wouldn’t turn toward her; we still only saw the back of him.

  “So, I’ll just sleep here,” he said.

  Razz had enough. He isn’t one to stand around and wait for someone or put up with much bullshit, unless of course it is being doled out by Missy.

  “LATER,” he said in a loud voice. We walked out and left Teddy there.

  Later that day

  The barbecue was cancelled. Dusty said he didn’t want a bunch of drug addicts at his house. Teddy is still at Shandy Becker’s and will be for days, as usual. Razz is depressed to tears about Missy, again. He is so in love with her that he is going to get an ulcer. He showed up to her place unannounced and thought it would be a good idea to try to crawl through her bedroom window to leave her a “message.” She happened to be home as he was trying to get in and she threw a full Coke can at his head. I told him not to ever invade a girl’s privacy and that I would’ve done the same thing.

  “But I love her. I just want to be with her. How can one person turn my life into a living hell? She is probably not even thinking about me right now.”

  Michael used to be like that over some chick. I remember he begged me to call her up and pretend I found him dead on the floor next to a bottle of pills.

  Journal Entry 9/12/92

  Razz and I went to FM Station on Thursday night and got into a huge fight. I told him to get the FUCK out of my car. He was stunned. He couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t fucking around though and he knew it. I pulled over and said, “Get the fuck out.” He said, “But we are in the middle of nowhere!” and I said, “I don’t give a fuck.” He shut his mouth pretty quickly.

  Word on the street is that Teddy started smoking heroin one of those nights that he was with Shandy Becker. I don't see how smoking it can be worse than injecting it, but it is a definite indicator to the people in this crowd that you’re going street- hard core street- when you start smoking a drug. I feel like these people party because they are sick and hurting.

  Journal Entry 9/13/92

  Last night I hung out with Lesli. He is living with some girl who wasn’t home. He said he went to buy her tampons the other day in a full face of makeup and people were staring at him. While I have a soft spot for Lesli, he is in no way smooth. He kept grabbing my arms and pulling me roughly, saying, “Come ‘ere,” and tugging at me and poking me and stuff. I am getting sick and tired of all this rough shit with these guys. I said, “Be a gentleman! You are throwing me all over the place!” He said he knew, but he just wanted to hang out with me. As he gripped one of my wrists, the door of the apartment swung open and a guy named Spider walked in with two girls, one of whom was really into Lesli from what I recall at a No Bozo Jam show a few weeks back. She couldn’t wipe the scowl off her Seattle face. I had a strong feeling it was because I was there and Lesli verified that once she was gone. She couldn’t even look at me. I even asked her what was wrong. She was lying on the floor (the theme of the evening) with long, stringy red hair, a pale delicate face, wine-colored lips, and dark eyes. She wore a navy blue vintage sailor dress, white fishnet stockings, and white go-go boots. What a poor sport. Lesli tried making out with me but I said no because he was wearing black lipstick and I didn’t want it getting all over me. He said, “Most girls only like me because I am in some band. I don’t like that. It is convenient when I want to screw someone…I can always find a girl who will, ugly or not. I just hate hearing girls talk about all the other guys in bands they know. You don’t do that.”

  Not only was it totally uncomfortable over there, but there was a ferret locked in the bathroom. I had to pee and Lesli had to wrangle the damn thing and remove him so I could go in. We drove to The Strip after that fiasco and I parked in some remote spot and was trying to be discreet about being seen with him. That was pretty hard, because he is so tall and has bright pink hair.

  He noticed that I was
trying to hide him and said, “You’re ashamed of me! Aren’t you?!”

  “No,” I lied, looking into his apple-green eyes. “But I can’t have people thinking I’m running around with too many guys. Besides, how do they know that I really love you?” I said, smiling.

  “You DO love me, don’t you?”

  “Sure I do.”

  Three Middle Eastern men walked around the corner as we were getting out of the car, and started yelling stuff to us. Lesli was scared and said, “Come on, let’s go! What if they have guns or something?” I said, “I’m not going anywhere,” and took out my compact and checked my makeup, completely ignoring them.

  I saw a bunch of my friends on The Strip. Lesli ran into his friends and told them about the Middle Eastern men and his story was completely different from what really happened. He was saying he got loud with them. I stepped right in front of him, cut him off mid-sentence, and called him a huge liar, telling his friends that he was scared and wanted to leave because he thought they had guns. His friend Dexter (who is wanted for manslaughter by the way), just looked at Lesli and walked away. Pepper looked at Lesli a second longer and then walked away too. Lesli said, “Why did you have to embarrass me!?” I said, “Why did you have to lie?!”

  I went to a party and saw all of my drunken friends. Some Asian girl proceeded to take off her clothes and show everyone her crotch piercings. I felt guilty because it was completely my fault- I said, “Let us see” when she talked about having them. I didn’t think she’d be whipping it all out. She was so drunk she didn’t know what she was doing. Strange was really loaded, lying on a big white stuffed bear. He tried to kick me when I called him a drunken lug. I hit him with a big Sparkletts bottle and then he got my head under one arm and Chantelle’s under the other and rammed our heads together, which hurt. Pepper cuddled up with the Asian girl and they fell asleep. Boy, is she going to freak out when she rolls over and sees him in the morning with his neon greenish-yellow hair the color of lemon-lime Gatorade, tons of makeup and an “X” over his lip in place of a beauty spot. [By the way? That girl became a porn star.]

  Journal Entry 9/19/92

  I am now nineteen, which, so far, has been uneventful. Birdie and I went to a Faster Pussycat concert in Ventura County. The night was awful. I had a bad cold and was rubbing my makeup off and blowing my nose the whole way there. Birdie was driving us in her parent’s car. She only learned to drive a month or so ago, and had never been on the freeway before. I didn’t take that into consideration and was pressuring her to drive faster and to get into the fast lane. She started swerving all over the freeway, losing control of the car. We smashed into the center divider of the 101, in Agoura. One whole side of the car was smashed in, two hubcaps were missing, and the hood was up like a tent. We had our seatbelts on, so we were okay, although my ribs hurt really badly. We looked at each other, both drenched in vanilla shakes that had been in the cup holders. Her eyes were bugging out and I saw that she was about to hyperventilate so I just hugged her. She was about to cry and I yelled, “Don’t cry! You will ruin your makeup!” she listened to me, in all of my wisdom. I knew she wouldn’t want to ruin it because she had it done by a makeup artist for the ‘special event.’ There are car accidents, and then there is ruining a perfect makeup job.

  Nobody stopped to help us. We mopped the food and drinks off our cute outfits, trying to pull ourselves together. Being the Einstein that I was, I got out of the car on the freeway and checked the tires to see if they were still intact. We decided to continue in the smashed car, sticky and frazzled, to the show. The show must go on, people! We thought we were going to the Academy Awards or something, but when we got there, it was a nondescript place in the middle of nowhere that was only missing a rattlesnake and some tumbleweeds. I half expected some cowboys to come out and have a motherfuckin’ shoot-out.

  I was hoping to meet a rad guy, but when I got there I already knew everybody. Our little clan got there in bits and pieces and eventually formed one big ball of chaos. The couple hundred other onlookers who came there to see the show stood around and watched all of us cause a ruckus. All of the random guys tried to get near Birdie and me. Birdie had her hair professionally done, in big perfect curls. She had on fake eyelashes, red glossy lipstick, a little plaid schoolgirl skirt, and Frederick’s of Hollywood spiked platform heels. I had on black velvet platform shoes (they were Birdie’s- do you think I can afford shoes?), a tight black vest with no shirt underneath and black and white gingham hot pants. My own friends were hitting on me and girls were snubbing me left and right. All of the random girls tried to get near our guy friends, like Alleycat Scratch, etc. The girls were saying to them, “You must be from Hollywood,” and they called us sluts because we knew all the guys. It surely didn’t look good with all of the guys hugging us and saying hi to us and hanging on us, but I no longer care about such things.

  All of the Hollywood people pulled their usual antics, and let me tell you, in an area outside of Hollywood, their antics were completely unacceptable and worthy of being thrown out of the place. First off, Lesli started throwing me up against the wall. I wasn’t fazed, but when he started spilling beer on me, that was a different story. Nevertheless, the security guards saw him tossing me around and they jumped him, beat the crap out of him, and threw him out. Then, Michael was thrown out for whipping out his thing and peeing in the lobby, right on the carpet in front of everyone. After that, Robbi (I so desperately want to spell his name with a “Y”) was thrown out for drunkenly messing with Faster Pussycat’s wires and amps and stuff up front. I saw that one of his front teeth was knocked out; I was told it was from the night before when he tried to jump out of the car on the freeway.

  When I returned Birdie’s shoes to her at the end of the night, she noticed that there was a small rip on one of them from the car accident (my feet jetted out in front of me and hit something in her car when we crashed). She told me I owed her new shoes. I was like, bitch, you got us in a car accident. If you wouldn’t have crashed, your fuckin’ shoes would still look good. She said that if I wouldn’t have worn them, they would’ve been safe at home with no rip. Then I was like, okay, well then my ribs hurt. You need to pay for my medical bills. She dropped it.

  That next weekend my car stalled right in the middle of rush hour traffic by the Hollywood Bowl. My radiator blew up and the car was overheating. Some guys pushed it to the left, into a horrible crack neighborhood, where it sat while I got a ride back home somehow. What was I going to do without a car? Birdie was grounded from her parents’ car after crashing it on the freeway, so we were both out of luck. During all of this, I was living at my mother’s. As you can imagine, I wasn’t exactly doing the chores she assigned me. I was like, Wait…chores? I just came off speed that I don’t remember doing, was raped, and then was dancing with strippers in my underwear. Then I was in a car accident, dodging bullets and trying not to be killed, all while in cute pink outfits. I don’t remember much about my chores, but I do know that I was supposed to take out the trash and I couldn’t be bothered, so it was often left there to rot as the garbage men passed our house because the cans were not out front. I also came home at ungodly hours, if at all. Not only that, but I was always banging pots and pans at three in the morning, drunk (I distinctly remember slicing potatoes and making hash browns in a skillet). I had phone calls at all hours of the day and night and I was always rude and hungover. My mother put up with this stuff for only six months or so.

  I was fired from the clothing store after missing so many days due to the sprained ankle/hurt foot. Without a job, I couldn’t come up with $200 to give my mother for rent that month, and she told me I had to move out. She also cited the fact that I was partying too much as another reason I was being booted. I thought it was totally unfair and didn’t see what the problem was.

  My sister was majorly on speed by that point and couldn’t kick it. She was hooked. I marched straight up to my mother and asked her why my sister could be a drug addict
and stay in the house, and I couldn’t stay in the house and be a boozer. I really threw my sister under the bus for self-serving purposes. It wasn’t like I was worried about her and trying to get her help. It was only to show my mother she wasn’t being fair- and to point out that she wasn’t paying attention.

  My mother confronted my sister and asked her point blank if she was on drugs- she of course said she wasn’t. My mom let it go and my sister was back to doing them the very next night. She didn’t ask her again, and said nothing about my sister’s extreme weight loss and staying up all night. In my house, as long as you weren’t making a scene, you could apparently do whatever you wanted. I wouldn’t know though, because I was always making a scene.

  My mom suggested I go live with my dad. He had been hanging around and was trying to see us; we even went to visit him a few times. I tried to put my hard feelings behind me. I still wanted a dad. Maybe it would work out. Maybe I was just imagining all of that yucky stuff.