Since we would have visitors every weekend, this apartment was known to be the crash pad for the entire greater San Diego area. I recall my friend Danny Powell wanting to come up at say during the week while he was in the area looking for a job. Danny played guitar in our San Diego band Point Blank and actually played in our very first band Fortress. Danny gave me a warning call asking permission for his buddy to come over and sleep on the guest futon. He was going to attend an Air Force recruiting program in LA the following day. I did not care, what the hell! We were always up for some new company. His name was JB, and I remember meeting him on several other occasions with Danny. JB was a very nice, clean, well mannered person that had no idea what type of torment he would face over the next few days of his stay at the El Cerrito pad.
It was only a weeknight, but that never seemed to matter to us. While JB is here, we can show him the town, have lots to drink and have a good time. After a good five to six hours of partying, JB had enough booze and wanted to lay down for the evening. JB was going to be sleeping in the living room, right next to the front window. It was about midnight, but Vinnie and I were not done having fun. JB quickly passed out on the guest futon and was appeared to be entering a coma. We poked at him to wake up. Nothing. We turned up the stereo, hoping for some type of reaction. Nothing. We grabbed a warm bowl of water and put his hand inside. We had always heard that would make you pee your pants. Nope. Nothing happened. Vinnie and I continued to drink beer and crank the stereo. Love Machine by W.A.S.P. was blasting into the warm summer night and nobody asked us to turn it down! Some friends dropped by and we offered then some beer and spicy chicken wings that we picked up from to store earlier that evening. It was not unusual at our home to have friends who lived in the building come by on a weeknight, at midnight, to have a beer. As long as they heard the music, they knew we were up. Everyone asked who the “new guy” was that was passed out on the guest futon. I told them, “He’s just a friend that was over for a few days while he was in the area for work.” Well, the party in the apartment grew bigger and there were six, maybe seven people partying around JB’s limp, lifeless body. We were all laughing and carrying on when the idea of stuffing chicken wings into JB pants came to mind. Yep, my ideas came that quick. Crap like that always popped into my mind. Vinnie is no different. It was if our minds were hooked together with some invisible cable assisting with our silent communication.
Poor JB, we had the leftover bones from a few dozen hot wings that were devoured earlier that night. Not one more minute passed before we were stuffing JB’s pants with the wings. Not just the crotch area, but the ass side of his pants was also filled to the brim with saucy, sticky, half eaten chicken parts. We successfully stuffed two dozen chicken bones into his pants, and he did not even flinch during the process. We were laughing and carrying on like idiots the entire time. After approximately five minutes, we were back to drinking beer around the dining room table. A mere ten minutes passed, when Vinnie disappeared into the kitchen giggling. He re-appeared with a large container of salt held high in the air over his head. Vince paused, then did a little celebration dance, while grinning ear to ear. Vinnie started caressing the salt with his other hand, continually holding the salt above his head, high in the air like it was an olympic torch. Vinnie meandered over to where JB was motionless and announced that chicken wings must have plenty of salt if they were going to marinate in JB’s pants overnight. JB’s underwear front and back were filled with the entire two pound container of salt.
Vinnie and I had already gone and off to work when JB woke that frightful morning. I wish I could have seen the look on his face when he found two dozen chicken bones and two pounds of salt packed in his underwear. I remember thinking on the way to work... salt is a natural curing agent. His balls and dick must have retreated up into his own ass to avoid the burn of the sodium and hot sauce that was stuffed around his genitals. Welcome to Hollywood.
ULTRA POP TOUR - The Steel City - Cupkake
The band arrived at a town that I could care less if I never visited again. It was a dirty steal working city that did not impress me in any way. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, this place was an armpit of a town. The streets were dark, dingy and the air smelled like rotten eggs and dead animals. I don’t remember too many club names as we toured the states, but I remember this particular club name in Pittsburgh, because I thought for sure it was a gay night club. The place was called the Electric Banana. Outside the club was a filthy sidewalk littered with old gum spots and trash. The building was really old, most likely from the late 1800’s, and the entire building was comprised of old used brick, with spots of gnarly, oily wood mixed throughout. The windows outside were painted with a light pink paint that had long since peeled. The final touch to this rundown nightclub was a huge, bright yellow sign in the shape of a large penis shining across the sky for all to see. Yes this proud yellow penis was the official trademark of the Electric Banana, a ghastly beacon warning visitors to what awaits them should they decide to move here. As a Chargers fan, I always held a different mental picture as to what Pittsburgh was supposed to look like. I pictured a modern metropolis sitting snugly alongside the river, but instead this place was a dusty rust pit. This club might have held a maximum of eighty people, if you loaded the room to capacity. The venue had a second floor which is where our dressing room was located, however, this room was basically the attic. The second floor was a maze of rooms and closets that all had the foul smell of old oily wood and mold. Nice place you got here... what a nice coat of fire would really do to liven this joint up!
Next door, there was this great, old-world style Italian deli where we ate a really big dinner before the show. This was a treat because most of the time, Arby’s or Taco Bell had to suffice, and that’s not real food as far as I’m concerned. I had a foot long classic submarine sandwich, but little did I know, that sandwich would cause great grief later in the evening. It was around 9 P.M. and the club was filled to its 80 person capacity. After a few hours of beer drinking, the beer needed to be removed from my body, so I located the only restroom in the club. It was on the first floor, right next to the bar, and when you opened the door, you could see the entire club from the toilet. Yes, there was only one toilet in the entire place for both men and woman. I went in and laughed at the filthy restroom, thinking in my head, “My god, I’d never want to have to sit in here for very long!” As I was thinking that exact thought in my head, the door flew open from some drunk dude that obviously had to pee really bad. I thought I had locked the door, but I guess the lock did not work. Well, I stood there in front of the entire club and finished peeing. The sink was broken and overflowing with used water and paper towels, so I did not bother washing my hands. The drunk guy basically pushed me out of the way, ripped his pants down and began peeing well before his pants hit the wet soiled floor. Most of his pee stream hit the back side of the toilet, and sprayed in several directions across the water tank before he finally made it into the bowl. I walked about twenty feet away, turned back and looked toward the restroom with the drunk guy peeing and thought, “Jesus, when that door is open, everybody in the entire club can see you in there!”
We played to an excited crowd, but I don’t recall anything special about that show. I guess it all in all, it would have to be considered a success. After we finished playing, there was one more band after us, so we would have to stick around for awhile. Not a big deal... oh wait... maybe it is a big deal. That foot long submarine sandwich was catching up to me really fast and we were going to be hanging around the club for at least another hour. It was now midnight, and the club was still full of people, except now they were all drunk and the line to the restroom was a good ten people long. Ok, no problem, I’ll go next door to the submarine shop and use their restroom.
I went outside the club and realized that everything in the area was shut down. Man, this sandwich was not going to wait! It was coming out soon whether I liked it or not. Fine, I thought, I’ll just have to wait
another hour, what else can I do? Not more than five minutes after that thought, I knew I had maybe a few more minutes before this thing was coming out. I started to panic, because I was sure as hell not going to use that restroom in the club. First of all, everyone is drunk, and the door obviously does not lock. Second, I could just picture in my head that stinky old drunk guy peeing all over the toilet. Well, I thought, I guess I could go outside the club to the back alley. Now this was not a good plan B, but it was all I had, so I hurried outside to scout out a place to go.
Outside, there were drunk guys everywhere and to top it off, they were most definitely gay. The cat calls began from them, obviously looking for a quick jolly ride. This made me nervous as I tried to escape the dudes attempting to corner the “new meat” in town. Trying to flee was not good in my dire condition, and at this point I honestly thought I was going to crap my pants. I ran back into the club and frantically looked around for a place to relieve myself. I ran upstairs to our dressing room with my butt clinched, trying very hard not to let loose and soil my stage pants. Here I was, the blond rock hero on the poster downstairs and I’m going to shit my pants? I was ready to crap right in the corner of the dressing room, when Lizzie and a few other people walked into the room and asked what I was doing up here all by myself. I must have looked pale and guilty of something because they all looked at me really strange. I said nothing, ran out and thought to myself this is it, this is where the story ends!!
Just then, I saw a janitors closet and opened the door to find a large room filled with cleaning supplies. Without further thought, I closed the door, and spied an empty mop bucket off to my right. I bolted over to the bucket and pulled my pants down. I swear your ass knows when you are clear to crap, because not a tenth of a second had passed after I removed my underwear and here it came! I had not even begun my squat over the bucket when I blew a gasket, and shit was flying everywhere. My butt was sputtering and spewing for several minutes, but I relieved that I made it this far without shitting my pants. I hovered over the bucket with a kind of “crab walk” as I finished taking the biggest dump of my life. It just kept coming and coming as I stood there bow-legged trying to finish my dirty business. I can’t tell you how disconcerting it is to take a shit in such an unorthodox manner, but I had never felt so relieved in my life. I paused for ten seconds just to be safe, and looked back at the disgusting mess that was left in some guys mop bucket. I did not even realize that the mop was still in the rear of the bucket until I was finished. I felt the blood flow back into my face and I began to breathe easier. Now I faced another problem... wiping! No problem, this is a janitorial closet, there must be some type of toilet paper or tissues somewhere. Nope! Not even a paper towel. I wandered around the area without my pants and a horrible case of mud-butt. I finally located a shirt that was marked “janitor” on the back, and that was going to have to do it. I felt bad wiping with the poor janitors work shirt, but what was I supposed to do? Actually, it would have never happened if he had kept a decent stash of paper towels in that closet, after all, he is the janitor. I left the shirt next to the poo filled bucket so the janitor would know when he returned to work, not to wear the shirt that some jerk wiped his ass with.
I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when the janitor located that horrible scene. Even though he is a janitor, he probably felt that his workplace had been violated, and I’m sure he thought that some asshole did it all as a sick joke. How do you go about cleaning that up? Well to that one janitor who had to deal with that situation 20 years ago, and you know who you are, I’d like to apologize profusely and let you know that it was all a big accident. Come to think of it, I’ve been in places since then where I saw something strange like a shit in the sink, or on the floor, and immediately assumed it was some asshole trying to be funny. Maybe I should rethink my thought process.
CHARACTERS - Vinnie Vegas
The 80’s was a very unique point in time for various reasons. First of all, music seemed to rule the world in a way that hadn’t been seen since the 50’s. The entire idea of a music video was brand-new and exciting and everybody was riveted to MTV. In the last half of the 80’s Heavy Metal/Glam Rock completely ruled MTV, and there really wasn’t anything else. Oh sure they would play a Peter Gabriel or David Bowie video now and then, but you’d yell at the TV; “This sucks... change it! Change it!”, like Bevis and Butthead, which is the reason that cartoon was so funny in the first place. The reason I referred to the music as “Heavy Metal/Glam Rock” is because back then, there really wasn’t much of a distinction between the two like there is now. Go ahead and search for early photos of Pantera or Anthrax, and you’ll see what I mean. Like the 50’s, there was a real air of innocence back then that’s hard to define. This was before anybody heard of AIDS or drive-by shootings, and war was the furthest thing from anybody’s mind. We poofed up our hair and tucked our jeans into our boots. Everybody used blow-dryers on their hair, and it was an absolute disaster if you forgot to bring it on a trip. The songs had no hint of political statements, instead the topic was always partying, girls, or partying with girls. The times were fairly prosperous and everybody seemed to have plenty of money to spend on clothes and concerts. If anybody out there actually remembers the 80’s, you would recall that Hollywood was king and everybody wanted to be there. Even if it was only for vacation, us rockers made the trek to Hollywood with all the devotion of the faithful making a pilgrimage to Mecca. Those who made the pilgrimage, returned with sage knowledge of exactly what was going on, and how it was done. And hopefully plenty of stories of debauchery and mayhem, with some sexcapades thrown in. So with all this, you can imagine how fun it would have been to actually live in Hollywood.
This was a time that was short-lived, but an absolute blast to be a part of. The scene was not planned out, therefore it can never be repeated. I guess it was a combination of the right place at the right time that created a rainbow of fun. Apparently these rainbows occur every 30 years, so with that being said, it looks like we’re due for another! There was no danger, we didn’t have to roll with posses, or have each other’s backs because there was no reason to. Girls were fun, and friendly which made life sweet. We cranked the music loud and partied till 4 am on work nights, and nobody was worried about losing their homes or jobs. In LA, we wore our rock regalia to work, and nobody batted an eye. That’s how ingrained music was into our lives back then. Long hair and flashy clothes were completely normal in the 80’s and fun was the number one objective. Hollywood was the capital, and they guys and girls had a look that was king. Somehow the people had a look that was natural and non-contrived, which made you “LA”. In places like San Diego, these people stood out among the fashion challenged whose hap-hazzard outfits sometimes looked forced and out of place. Of course with San Diego’s little-sister complex, LA people were looked upon with a bizarre combination of admiration and disdain. The ironic part is that everybody in LA is from somewhere else. Indeed, the notion of “native LA” is so foreign that it just doesn’t exist. There’s actually a weird unspoken policy that dictates that if you’ve been in LA for over 3 years, then you are native. But if you live in LA for long enough, you become LA. Some guys would come out from the mid-west with the frilled Bon-Jovi look to their outfits, and look like geeks for a few weeks. Then the frills would be gone, and by six months, you’d never know he was from Illinois. After you become LA, it stays with you forever and you never tuck in your shirt or wear socks with shorts again.
For Cupkake, this was the first time he ever lived on his own. As for me, I had lived on my own before, but never as a bachelor. I guess you can imagine what kind of state of mind we were in. A part of us was very adult with all the budgeting for bills and keeping steady jobs. Actually Cupkake had a job lined up right away, where as I had saved up extra money to last me a few months. So that first Summer I didn’t work at all, I just partied by the pool all day. This was fantastic for me but an annoyance to Cupkake who got thrown into the mill right away. T
here were a couple of times where he came home from work and I had not gotten up yet! Oh well, welcome to Hollywood! But other times we acted like complete children. I remember us doing things just because they were things your mother would absolutely freak out over. I had a weird jet popcorn machine that looked like a cross between a coffee-grinder and a blow-dryer. You would pour kernels into the maw, put on the lid, and popcorn would pop and flow out a chute into a bowl. One night we had a bunch of girls up from San Diego and decided to pop the corn without the lid on. Of course corn was flying everywhere like a confetti machine and we laughed for hours. We kept doing impressions of our mom’s reactions to the shenanigans. I can’t remember having so much fun in my life! The next morning was quite different however when we had to clean up the mess! That set the tone for the summer because dammit, we paid the rent on time and we could do what we wanted! That year we made friends with all sorts of people from the building and the neighborhood that would become exclusive characters in our LA adventure. My only regret is that I don’t remember them all!
Rock Asylum - Vinnie Vegas
We met a lot of bands in Hollywood, but only a few stood out due to the fact that they possessed the same Rock N Roll party spirit that we did. Rock Asylum was one of these bands. Most bands were bogged down by a strenuous Spartan approach to music filled with no-fun rehearsals and dry band meetings. To this day, if anyone mentions a band meeting, I jump in the car and hit the gas! Rock Asylum was a band out of New York who moved out to Hollywood the same summer we did. Actually these guys weren’t just from New York, they were from “Nu Yawk.” Specifically, these guys were from Brooklyn which makes picturing them so much easier. They too ended up living at the party hot-spot, El Cerrito Apartments. Their apartment was on the other side of the building, right in front the pool. The pool was in the center of a large courtyard, and this courtyard was ground zero for most of the wild parties at El Cerrito. This of course gave Rock Asylum a prime spot in the apartments. Rock Asylum was led by lead guitarist Dominic who like most lead guitarists of the time, considered himself the head of the band. Of course, this flew in the face of the lead singer, who usually considered himself the star of the band. This was a conflict as old as the biblical story of Satan and God himself, and lead to many a band break-up. This was not just limited to local bands, acts like Dokken and even Black Sabbath endured their own version of that tragic drama where guitarists and singers each made a huge point of trying to clarify just who fired who. This always played out in a high school mentality of he said/she said crap that really nobody gave a rat’s ass about. I still see the same drama played out 20 years later on Myspace with bands such as Faster Pussycat and Pretty Boy Floyd. Sad, but 20 years later... still nobody gives a rat’s ass! Hey but Myspace is the last vestige of high school mentality, no?
Hollywood: Rock Of Ages Page 4
