The Sunset Strip Diaries

by Amy Asbury

  Journal Entry 9/29/1992

  I accidentally got fucked up; I didn’t mean to. I took some Mexican antibiotics that my dad gave me this morning, along with some other pill, and I didn’t realize they don’t mix very well. I feel numb. I hate myself right now. I just got through with my public relations class and I made two people hate me instead of making two new friends. I wish it were last year. I had new clothes, a new car, and a job. I had an actual manicure and was hanging out with Harmony. Now look at me. I am wearing a T-shirt that smells like B.O., I have to take the bus, I have no job, and I am mingling with the Seattle people. I am a total loser.

  My dad is supposed to pick me up from school today in that boat of a car he is borrowing from somewhere (my car is broken down again). I guess I don’t care if it’s embarrassing. This isn’t junior high. A big paper was due today in English 101 and I didn’t do it because I didn’t understand it. I started crying when I was trying to do it on my dad’s coffee table. I wish I could think more clearly and just figure it out. I just want to get on to the next class and feel better about it. The teacher sort of intimidates me. She is young, pretty, proper and smart- you can tell she just started teaching because she is all serious about it. She has a huge rock on her finger. She probably has this great life. She has never had to deal with people like me. She has no idea how someone could be distracted, tired, broken, exhausted.

  You could say it’s nerdy, but I normally like sitting in classrooms (when the temperature is okay) and having bendy, shiny books with highlighted passages and paper clips marking the pages. I like having a big bag and folders full of papers. I normally like to learn. I have to take the bus today and I guess it’s alright. There are some things you just have to do.

  I have realized a few things about myself in the past few years. First of all, I have felt uncomfortable writing about the real me. I have another side of me that has been buried. It kind of peeked through the dirt the other day. I was watching another old black and white Hitchcock film in Cinema class and I became like, sick with longing to be in the past. I wanted to cry. I actually thought to myself, I am from the past, aren’t I? I was someone back then, wasn’t I, God? I have to have been. I feel pain sometimes, looking at those old movies. It feels like heartbreak when I see detailed old homes like the one in Meet Me in St. Louis. I feel hurt in my heart hearing that Big Band sort of music- it makes me feel sick because I love it so much. Even the voice inflictions in those old movies- the way the women spoke with those breathy, innocent, questioning voices with slightly British accents- it both comforts me and makes me homesick.

  People wouldn’t know this about me, but I love literature. I love old books. I like to read Shakespeare and memorize as much of it as I can. When I’m alone I have the urge to do ballet or gymnastics- I like to have balance and form. I also wish that people still had formal manners…sometimes I make guys kiss my hand, no matter how wild they are, and that really is crazy because the guys today will let a door slam in your face (and have, to me). I’m torn on what I would want my future to be. I would love to have a conservative, traditional life where I stay home to raise children with a professional husband. But another part of me questions the rules, criticizes everything and would want to work for my own money and not depend on anyone.

  I don’t fix the radio when it starts coming in with static. I often cry when I hear songs by the Beach Boys or Elton John, namely “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues,” and a few more songs that I either don’t know the names of or I do and don’t want to see them in writing or I really will cry. I am attracted to abusive people, women or men. And if the person isn’t abusive, you can bet I will end up abusing them. I always see how far I can get in being mean to somebody. I don’t like what I look like. I have sinus problems- my ears plug up all the time. I think it’s from the dust in this joint. I used to play hopscotch by myself when I was a kid. I strongly believe in God. I am a very heavy drinker and most of my friends either drink very heavily or do drugs. I have been taken advantage of many times because I was too drunk to stop it. I think about killing myself a lot. I often go nuts thinking of old childhood memories, because it was so nice back then. I love my younger sister Becky more than anything. I don’t have nightmares or cavities. I hate to be full and I like to discipline myself. It is hard to sleep at night. I sit and wait for phone calls. I get obsessed with people and can’t take a hint sometimes. I settle for less, a lot. I have dancer’s feet, the bone structure. I am very scared to die because of what is after death. I always think bugs are crawling on me and my fingers and hands lock up a lot.

  Journal Entry 9/30/92

  My mouth tastes like blood again and I am getting the chills. I am sick again. I have been sick since June! I am on Lithium right now so I will calm down and won’t kill myself (seriously). It makes you numb. I have never noticed it before. I have been trying to tranquilize myself so I can be knocked out cold, but now I have decided to stay awake. I have been thinking about moving to Colorado. I need to get out of Hollywood before I die. There are less and less people I care about in Hollywood now. I could forget about Lesli. I could forget about Michael and Strange. I could forget Birdie. Maybe I will.

  I hate it so much when I am loaded on anything. I hate hearing my heartbeat, feeling blood in my wrists, feeling like scratching people and turning them inside out. I hate moving and I can’t stand still. You would think I am a bad person if you heard all of the things I have done throughout my life. I am not really bad inside. I’m just lost. My mom hurts me constantly. My friends indirectly hurt me in various ways. Like when Birdie wanted me to watch her purse, out there on Detroit Street. It is a horrible area of Hollywood, a drug neighborhood. I was sitting by myself, sober for once, under a lamppost. I was sitting on a cement wall for a minute, but jumped off when I saw that snails and worms were crawling out of the cracks. Birdie was down the street with a guy named Stevie. I hate that silver purse.

  I ran into one of the guys I used to know when I was fifteen that night. He said he saw me a couple of weeks ago and I was a real bitch. He said he was saying hello to me and I was really wired and my eyes were really red and I pushed his hand away from me and said “Fuck you” when he tried to be friendly. I was secretly pleased to hear that I did that, because he was someone who took advantage of me as a young girl. He pushed his way into my home and into my bedroom, and I didn’t have the balls to stop him. My mother and sister were even home when it happened and no one said or did anything. Fuck him.

  I hated that horrible party on Detroit Street. It was a far cry from the fun, colorful, happening parties of a few years ago. This party was a bunch of whores, fat girls, and drug addicts. Some were a combination of all three. Most of the girls were openly fiending for speed. They sat around rolling joints instead. They are the jealous types- it makes girls look so bad. I overheard their plots to kill Birdie when they discovered that their precious Stevie, one of maybe two people in their whole Seattle crowd who is attractive, was with her. Birdie had on this stretchy red dress and big soft curls in her hair. She pulled a Yankees jersey over her dress and made out with Stevie on the hood of a car. He kissed her like the old movie stars kiss. I always wanted to be kissed like that. I was jealous. Not on display though, naturally. She called me the next day and was mad at me for letting her leave the house in the red dress- she said it made her look fat, and if I were her real friend, I would have told her so.

  ***

  They say to be careful how you treat people on the way up, because you will be seeing them again on the way back down. During my heyday, I had ignored that Seattle crowd, treating them with rude and snobby behavior. They remembered that behavior quite well when I was showing up to their parties with Birdie and were sure to treat me just as bad if not worse than I had treated them. Sometimes they wouldn’t even let me in the door, and they almost always called me names.

  So needless to say, I was starting to get bored. Don’t ask me how it happened, but somehow, I got
the great idea that I should be a femme fatale and try some daring shit like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. I was lying around thinking, Hmmm...I need to try to put the fear of God into some motherfuckers in this town. I am slipping. I scanned my mental Rolodex and the first name that popped up was that French piece of shit, Andre. He was Jimmy’s good friend and bandmate who I had made out with and who had later called me and said he wasn’t even attracted to me and that I was a big ho who seduced him. I didn’t like how the conversation ended and it bugged me that he got away with insulting me like that. I had to destroy him.

  I decided to call him and try to extort money from him, just for my own entertainment. I had done many things, but I hadn’t yet blackmailed someone, and I was itching to do so. I laid in my bed in a hot pink nightgown with bright purple trim and called Andre. When he answered, I told him he had to give me fifty dollars or I would tell Jimmy we hooked up and ruin his fucking life. He thought I was pathetic, because it was such a measly amount. He was like, “Fifty dollars? I mean, if you need money that bad, I will just let you borrow it or give it to you. You are going to blackmail me?” I really just wanted to humiliate him for telling me he didn’t think I was pretty and I was a huge floozy who seduced him. I was like, Yes motherfucker, you heard me, fifty dollars. Now pay up. He said that he was going to call Jimmy himself and explain things. I was like, Oh yeah? Well that’s not going to go over so well you dumb fuck. We played chicken with each other, both threatening to tell Jimmy. I wasn’t prepared to have Andre call my bluff like he did. He must’ve smelled fear, or been able to tell that I hadn’t thought my plan through very well.

  I immediately hung up the phone, called Jimmy, and told on myself. I thought it would be better if he heard my version than whatever Andre would say. Since I was already toast, I took the Frenchman right down with me. Jimmy went ballistic and told Andre that he had to leave their band, or Jimmy would. Jimmy was the key player in the group; he had founded it and he had the connections. Andre was only the drummer, in the background with no connections, so it was clear what would happen to the rest of the band if Jimmy left. They would fold.

  Lo and behold, the band broke up. They had been receiving attention from record labels, were touring with L.A. Guns, and appeared to be on their way to stardom. The other band members were furious with me. They had worked very hard and were shocked that Jimmy would let it go because of well, me. I guess it was my fault. Oh, okay, fine, it was my fault. I didn’t have to tell on the guy. I felt bad afterward. I tried telling myself, Hey, Jimmy cheated on me and betrayed me countless times- why should I spare his feelings? But the truth was, I was just being a jerk.

  Andre was going down and he didn’t want to go down alone. He decided to try to take the attention off himself, by bringing up something that I had admitted to in my drunken stupor at Red Light District: I had been seeing Robbi earlier in the year. Jimmy had recently become close with Robbi because he was painting his drums and doing tattoos for the rest of Alleycat Scratch. I hadn’t been connected with Robbi for several months by that time. I remembered Michael warning me that if I told Jimmy about Robbi and me, they would all be very angry with me for screwing everything up. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought.

  The next day I found many nervous answering machine messages from Robbi. The first message said, “This is Robbi. If you talk to Jimmy, DENY EVERYTHING. If you don’t, you’ll be really sorry and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” I should have thought, Bitch please. What are you gonna do? Kill me over some hair band? But I was all scared, biting my fingernails like a typewriter. Jimmy called me at three in the morning, freshly upset about the Andre scandal. He screamed “ROBBI?!” Then he started yelling at me and calling me a slut. The next day he barged down the door to Alleycat’s apartment, started to strangle Robbi, and tried to kill him. I know, I know, it all sounds so foolishly melodramatic.

  I knew I had caused the whole chain of events and it could have all been prevented. But at that age, I liked to do crazy things and try out social experiments- I didn't care who got hurt or what trouble it caused. Things weren't shiny and new and exciting anymore. I had conquered the things I wanted to, and I was looking for some other form of excitement, I guess. I had become careless. And I paid for it, socially. That crowd didn’t want to deal with me much after that. I was too much of a pain in the ass.

  Journal Entry 10/1/92

  Well, I can do nothing but continue the horrible saga of my present life. What could possibly happen to me next, I do wonder. I am sitting in a practically empty Cinema class and two other people are talking and deliberately leaving me out of the conversation but I keep adding my two cents, regardless. Well, I know never to blackmail anyone ever again, even though it looks fun and all. So nobody ever speaks to me again. So Jimmy’s terribly hurt and extremely angry…maybe he will feel an ounce of what I felt, hearing that he slept with ten different women while dating me. So people will want to kill me. So I won’t go out for a while.

  Journal Entry 10/2/92

  I am sitting here watching a show on the media’s influence on beauty and how teenage girls are obsessed with their looks and how unrealistic it is. I guess I am a little obsessed with beauty. But I have to be. It’s my bread and butter. It’s my way to eat. I can’t survive just being the person who loves books and old movies. I have to project something that appeals to people who will help me to like, survive. I can’t truly depend on my own family.

  There are lots of little rules and assumptions just being a part of this Hollywood crowd. For instance, if you are walking alone on Sunset in the day, there is no doubt you are wacked on speed. There is absolutely no other reason for you to be out there in the daytime. If you are hanging anywhere near this guy named Anton, you are either on or are buying drugs. If you are anywhere on East Las Palmas you are without a doubt buying drugs- speed, most likely. Same goes for Detroit Street. If you are on Cherokee, you are specifically buying crack. If you are at Ralphs on Sunset, you are a drunk. If you are in Rock n’ Roll Denny’s on Sunset on any morning, dammit you are on something because you’re still awake from the night before. Everyone will throw that at you. That, and the wandering around Sunset in the afternoon are two big giveaways. Natalie goes as far as the Mayfair Market now to avoid being seen at Ralphs, so people won’t think she is a drunk, and Ralphs is right on her corner. But then again she is paranoid because she is on speed.

  Oh, and don’t ever eat in public in Hollywood. Christian got jumped for his hamburger one day. And the Wendy’s drive-thru is not a good idea since Collette got mugged there. It is on the corner of Detroit Street, no wonder. Yucca is the street on which to score heroin, if you are a true loser. If you are around Gazzarri’s, the Cathouse or FM Station you’re a hesher (not good). If you’re a dancer you want to try to work your way out of the Seventh Veil or the Star Strip on La Cienega and on to better places.

  I had a hellish day at Natalie’s apartment yesterday. I must’ve heard the word Xanax two billion times. She was on coke last night and wouldn’t shut up. First we went to the Rainbow and apparently I bumped straight into Axl Rose from Guns N’ Roses by the restroom; I smacked right into his chest and didn’t even realize it or say excuse me. After that, she invited that grody drug dealer guy Anton over to her place. He was doped up on heroin, the prick. He wouldn’t stop touching me and I had to sit on the bastard’s lap for a good half an hour to LAX in her two-seater car. I told Natalie he was trying to feel me up and she didn’t believe me! She said he would never do something like that. Never do something like that? What, is this guy a pillar of morality? I didn’t care if she believed me or not, I scooted back into her trunk and laid there the whole way home, pouting.

  Once we were back to her place, he went into the bathroom for like, a half an hour and when he came out there was blood on her towels and a Band-Aid wrapper on the floor. His face was so white and bloodless that it scared me. He came and laid on the ground and said he wanted to take a nap, just like the typical h
eroin addict (Collette, Teddy, Casey). What a junkie bastard, and a slob to top it off.

  Journal Entry 10/12/92

  I took a bus to Birdie’s this weekend and we got a ride to Hollywood. She bought speed from some guy for 25 bucks. Before that, we went to the Rainbow and asked if they would let us in because we were bored. I had just finished chewing a hot dog from AM/PM and had a bored look on my face and Birdie slurped away at soft serve ice cream in a cup. We didn’t care if we got in or not, but it was worth a try. A man behind us heard and said, “I’ll pay her way in” to me. A big man in a suit came up behind him and said, “They need ID, this isn’t fun and games,” and since Birdie didn’t have ID they didn’t let us in. Mind you, they used to let me in all the time when I was her age. There must’ve been a crackdown.

  We went and hid on the top of a bank building so Birdie could do her drugs. It was really dark up there except for the lights of the Rainbow’s sign. She was trying to bite a straw in half to snort with. These two random hesher guys came up to us and had a six-pack. They gave me a beer. I felt all right around them, they were harmless. No style, no makeup, no done hair. I even told them my real name. Birdie took out her calling card to chop lines and then excused herself to go into a corner and snort speed. The guys asked me if I had older brothers. I said “Why?” they wanted to know how I had learned to party so much. I was drinking a Budweiser for Pete’s sake, if they only could’ve seen me on a regular night!