Paul said that despite the dented gas tank and rear fender, he was thankful that Lewis wasn’t seriously hurt as he was pulled out of the ditch by the film crew members. That was nice of him.
“And!” Paul’s voice rose to a scream, “They put a fucking stuffed animal on the front forks for the shoot!”
“A stuffed animal? What’s the problem with that?
“I don’t want a fucking stuffed animal on the front of my bike plastered all over MTV! It just doesn’t look, well… right!”
I cut to the chase. “Paul, calm the fuck down, did you get paid?’
His response was a rather sheepish “Yeah.”
“Have you cashed the check from the director and was it good?”
Again the same answer with a sigh “Yeah.”
“So, I don’t see the problem, you painted the damn bike yourself in your garage anyway with spray cans, just spend a few bucks on some Bondo patch and paint, fix it and consider yourself lucky that if the video takes off you’ll now own a famous MTV motorcycle.”
Trying to divert him from further drunken whimpering and whining I asked him “Did anything good happen at the shoot for Christ’s sake?”
“Well...yeah as a matter of fact!” He cheered up. “Have you ever been on a video set Mike?”
“Yeah, well no not really, not for any length of time anyway, why?”
“Some of those girls that work in the studio catering services are really hot!”
“Go on Paul…” I knew where this was leading.
“Well, there was this one hot waitress that I was hanging out with over the breakfast cart and we got to know each other throughout the day. We ended up spending some private time in a box car that was on this train in the background. Watch for the train in the video when it airs. Hours Mike, fucking hours! It was great! She was incredible, a beast!’
“Sounds like it was worth a couple of dents in the bike’s gas tank Paul…”
“It was, man... I guess you’re right… yeah, it was”
To this day I can never watch that L.A. Guns ‘Electric Gypsy’ video without laughing at the train.
THE CATHOUSE & BORDELLO CLUBS
I have to admit that I was a little jealous of Rikki Rachman’s success with his ‘Cathouse’ and ‘Bordello’ clubs. A nice enough guy, he was always friendly and cordial to me and I would never begrudge him any success at all, but the clubs had become after a somewhat slow start, legal versions of what my Shamrock After-Hours Club could have been. True hard-rock dance clubs in Hollywood, exactly what I had envisioned. What the Hell, more power to him I thought.
They were both fun clubs that I enjoyed tremendously each week, but without a doubt some of the people, particularly (but not limited to) the female variety I met there made the regular Rainbow Bar & Grill as well as my Shamrock patrons look like walking examples of sanity and mental health.
To park a car anywhere near the Cathouse’s final location on Highland Avenue was almost impossible. I always rode the Harley for a two-fold purpose…
One, it was easy and simple parking as Rikki and his staff had wisely designated a street area directly in front of the Club entrance exclusively for bikes. The late ‘80s Harley resurgence was in full swing due partly in fact to the MTV metal video clips featuring rockers and Harleys such as Mötley’s ‘Girls. Girls, Girls,’ Bon Jovi’s ‘Dead or Alive,’ and even W.A.S.P.s ‘Wild Child’ which was in full rotation at the time. The big chrome machines lined up outside the club added to the overall atmosphere, as did their riders, which eventually grew to include several of the most ‘elite’ motorcycle clubs.
Secondly, the Harley was a social asset. There were very few Cathouse ladies who would refuse an after-hours chopper ride up in the Hollywood Hills on a warm summer night, especially with the promise of a bottle of Jack-Daniels stashed in the saddle-bag. I had even replaced the bikes steel passenger foot-pegs with extra thick rubber coated ones because they gripped high spiked heels much better than the stock units.
This particular night I had arrived fairly early and backed the bike in, rear wheel to the curb next to another Harley. Several hours later while inside the club I realized that I was rapidly running out of cigarettes. Walking out the front door to grab the spare pack that was always kept on the bike, I see a huge guy with his pants pulled down with his ugly hairy white ass straddling my gas tank. I somehow remained surprisingly calm and walking closer, I saw his dick in the tank.
Traffic on Highland was slowing down to watch. In disbelief I asked “Excuse me but just what the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m pissing in your gas tank, asshole!”
I’d seen so much weird shit in Hollywood over the recent years that I wasn’t shocked at much but this was in the damn ozone layer.
“Why are you pissing in my gas tank, if you don’t mind me asking?” I was politely sarcastic. The guy was twice my size and I figured it wasn’t a great idea to engage in a street fight with anybody that was this large and fucked up.
“You parked next to my bike man, too fucking close!” He must have consumed a full keg of beer that night as his stream continued diluting my high octane fuel during his rant.
“Nobody parks this close to my bike!”
Before I had a chance to ask him when he had purchased the street two beefy Cathouse bouncers, upon seeing what was happening came from behind and slapped cuffs on him. What eventually they did with him I didn’t know and didn’t care. My only concern was for the poor urine filled bike. Firing it up, the motor sounded and ran just fine, proving the old adage that Harley’s will run on almost anything liquid.
GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS
(Or I Now Believe In Space Aliens)
An entirely separate book (or even volumes) could be written about the lovely rock ladies of 80’s Hollywood, bizarre true stories that no one could possibly make up. Every night was another adventure often leaving me wondering what planet some of them were from.
A true glimpse into ‘80s Hollywood would not be complete without at least a few of the more extreme war stories included.
It was a known fact that almost everybody looked good in the darkness and warm ambience of the Rainbow and The Cathouse as this one certainly did.
I was hanging out in the Cathouse’s large pool room waiting for an open table when she approached. “Hi, I’m Rene, what’s your name?” Nice. She had a great body, medium-length natural blonde hair and a very pretty face. She also was a little older than most of the girls there and I found that attractive. After the usual chit-chat she bought us a round of drinks and we proceeded to spend the rest of the night talking, dancing and shooting pool.
After the club closed, over breakfast at Denny’s I learned that she had been a child actress in a late ’60s family sitcom. I actually remembered her character from the black and white TV show. Divorced, she had a 12 year old son who lived with her in an apartment very close to mine. She seemed quite different from the hordes and I made the mistake of thinking that this could perhaps work into something. We made plans to meet for dinner the next night.
“Do you like porno movies, Michael?” she asked from across the table with a devilish grin over her first bite of sushi.
I answered “I feel like I’ve had been living on the set of one for years now, why?”
“I love porn movies, really gets me randy,” she cooed. “Come over to my place tomorrow night and I’ll show you some of my favorites.” This was not a bad sign, or so I thought.
“Great Rene, I’ll bring the wine.”
It was a nice apartment in Beverly Hills, expensively furnished. The previous evening I hadn’t bothered to ask her what she did for a living, assuming she was probably living off the royalties from her TV show or perhaps alimony payments. Or maybe she was simply yet another hooker.
She introduced me to her kid who seemed nice enough and went outside to play ball or some such shit. Light’s dimmed, Rene started up the VCR with one of her ‘favorite’ skin flicks as I poure
d the wine and rolled a joint.
As the images of bodies slapping came on the screen it occurred to me why I never really enjoyed porn. That shitty early 70’s canned disco music that’s on every one of them ruins, at least for me, whatever erotic effect it might otherwise have. She wanted to turn up the volume.
Although we were both fully dressed and just simply sitting on the sofa watching the film it started bothering me when the son began coming in and out of the house, seemingly oblivious to the raw hardcore action on his Mom’s living room big screen TV as well as the distinctive smoke odor. He must have been used to the scene.
“Rene, can we turn this off?” I lied… “I want to just talk and get to know you.”
It didn’t take me but a few minutes to casually direct the conversation to her income source.
“Well….” She smiled. “I really hope this won’t affect you and me, but I’m a kept woman.”
I was used to these and at least she was being honest. “So, let me guess, you have a sugar Daddy, a rich old guy that pays your bills?”
“Not exactly.” “But, well, sort of.”
That was a yes.
“He’s a famous movie producer and he and his wife, well….”
There was a hell of a lot of ‘wells’ here. “Tell me Rene, don’t be shy.”
“They pay me to be on call for them.” “They both like to fuck me and they’re really cute, you can join in with us if you like, they have a magnificent place in Bel Air, we’d all have a great time.”
I certainly didn’t have a problem with whatever consenting adults did in private and it wasn’t even that much of a turn-off to discover her livelihood but I wasn’t interested in that little party, especially after she told me who they were. ‘They’re really cute?’ She must have been blind.
“That doesn’t bother me Rene. It won’t affect us at all.” Although I meant that, her next revelation sure as hell would ‘affect us.’
Snuggling closer and stroking my ankle with her bare foot she asked “What are you doing this Sunday Honey?”
Expecting that an invitation to join in with she and her famous Bel-Air benefactor couple was forthcoming I fired off a pre-emptive excuse. “Same thing I do almost every Sunday, leave early and cruise out to the Rock Store, (a popular biker café in the Malibu hills) meet my friends for breakfast and ride around the mountains in the afternoon and probably end up at the Rainbow for dinner. Why, what do you have in mind?”
Her response was more bizarre than I had anticipated.
“Let’s go to Venice Beach and get naked on the sand!” She wasn’t even that high at this point.
“The naked part is not a bad idea in fact I like it, but Venice? Rene, we can’t do that there, Venice is not a nude beach.” I went on “There’s one nude beach up by Zuma I’ve heard about we could go to but….”
She interrupted me. “Sure we can, Venice Beach is really cool, we go there almost every Sunday, get naked, play and stuff.”
“And ‘we’ are? I asked, assuming it was she and the famous movie producer couple.
“My son and I of course, Michael, you must see his cock! It’s the biggest, most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen on a twelve year old!”
Thinking fast, I discreetly slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and self-activated my pager/messenger and pretended to read it. “Oh my God Rene, there’s a fire at one of my buildings! Got to go, I’ll be back.”
I changed my phone number the next morning and avoided the Cathouse (as well as Venice beach) for the next few weeks.
ANAL INSEMINATION
This particular Hollywood specimen was such a true beauty that I couldn’t take my eyes off of her from across the dining room of the Rainbow. I had planned on going there with some friends for dinner only, but as usual an early evening turned into an all-nighter of one sort or another.
This girl looked very familiar and radiated such stunning class that she seemed, despite the mandatory Sunset Strip female uniform of a leather dress and pumps that she was wearing, totally out of place in heavy metal ‘ground zero.’ As did the guys that she was having dinner with for that matter, very conservative short-haired athlete types, probably rich professional football or hockey players I assumed. It certainly wasn’t the usual Saturday night Rainbow clientele.
Just prior to last call, I noticed that not only had the jocks had left her table but my casual friend Sandy had joined her. This was my chance and I took it.
“Well hi Sandy, haven’t seen you around for awhile.”
“Hi Mike, join us. By the way, this is my friend Carol.” (Not her real name).
She was not only even more gorgeous up close but had a great personality to boot. We spoke for awhile and I invited her to join me for breakfast at Denny’s. She suggested that we go to Roth’s Zero-Zero club for drinks instead. Although I would have accepted an invitation to go with her to the scene of a train wreck or plane crash at that point, I was intrigued to finally see Dave’s after-hours club that was still running years after the close of Shamrock.
In route, I learned that she had just broken off a long engagement to a very (at the time) famous metal front man who shall remain nameless.
She added that she had appeared in two of the bands recent videos. I then realized that was where I had seen her before.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what went wrong Carol? I know happen to know him and he seems like a great guy.”
She was frank. “I came home one night and he was in bed with two transvestite hookers and wanted me to join in.” “I have a daughter by a former marriage and I can’t have my child around any sick shit like that.”
That was refreshing, especially after the Rene incident. I was starting to like this Carol lady even more.
Although the Zero-Zero was packed I found it to be a much mellower scene than even the calmest party night at the Shamrock. It was a slightly older crowd and the alcohol consumption seemed far less than that of my former patrons.
After hanging out there a couple of hours, Carol explained that she owned a business and a home in Riverside (A community about an hour’s drive from Los Angeles) where she lived with her kid and always rented a hotel room when she came in to Hollywood for the weekend. “I don’t like to drive that far after a few drinks.”
Not only was that statement impressive showing even more maturity on her part but I sensed what was coming next, and I was right.
“Let’s leave now, Michael.”
I didn’t argue of course, but on the way to the hotel I was thinking about her ex-finance. As he had always been truly nice to me and I knew what was about to happen with her I wanted to make sure it was over between them. I had a strict personal policy about not screwing around with other guy’s ladies. Driving back down the Strip to the room, I asked her in a rather round-about way.
“Carol you seem to be handling your break-up pretty well.” I flashed back to the painful Dana disaster momentarily. “How’d you do it?”
“I’m just relaxed and riding it out.” “Everything in life is easier when you relax, kind of like anal sex.”
That was off the wall. “I’ll try and remember that comparison, Carol.”
As I expected, back at the hotel passion overtook us.
For the sake of not becoming extremely graphic here I will ask the reader to use their imagination a bit.
As sometimes happens in the heat of the moment, minor mishaps occur as one did in this case. Meaning to insert part ‘A’ into part ‘B’ resulted in part ‘A’ mistakenly violating the very private part ‘C.’ Hell, it was slippery and dark down there, It was truly an accident.
Carol screamed. “You bastard!” “You fucking bastard!” “How dare you put it in THERE?”
“Oops, sorry.” I quickly made amends. Then there was yet another ear-shattering screech from below. “What the hell did you do now?”
“I pulled out, can’t you tell?” She should have felt the answer before even asking.
�
�Well you didn’t have to pull out so Goddamn fast, you bastard!” “Go ahead and finish what you started in there if you must.”
I did.
She called me six weeks later with those little words that no man ever wants to hear. “I’m pregnant, it has to be yours.”
“Carol if you’re actually pregnant and it’s mine, this is going to make medical history.”
HER WAY – NO WAY
It wasn’t often that my friend Larry came in town from his ranch in New Mexico so whenever he did I wanted to show him a great time. As a former L.A. session bass player he knew his way around Hollywood very well and would often long for the neon glitz of the Sunset Strip while riding his horses near his desert home.
Naturally, our first stop was the Rainbow for dinner, then on to Rikki’s Thursday night Bordello club. It didn’t take long for the games to begin there.
I heard a question from across the bar. “Didn’t I meet you at the Cathouse a couple of nights ago?”
I remembered her. She was not really all that pretty, but yet very cute and petite, my favorite type. I indeed had met her at the Cathouse a few nights prior where she had introduced herself as Barbara, a personal assistant for a famous older British rocker. She had given me her card.
“Oh, hi, yeah we met last Tuesday I think.”
“You didn’t call me, why not?”
I responded with the clichéd ‘I’ve been busy, sorry but I will’ bullshit, not wanting to insult her and tell her that she had been so drunk at the Cathouse I was afraid she was going to either puke or pass-out on me at any moment. It had been a major turn-off.
As she was a lot more sober on this particular night, I was now interested. As Larry was roaming around the club somewhere, Barbara and I took a table and had a few drinks together. Soon, she invited me back to her place, adding she ‘had an idea.’ I wondered what she had in mind and as I was accepting her invitation, Larry rushes over to inform me that a tow truck in the parking lot was hooking up my Jeep.
Metal, Madness & Mayhem - An Insiders Journey Through The Hollywood 80s Page 21