Barely a month after my chat with a top-ten all-time-great rock god, Ronnie James Dio, my lawyer called to report two of five opposing parties were offering to settle my lawsuit. For two hundred and fifty grand, all I needed to do was sign on the dotted line. I had planned on taking my case all the way to court, but found it impossible saying no to stacks of cash. It took no more than seven seconds to devise a new and improved plan: get some party money, then take the remaining three defendants before a sympathetic jury to milk it for every dime. Ma, Pops, and me were all required to sign and notarize releases, then the same drill with the big check that ultimately got sent back to Hawaii for another hurry up and wait.
After three weeks of hoop-jumping, the lawyers took pounds of flesh and sent me the leftover ninety-seven thousand dollars. That’s right, I broke my fucking neck and them motherfucking lawyers paid themselves one hundred and fifty-three grand, leaving me ninety-seven. Legal guardian, Pops, had hired the firm when I was a minor, and agreed – for me – to give “my” legal team 45 percent: plus fees and expenses! At the time, I was too giddy to even consider simple ratios or scrutinize expense reports, so had absolutely no clue of the absolute ass-rape being delivered.
Minutes after the check cleared, I rushed from my bank to a Pontiac dealer on a noble quest to score a Trans Am. But along the path toward the sales office, I fell in love with a sexy little Pontiac Sunbird turbo convertible. It was a blast to drive, but I probably overpaid by five hundred bucks. Having never purchased a brand-spanking-new car before, I forgot the best deals go to those willing to split. Nowadays, I leave the checkbook at home. So once terms are agreed upon, I must break free from the high-pressure sales environment to go fetch the down payment, allowing time to ponder the deal. Actually, in any business dealing – other than a beyond-stellar bargain – I never give a firm answer till at least a day passes.
One set of wheels down, one to go. In the few years since receiving mine from Rancho, wheelchair technology had undergone a sea change. I had to have me one of those newfangled aluminum alloy “sports chairs.” I called around and found a demo model Quadra brand chair for about a third of retail, a mere five hundred bucks. When we arrived to the Abbey Medical store, while waiting for Mike to retrieve my soon-to-be-former chair from the trunk, I held onto the top of the car door and pulled myself up to standing, smiled devilishly, and said, “Now that I got my money.”
Mike stopped cold in his tracks, as though he had seen a boyishly handsome quadriplegic ghost. Turns out, he never saw me on my feet before, and over time we got many laughs about those few seconds when he actually believed I faked a disability to get paid.
A beer bottle traveling at ninety-two mph will repeatedly roll and bounce, but not shatter until almost at a complete stop.
The very next day, we set off to the Colorado River for some Fourth of July festivities. After loading up on beer, I rocketed my new turbo southeast down Interstate 10 toward Blythe, making a pit stop at Sizzler to smoke fifteen bowls before consuming stoner quantities of all-you-can-eat shrimp. I hate open containers in my car, so, to quell my bitching, Mike chucked his empties out the window. A beer bottle traveling at ninety-two mph will repeatedly roll and bounce, but not shatter until almost at a complete stop. Mike was so amused by the phenomenon that he drank forty-two beers, leaving a trail of shattered glass along our path. Because the fourth fell on a Wednesday, and folks with jobs don’t head to the river for just a day, Blythe was beyond dead, so we split for home early the next morning.
Downey sat too far away from the party fields, so I rented a room at the Holiday Inn, near Hollywood and Highland. The plan was to get a huge sack of blow, tons of booze, and party down with as many slutty coke whores looking to put out that we could hustle up. I was novice about coke-loving concubines, unaware of the prime directive: do not have a room full of drunken dudes. They’ll only cock-block you, if their presence hasn’t already scared the chicks away. But if there are any other dudes present, they better have their own drugs. If not, they should not be there. Basically, I stayed at the Holliday Inn for almost two weeks, burned a few lids of pot, did at least an ounce of blow, and drank gallons of beer, but did not even hold hands with a girl. All the willing women I knew lived many miles away, while I remained far too buzzed to go in search of talent. I never understood how folks leave the house after doing coke. Sure, if someone gives you a bump while you’re out and about, you got to deal with it. But once I’m hunkered down in a private place, me no likey prying eyes.
I awoke one afternoon, after a night of hard partying, amongst a room full of dudes and could not find my car keys anywhere. Upon realization Mike had them last, I became super angry and bitchy. But Mike told me, “It’s not my car. The keys are your responsibility.”
It’s a fact, if we choose to put our trust in others, we become responsible when shit gets fucked up.
I screamed, “It is my fault for giving my keys to a fucking idiot!” Upon hearing those words coming from my mouth, I realized he was right. Even though it was a beyond-asshole thing for him to say, I was the one stupid enough to give his worthless ass the keys. And the one who couldn’t drive my brand-new car. It’s a fact, if we choose to put our trust in others, we become responsible when shit gets fucked up. If it happens to me, it’s my fault.
About two weeks after my check cleared, I rented a cool little apartment at Highland and Odin, right next to Hollywood Bowl. Sometimes, because of the Hollywood Bowl’s gridlocked traffic, it took an hour to travel the last quarter mile to my driveway. Conveniently, starting a city block away, there was a curb cut – put there for handicap folks just like me – leading to extra-wide sidewalks that served as an exit ramp to my garage. Moving from a small room into an apartment meant I needed to buy absolutely everything. Furniture, towels, sheets, dishes, a vacuum, and so many dollars more stuff that normal houses require. I also bought a semi-cool stereo and stacks of records to drive my neighbors crazy.
Before 1984, all of L.A. was area code 213. At some point, they split the city in two and assigned the 818 area code to the San Fernando Valley, a region I generally avoided but playfully mocked friends residing there. Down the street from my apartment was a gas station that also sold car accessories, and I seriously considered forking over a grand to get one of those newfangled cellular car phones installed in my Sunbird. That is, until I found out that cell phone calls were fifty cents a minute, incoming or outgoing.
Within a month of owning that cash, it felt like everyone was in my pocket. My own dear Ma hit me up for a ten-thousand-dollar loan. I knew I’d never see it again, so instead arranged for her to get a bank loan by opening a collateral savings account. Mostly it was small loan requests, but one friend’s mother actually had the nerve to seek a loan to pay a four-hundred-dollar electric bill. I told her to pay it the same way she usually paid and drove off. Then there was Mike acting like he owned the big bank account, regularly running up bar tabs, helping himself to drugs, and messing my place up like I had maid service. It was the first time having my own place, and even though I wanted a little alone-time solitude, I was too wimpy to tell him.
One night, we had a couple of girls over, drinking rum and Cokes in my complex’s jacuzzi. The apartment manager – a super-duper fem-gay but alright dude – pointed out in a beyond friendly manner that glass containers were not allowed in the spa area. A far too drunken Mike started yelling, “faggot this, faggot that,” and stormed off. That month was the longest period of time I had ever spent with Mike. By the next day, when I dropped him at home, I mustered the courage to let him know of my desire to enjoy my place solo by telling him something like, “Fuck off, Mike.”
I was happy, and told Tracii that L.A. Guns was a far better band name than Pyrrhus.
I doubt it was a coincidence, but the very next day, Tracii Guns called to invite me to see his new band rehearse. That evening, I drove recklessly to Riverside and Fletcher, near Silverlake, to grab a burger from Rick’s before driving around the corner to “Nickey’s Love Palace,” the studio owned by Nickey Alexander. I halfway expected Mike to be there, due to him telling me he was considering joining Tracii’s new group, but there was no Mike in sight. I was happy, and told Tracii that L.A. Guns was a far better band name than Pyrrhus. Tracii later admitted the inspiration came from sort of combining names, New York Dolls and Sex Pistols, to get to L.A. Guns. Besides Tracii and Ole, that day’s version of the band featured an incredible skin-bashing monster, Dijon Carruthers, on drums. The trio proceeded to put on a beyond-impressive performance, and right afterward, Tracii pitched me for a small investment in L.A Guns.
Even though I found music’s forbidden seduction and elusive promises of wealth and pleasure intriguing, I said, “I’m not really into working with Mike.” After laughing and mocking Mike a bit, Tracii assured me that Mike was not even being considered. When Tracii walked me out so I could show off my new car, I asked if he knew of any upcoming Rose shows, but left out the part about them being the band I really wanted to work with. Apparently, Rose had broken up, and Izzy joined the popular local band London.
Finding out Axl Rose might be available was the first moment I considered investing in Tracii’s project. I kept the excitement to myself, while thinking if Axl joined L.A. Guns, it’d be huge. And if I invested, I’d end up richer than Elmer J. Fudd. With images of mansions and yachts filled with porn sluts dancing in my head, I said, “You think Axl would be interested in jamming with L.A. Guns?” Tracii told me he had invited Axl to come to a rehearsal, but he wanted to start his own project. I told Tracii I’d think about putting some cash into his band but needed a written proposal before I could decide.
