Part One: Entry #3

(Los Angeles/Orange County Circa 1980)

“Dude,” Jenkins turns to Vic in the backseat, “when we get up to my cousin Ernie’s place in L.A. where we’re gonna get the pot. I just wanna tell ya, that there might be some fags hangin’ out.”

“Wha-at?” Vic is astonished.

“Ya know, L.A..., fags and stuff. No big deal.”

Later, after picking up Ryan Smith, we’re riding north on the 605. We switch over to the 5 somewhere around Boyle Heights then onto the Hollywood Freeway. We exit at Silver Lake Boulevard.

The four of us walk into Cousin Ernie’s place. It’s a pre-WWII duplex off Vermont. We find seats in the warmly lit hardwood-floored living room.

Jenkins’ father, Jacques Arceneaux, sits bearded and overweight in an easy chair rolling a joint. He wears a black t-shirt with, ‘On a clear night in Harley country you can smell a rice-grinder for miles,’ printed in white just above a Harley-Davidson logo.

I take a hit of a joint as it goes around the room. The pot comes on and I absorb the comfort of the place. For a moment, I get a flash, a vision of what things must have been like when L.A. was in its heyday.

Ernie walks in with a couple of guys decked out in leather and chains, one’s got a dog collar on with an attached leash.

“Check us out Jacques! Wuh gonna tuhn sum heads at the Flamin’ Eagle tanaght,” he goes in a classic New Orleans “East” accent.

“Yeah, the queens’ll all be in a tither,” one of Ernie’s friends laughs.

“I was talkin’ tuh this gah ah met the other naht...,” Ernie takes a big drag off the joint and passes it to Jacques. “I told ‘im whatcha wuh inta and whatcha did... Said ‘e maht be intruhsted.”

Jacques grunts and takes another hit off the joint.

“What’s this music?” I ask referring to a classical piece. The music comes from a stereo in the dining area just beyond the living room.

“Ahh...actually, this is the Planets, by Gustav Holst,” Jacques answers my question. “He was, although German, very popular in London during World War One.”

I give some money to Jenkins to buy a bag of skunk weed from Ernie. Then we head out for Hollywood.

“Fuck dude...! Were those guys fags?” Vic asks, astounded, as we roll away from Ernie’s.

“Ahhh... Yeah... I believe they were,” Ryan mumbles as he goes through a number of cassette tapes strewn across the front seat.

I turn the car onto Vermont pointing it towards Sunset where I make a left.

Near Hollywood Boulevard we turn off Sunset to ride through a residential area. We meander a bit. I make turns at the whim of my buzz. Soon we’re lost. If I had to, I could find my way to a familiar area. But for the time being, I’m enjoying the buzz, almost letting the ‘65 Olds drive itself.

Yellow lamps atop concrete pillars between wide, well lit streets and dark lawns. Mexican children frolic on sidewalks. Air breezes through the Cutlass’ windows.

We roll along in the southern California night dead-ending near the gate of a cemetery. I shut the engine off. The sound of the kids playing continues off in the distance. We sit there silent. I take it all in and contemplate going into the cemetery.

“Let’s go to the Lhasa Club...! I wanna see Debbie Diamond!” Vic blurts out in a whine. He’s referring to a girl from MV-3, a new wave dance show.

“Fuck that shit!” Ryan explodes.

“Dude..., let’s just ride around all stoned, trippin’ out on Hollywood,” Jenkins suggests.

“But I wanna see Debbie Diamond!” Vic whines again.

“Fuck,” I mutter, then navigate towards the club. Soon we’re pulling up in front of the hip spot.

“I wonder if he actually thinks he’s gonna fuck Debbie Diamond tonight, or any other night,” Ryan comments as Vic steps through the doors of Lhasa.

“Well..., I tell ya what. He can find his own fuckin’ way home man,” I’m pissed. “I’m not comin’ back here tonight to pick his ass up.”

We continue meandering. Soon we’re lost again. Find ourselves on a street with a fair amount of people. They just stand around yelling, whooping it up. As we move along, the street becomes filled with more and more people. I slow down to avoid hitting them. Soon there are so many people in the street that I can barely maneuver through them.

“Aaugh!” Someone yells a few inches from Ryan’s face in the back seat. People stick their heads, arms and shoulders in the car screaming with abandon.

“Ahh...! Fuckin’ Lakers!” some guy in an L.A. Raiders t-shirt sticks his head in the car. Yells in Jenkins face, “Fuckin’ Lakers are the fuckin’ champs!”

“Woo-hoo, Lakers,” Jenkins deadpans taking the piss.

Jenkins’ mockery is lost on the dude. He takes a huge gulp from a Budweiser can. Turns his head straight up in the air screaming, “LAAAKERRRZ!!!”

We leave the reveling N.B.A. fans behind stopping at a liquor store for a twelve-pack of Lucky Lager. Then we head north on Vermont passing the Greek Theater. After a bit of winding and climbing we arrive at the parking lot of the Griffith Park Observatory.

A fair amount of people mill about the entrance of the landmark. A couple security guards look on. Ryan carefully conceals the beer with his windbreaker as we pass by. We hike a little up into the dry dark hills behind the place. After a few minutes we find a good place to drink.

The three of us sit on boulders beers in hand looking out onto the lights of Hollywood below.

“Yeah..., she’s a wanna be valley girl, but she’ll fuck ya till ‘er pussy falls out,” Jenkins goes on about this girl, Erica Neilson. He turns to me, “She’s stoked on you dude, but we told ‘er you were a fag... An’ then she’s all, ‘What a waste! He’s so hot!’ ”

Photo by Cirrhosis Aguda