Here's a story that has nothing to do with anything in show business. Sorry if I don't have any good stories about Mama Cass eating grapefruit out of Scooby Doo's ass-crack or anything scintillating. ..
Back around 1989, I was living in a shitty apartment complex in Sherman Oaks, California. Most people did at that time. 4 out of 5 people in America lived in a shitty apartment complex around 1989 in Sherman Oaks, California. Not the same one obviously, because there are so many. But most of us who were alive in 1989 had to live in a shitty prefab apartment complex with a name like "Las Casa de la Habla" or whatnot. ..
I was living alone. I had split up with my chick because I was drinking a lot. For the longest time, I had managed to avoid getting into any deep debauchery. But I wasn't having a good time, I was drinking. Mostly alone. Living in Sherman Oaks, and hating life. ..
Our complex had a gate that led you into a courtyard surrounded by two floors of apartments. You walked in and there were some plants that were tended to a bunch of Mexicans during the day. Landscapers. Or immigrants. Whatever. ..
The apartments were lined with bushes. Occasionally there were parties and people would stay out in the courtyard drinking Coronas and sometimes falling into the bushes. And when I felt like having a drink, I'd go out and mingle for a minute. I'd chat up my neighbors, accept the beers I was given and drink until I crawled back to my pad. I had a lot of fun but I didn't because I was alone. ..
One night, three different apartments had a party the same night. You could walk in and out of any of three apartments and hang out, maybe grab a beer or take something from the snack tray or snort a line of coke as was offered to me by the guys on the second floor in apartment #22. ..
I walked up to #22 and stood around until I saw a small pile of coke on the kitchen counter. And never has there been as much of an oxymoron as "small pile" when it came to cocaine. I walked over to it and stared it like it was the Face of God. I don't know why, I've seen this movie before. I was in a band with Archie Andrews, for crying out loud. Then one of the guidos living in the building stepped to me and spoke...
"Maaaaan, it would be a tremendous honor to serve Jughead a line of coke," he said to me as he proceeded to cut a line for me with (I kid you not) his L.A. County Library card. Then he handed me a straw and announced to the people in the room, "Jughead's gonna snort a rail, ya'll! Party lock a rock stah!" They all whooped like a bunch of hyenas and stood there looking at me with a straw in my hand. ..
You ever see the part in "Annie Hall" where Woody Allen sneezes and blows all the coke away? Well, I did that, except take out "sneezes" and put in "blows it off on purpose and jumps out the window to escape." Yep, Jughead did that, yo. ..
I jumped out the window, thinking my fall would be cushioned by the bushes below. And it was...kinda. Except it was a briar bush and not a regular bush. So I wasn't hurt too bad except for dozens of briars piercing into my flesh. Plus I landed at a bad angle and fractured my wrist. ..
In my drunken state of mind, I thought I'd hit the bush and bolt back to my apartment, lock the door and have a laugh. That was the plan. Step 1: Jump out the window. Step 2: Land in bush. Step 3: Run home unscathed laughing. Everything went to shit in Step 2. And the guys from #22 ran down from their apartment to kick the shit out of me. For about ten minutes.
I crawled away, picked myself up and attempted to clean myself before stumbling back to my pad. Picked up the phone and I called my chick. "You need to come over, babe...no I can't come over there...I'm too fucked up, babe." I wanted the party days to end and get on with my life. I needed my chick.
Specifically, I needed her help getting some of the briars out of my body.