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HOMELESS IN HOLLYWOOD

by William Claude Carbone 

©2022 William Claude Carbone All rights reserved.

PREAMBLE

I’m writing this story because it’s something I have to do. Like a geyser or volcano, this story had to rise at some point; it’s a catharsis of sorts.

My “music career” started in front of a full length mirror at our house in Denver sometime in the 50s. I found a banjo fretboard somewhere—no body—just the fretboard. So I cut out a piece of cardboard in the shape of a guitar and glued it to the fretboard. I don't remember, but I probably used kitchen string for guitar strings; I stood in front of the mirror and did my best Elvis impression. 

I needed a real guitar. One Christmas I got a cheap Sears guitar. There was so much distance between the frets and strings I could almost stick a whole package of Juicy Fruit gum in the space; the thing was barely playable, but I could scratch out a few chords. And so it went. I got a better guitar, learned more chords and a few songs. Soon I was playing garden parties with neighborhood friends who were also playing at playing music. The garden parties escalated into playing school dances.

My girlfriend's friend was dating a football player at the University of Colorado, John “Skip” LaGuardia. Skip wanted to play in a rock & roll band—especially since he and fellow Varsity star, Dave Mariano, had been kicked off the team for betting on their own games. Debbie and I drove up to Boulder to meet Skip and Dave. We clicked, and soon we were getting a band together, rehearsing at their Boulder apartment house. Skip was undoubtedly the boss. He was the chief, the manager and (almost) a guitar player; I mean he was not a musician, but he was a great manager. He named the band THE ROMANS! Three Italian guys and one Tommy Moore. Tommy was really the only real musician in the group, he was in the music school at CU. Off season he worked for the great Jazz guitarist, Johnny Smith, at Smith's music store in Colorado Springs. Skip got us gigs in Boulder, mostly Frat parties on “The Hill.” TOGA parties were in fashion that season and we played a bunch of them. Soon we were playing 3-2 clubs in Boulder, Denver, Ft. Collins, Greely, and Pueblo. We were connected to club impresario, Nate Feld. I played lead guitar and sang, Dave Mariano played bass, sang and popped white pills, Tommy Moore was our drummer and Skip—well skip was quite a showman, he would “sing” and worked very hard at the guitar. Sometimes when Skip strayed too far from the song, one of us would unplug his guitar, unbeknownst to him.

The Romans played for a couple of seasons, then just—sort of—played out. We went our separate ways. I joined other bands, Skip and Dave opened several bars, and Tommy Moore moved on. 

In 1973 there was an article in the Rocky Mountain News about LaGuardia. A Lakewood Cold Case File article reads: "Evidence indicates a suspect was hiding in the bushes near John LaGuardia's house waiting for him to return home. When Mr. LaGuardia returned home at 1:00 A.M. he was shot with a shotgun and then bludgeoned. A handgun was recovered at the scene. Anyone with information regarding this case, is asked to please contact the Lakewood Police Department." Holy crap... Sometime after Skip's murder, another guy was found shot to death—with a piano wire wrapped around his neck in a car in the parking lot of Skip's bar THE ALPINE INN on Tejon Street... His name was Ralph “Ralphie Pizzazz” Pizzalato. Pizzalato was Skip's, so called, lieutenant. Rumor has it that Ralph double-crossed Skip and was working for Denver's crime family, The Smaldones. I've heard two versions: one is that Skip was taking business away from the Smaldones, the other is that Skip was messing around with a Smaldone woman. No one seems to know for sure, at least I don't. The case went cold and remains so. I don't think that the police ever found out who killed Pizzalato either.

In the 60s, I worked for my late father-in-law who operated a high-volume scrap yard. At first, I picked up little scraps of metal from off the ground until I learned how to differentiate between all of the different metals and steels. After a year I was moved into the office, still occasionally driving a truck. I hated every minute of it, but it was a good learning experience. 

After the junkyard, I studied for, received, and used my real-estate-license; I had some success selling real estate for John Bruno Realters at 1190 So. Colorado Boulevard in Denver. One day I was on the sales floor and a process server walked in and handed me divorce papers. That was mostly all she wrote for domestic life. 

After that, I worked the graveyard shift at a gas station pumping gas. The only good thing about that cold, thankless job was that the young guys I worked with usually sparked a bud behind the station around 2:00 am. 

The next job I had was working as a headhunter at an employment agency specializing in computer programers. After returning from Hollywood—later in this story—I worked as a beer tender and pizza cook at the Shakey’s Pizza Parlor in Cherry Creek. One of my co-workers was a nephew of Earth Wind and Fire’s Philip Bailey. One day Bailey came in, his Rolls Royce parked out front. “Suspenseful music!” Little did I know that I would soon be recording one of my songs with his band mate, Al McKay, playing lead guitar. 

Basically, I had a bunch of jobs that let me hold on to my dream. I worked as a day worker for Manpower, whose parent company was Parker Pen. I survived that misery thinking that since I was a writer and writers wrote with pens among other things, so… Some of the jobs I had with Manpower were: unloading semi-trailers, loading and unloading furniture vans, waxing the floors at a bakery on the night shift, taking inventory somewhere, and so on. 

Around 1973, I was working at a used railroad-tie company in Denver operating a fork-lift, and driving a truck delivering railroad ties to the goldmines in the Rockies; in the city, I was delivering ties for landscaping. The company yard wasn’t more than 100-yards from the outward-bound train track along the Santa Fe Corridor.  

After hours, I continued to write songs as well as buying studio-time at Applewood studios in Golden. Michael Martin Murphey; Jerry Corbetta; Firefall; Maze, Featuring Frankie Beverly; The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and others were also recording at Applewood at the time. I was in pretty good company. I was making music, building momentum, honing my craft, and getting ready to meet my fortune and fame—and reconnecting with Chuck E Weiss in Los Angeles.

There was a song in ‘56 called, THE WAYWARD WIND, it was sung by Gogi Grant, Tex Ritter and others. There’s a verse that’s so apropos to my life at that time: “In a lonely shack by a railroad track—he spent his younger days—and I guess the sound of the outward bound—made him a slave to his wand'rin ways.” The railroad-tie company was a long piece of fenced property that was adjacent to the railroad tracks. There were several flatbed trucks, fork-lifts, and a little tin shack. 

One day, when I was alone in the little, 10x10 shack, the boss’s wife came in, sat down, and said very suggestively, “Bill, I get so lonely.” Oh oh, I know what that means. I knew I was doomed! Two weeks later I was fired. The boss probably thought that I was stealing because I couldn’t look him in the eyes. The Eagles “YOU CAN’T HIDE YOUR LYIN’ EYES” just drifted past my mind.

So several days after the firing, I packed a few things—along with my guitar and demo-tapes, parked my white, VW Poptop Camper in an airport parking lot, and flew out of Denver—over that great barrier—the Rocky Mountains, a barrier that I thought kept me apart from my dreams for years. I left my wife Susan and my girls enough money to last until I returned.  

This story takes up where I left off in the tale—on Facebook—about staying at the Stardust motel on La Brea Ave. in Hollywood. In that story, I mentioned the Hollywood pimp, Eldorado Red, as well as running out of motel money and having to move out of the motel and onto the street. Both of these stories are within these pages.

It’s a funny thing about the Stardust motel, the fact that Chuck E Weiss was staying at a motel called the Tropicana. Anyone who has been to Las Vegas, pre 2006, knows that there were two monster casinos/hotels in Las Vegas—at the time—with the same names, the Tropicana and the Stardust (the Stardust closed in 2006.) They had nothing in common with the little motels in LA, just the names. Chuck was at the Tropicana, so of course I had to compete—as we did practically all of our lives, most of the time he won. I also had to have a Las Vegas clone-named motel, so when I saw the Stardust, I knew it was the place for me...but I digress.

Back to the main story. I ran out of cash and didn't want to call anyone mostly because of dumbass pride. I could have, but chose not to, and in this case pride definitely went before the fall. Also…and this is important. Being a small-town boy, I knew if I was going to “make it” in the big city, I would have to know how to survive the streets. So I stored my gear: guitar, demo-tapes, and a few sundries at the motel office, walked up to Hollywood Boulevard, turned west, and walked into a nightmare.

At first it wasn’t so bad, I still had a few bucks in my wallet so I wasn’t panicking “yet,” and I thought that I’d easily be able to survive the streets. WRONG! That first day I walked and walked, enjoying myself, not a care in the world. I happened upon a pizza joint and like any good Italian fellow, stopped to buy a slice. Now we're cooking. This city has it all, I thought. 

Everywhere I went, I would hear Supertamp’s TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME blasting out of business’s windows. I also remember hearing that other song, Maxine Nightingale's I’VE GOT TO GET RIGHT BACK WHERE I BELONG, it was everywhere. Oh wait, this is wrong, those are from another time in the 80s when I hitchhiked from Denver—though the Nevada Proving Ground—and ended up homeless in Las Vegas; both songs were so damned relevant to my situation. But that's also a tale for another time.

I walked and walked and walked up and down Hollywood Boulevard, past Grauman's Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame, up and down Sunset, La Brea, and a few side streets; I hadn’t discovered the Fairfax area or Melrose—yet, apparently a whole lot of people hadn’t discovered Melrose either.

Finally, the glorious, California sunset began to dim; night was falling and so was I, falling into a state of malaise, an uneasiness. For the first time, I was scared. Where in the hell would I sleep, would I be safe? There’s no backing out now, my back was way up against the proverbial wall already. 

Hollywood Boulevard was much too crazy and too crowded, so I headed over to Sunset Boulevard where on the southside, there were areas of green-lawn, bushes and trees. I settled into a cozy, little patch of grass in some bushes that overlooked the sparkling city to the south. Well, I thought, this isn’t so bad, the ground is hard but it’s warm and probably as safe as any other place I’d find in Hollywood. Sunset Blvd. seemed to be fairly safe with the exclusive restaurants and stores—upscale, with rich people like “Rockin New Years Eve’s Dick Clark,” who had an office there. I even passed that old-time comedian, Shelly Berman, walking his dog in front of a tall building, he gave me a frosty look. I thought at the time, “man that guy’s cold,” get it, Brrr———man?

I guess several days went by, mostly uneventfully, and I still had a few bucks left, so I wasn’t going hungry, yet. I’d go to a restaurant, order coffee or tea, load it with sugar or honey and sit for hours.

One night, I was lying in my “den” looking at the yellow brick wall of the building to the west. The Moon, if not full, was very bright, like a spotlight. There were leafy trees in front of the wall. When the Moon shone on them it cast a shadow on the wall. There was a slight wind so the leaves were moving and dancing about. It sort of reminded me of a motion picture projected on a wall, that yellow wall.

For some reason, Bob Dylan’s “BLOWIN IN THE WIND” was going through my head, over and over again: “The answer my friend is blowing in the wind.” Well, ding dong, I need answers, Dylan says that the wind has the answer. Just how does one contact the wind, I pondered?

I thought about it while watching the “movie” play and hearing “BLOWIN IN THE WIND” in my head, thinking real hard. Let's check out this wind thing. I stood up and felt a slight breeze, I felt it mostly in my hair; my hair was rather long in those days, so the breeze was moving my hair about. Hmmm, I had an idea. Maybe if I let the wind blow my hair around, I could follow and see where it takes me. I mean, really, what did I have to lose? So, I shoved off, letting the wind—which I kept at my back—gently push my hair in whatever direction *it/she/he/they wanted me to go. 

*For the sake of this story, I’ll refer to the wind as “it.” If I felt the breeze blowing my hair to the left, I’d go left. Maybe I’d walk for half-a-block, take a turn and walk a few more yards, all “under the power” of the wind. What a trip, maybe Dylan does know about that of which he speaks.

I walked for what seemed like hours, and I’m sure it was. I passed through the downtown area of LA, and got mugged by three (gang-member-type) black guys—while searching for Jesus crucified on a telephone pole (there were cross members at the top of the poles which made the poles look like crosses.) These sons-of-bitche’s thugs demanded my wallet, shoes, and belt, asking “if I’d ever run home without shoes.” Later, sitting on a bus-stop bench, I was told by a very kind woman—who was also black—that "a white boy shouldn’t be in this part of town." She gave me a two-dollar bill—for luck—and I moved on. Maybe this wind thing is a really rotten ruse. After a while, I was in the Fairfax district—all the while letting the wind push me forward.

I walked up Melrose Avenue, the wind was showing me—actually talking to me, pushing, always pushing—a building where I was to open an art gallery, where I'd paint and sell pictures of litter and leaves. The wind that evening was blowing litter around: newspaper pages, flyers, litter, and leaves, etc..

That night I walked past—and looked into the eyes of— actors, Bruce Dern and Cicely Tyson. 

I walked around Melrose, the East End was nothing like it is today, it was a sleepy street with a few old stores. The area towards Fairfax was just beginning to develop into today’s ultra-hip Melrose District. Clothing stores, gift-shops, book stores, psychics, candle and incense stores, etc. were doing a robust business. There was one place—a kind-of museum that was on the upper floor of a building. I walked in and in the middle of the place there was an open, wooden coffin that purportedly held Dracula’s bones! The Dracula! How did I know? There was a sign that said Dracula’s Bones! Well, it said, Dracula’s Bones; it was a complete skeleton including the skull. Creepy!

I cruised down the street and suddenly found myself —and my hair—on a large green lawn, with luscious grass, succulents like ice-plant, and trees. Then I saw a sign, one of those signs behind glass, like the signs in front of a church—only this wasn’t a church, it was a synagogue. The wind was moving me around, it was steering, I was following. It would gently blow my hair a bit to the left, then switch directions, blow my head up an inch, then forward, etc...I really didn’t have any control at this time. Then all of a sudden, the wind was perfectly still—after tilting my head downward. Lo and behold, I was staring down at a ten-dollar bill. When you’re on the street, sometimes there's change lying around, once in a great while a dollar bill, but you never see a Five, let alone a Hamilton.

I just thought of the time in the 90s—in Las Vegas—when I was driving down Las Vegas Boulevard. After stopping at a light I looked down and saw a folded wad of bills that must have been four-inches thick. Just as I was about to open the car door and retrieve the cash, some random guy yelled, “that’s mine.” He said those words… but I also heard, “touch it and you’re dead.” Must be a drug dealer, but again I digress. Back to the story. 

At that instant, I was sold, Dylan knew stuff and now I did as well. There was indeed “SOMETHING OUT THERE,” something spiritual, something amazing, something fantastic. I pocketed my $10-stash and headed out, this time under my own power. I let the wind rest. I went back to my nest, where I started from, and went to sleep dreaming about the wind, leaves and litter. FYI If one searches a dictionary, “Leaves, twigs and pieces of bark that have fallen to the ground make up leaf litter.” 

Next morning I awoke thinking that I knew all of the secrets of the universe, I was also hungry. I had seen an International House of Pancakes (or a Village Inn Pancake House—don’t remember which one it was) and I “needed” pancakes, it wasn’t far, so… The place was crowded so I had to wait a while, then I finally got a booth. I preferred booths, I felt more secure in one, still do. I slid in, grabbed the menu and waited to order. After the waitress took my order, a big guy in Levi’s, a Levi’s jean-jacket and sneakers sat down at a table, not more than four feet away from me—looking every bit the farmer. I finally took a closer look, it was Jed Clampett of the Beverly Hillbillies TV Show, A.K.A. Buddy Ebsen.

After a minute his waitress stopped at his table to take his order. She wasn’t very attractive, she had a bad complexion, and stringy hair—just not an attractive woman. As they spoke he smiled at her like she was Marilyn Monroe. In the middle of his smile, he turned his head toward me and was shooting bullets with his eyes—in the shape of stars. They were close enough for me to hear most of their conversation. She was telling him how much she loved him in the Beverly Hillbillies, he smiled a huge smile and thanked her profusely, he was a classy guy. She took his order and went back to the kitchen.

BTW, when I was doing my “wind-walk,” it was revealed to me how (show business) stars become stars: a butterfly flies to the stars above, gathers stardust on its wings, then flys back down to Earth sprinkling stardust on the chosen few. It’s possible! It’s a sweet tale anyway. Speaking of sweet, I was watching the movie, MOONSTRUCK the other night. There's a sweet scene in which the college professor is dining with Cher’s “mom.” He says something like—talking about one of his students—“she is as bright as moonlight in a glass of champagne.”

I have another story about that IHOP/Village Inn. Several nights later, I was back at that restaurant around 11:00 o'clock at night. I walked in and no one else was there except the staff. All of the gold and black plastic coffee pots on the tables and booths were “saluting me.” Their little, black lids did 1⁄2 of a 180, and were standing straight up. I was pleased, complemented. Yes, someone probably slipped me some acid in the coffee or tea. Anyway just then, superstar extraordinaire Sammy Davis Jr. came in and slid into a booth across from me. He—speaking across the aisle, said, "got a match.” Wow, this star is as big as they get and he’s talking to me. I watched as he “worked” the waitress. I nursed my coffee. I was dumbfounded, hanging with Sammy! A couple of months later I was back in LA with my second x-wife and somehow we stumbled onto Sammy’s office. We went up to the second floor. I thought that he might recognize me, but his sexatary said that he wasn’t in.

Again, I digress.

The next morning, I went back to work. I stopped at the office of the Stardust Motel, managed by a Mrs. and Mr. Miller. Mrs. Miller was a tall, svelte, Hollywood blonde. Mr. Miller, who incidentally, looked and talked like Fred Mertz from the I Love Lucy show, handed me my demo tapes and I walked over to Bennett Glotzer’s office on Western Avenue. Glotzer Management was expecting me, Chuck Weiss gave me the introduction. Glotzer was managing Chuck’s cousin, Hollye Leven and bizarre rocker, Frank Zappa. Before—in New York—Glotzer had been managing Janis Joplin, The Band, Bob Dylan and others. Haltingly, I handed him the tape. Delivering that tape was one of the most difficult things I had ever done. My legs and ankles were “locking up,” due to miles of walking, and unbelievable stress. My hand was shaking. Glotzer congratulated me, saying that “a lot of guys chicken out at the last minute.” 

Think about it. If he liked my stuff, I literally could go from “rags to riches” overnight. After leaving Glotzer Management’s office, I made a cold call, took another tape to Herb Alpert’s A & M Records on La Brea. What a cool place. I later found out that the studio was on the grounds of the historic Charlie Chaplin Studios. They graciously accepted the tape, the woman asked for my contact info, I gave it to her and left. 

Riding high on thinking that I was soon going to have a recording contract and that I could finally buy a candy-apple-red Rolls Royce, I shoved off back onto the streets. I even took a city bus. Now it was just a matter of time, I’d be riding in style. Weiss had been singing some song back in Denver, it was something about a “honey dripper.” I swear on that bus, these women got on and one had a jean-jacket with the painted phrase, “Honey Dripper.” Well, it freaked me out, I had never heard those words other than from Weiss's mouth. And I had some kind of “audio-vision” as well—with the song-words: “Big brown computers on Mars and rock & roll stars, I’m a long way from that now, but I remember it well.” What in the hell was that about?

I’m absolutely certain that I had never heard of the poem, “THE DECK OF CARDS.” [There’s a YouTube link to this poem at the bottom of this story, click the link.] Anyway, it’s certainly possible that I fell asleep with the radio on, one night long ago, and subconsciously picked up on this song. It’s one of the most powerful experiences I’ve ever had—my story in regards to this. The story goes like this: After being out on the streets of Hollywood for a couple of weeks, I was starting to be a little bit more comfortable, I started recognizing familiar faces in familiar places. I was starting to know who the hookers were, the bad guys and the good guys.

One figure who was an amazing character looked like Moses straight out of the Bible, long hair, long beard, and a black frock, he even carried a staff. Swear to God. He was hanging out with some of the young girls who were also out on the street, even a few young guys stood around him. He would sometimes just chat, other times he would preach Bible stories. One night, he came up to me and said - point blank: “Go and put a quarter in your favorite machine and buy a deck of cards.” Huh? Wait—What? I had no idea what he was talking about, I pondered his directive, just couldn’t figure out what he meant. Besides I didn’t have any money, I blew my last change on coffee. I suppose I could panhandle awhile and try to get a quarter and a deck of cards, I thought. So I went to work at my new profession, professional panhandler. After a couple of hours, I had the cards and some change. I still didn’t have any idea of what to do with them. “Put a quarter in your favorite machine.” Just about then I was passing a porno shop on Western Avenue. Ding, ding, ding, the bells went off, I got it. I had the occasion to visit a few porno shops in Denver. In fact, I dated a young girl who worked at a porno shop in West Denver. One day I took her to the Denver Art Museum, we smoked a joint on the third floor. 

Again, I digress. 

So I went into the porno shop on Western, into one of these little booths where one could watch a porn movie on a little screen. The floors in those places are really filthy, sticky and filthy, nevertheless, my jaw hit that floor when I looked at the screen. There was a very attractive woman—with a penis! Long hair, fine features, breasts, and a penis. Well I never—as they used to say in the movies. I had never seen anything like this before and I’ve seen a lot of stuff. Most interesting, but what does it have to do with me? 

I left the place and went back out onto the sidewalk. That still leaves the deck of cards. More pondering. I walked around thinking about the “lady” with a penis as well as the deck of cards. I walked and walked, I thought and thought. Bam, the following words came to the surface, kinda like in an inner-voice: “Fifty two cards for a year of weeks, Four months for the seasons. Everything fits, There are no leaks, Time will show the reasons.” Then the voice went on, it seemed to be assigning a certain card to a life event or person. I (it) was totally paraphrasing the original poem, but the meaning is the same. 

These are some of the original words:

“When you count the spots in a deck of cards, you’ll find 365, the number of days in a year. There are 52 cards, the number of weeks in a year. There are thirteen tricks, the number of weeks in a quarter. There are four suits, the number of weeks in a month. And twelve picture cards, the number of months in a year.” And it went on. I was dumbfounded! This is amazing, the old man knew some shit. [You can hear the entire poem below.] 

Tex Ritter's The Deck of Cards

So I took off once again down Western and eventually back to my den, where this all started. The next night I was still smarting from the “Profit’s” directive and revelations. I was going back to the “scene of the crime” and passed a bar on Sunset, and being extremely tired—I mean dead tired, I thought that I could rest for a while, just sit for a spell. The door to The Black Cat bar was open to the night, it was dark in there, black as a black cat on a moonless night. I slithered in, sat at a quiet table in the back, hoping no one would see me—at least for a while. After ten minutes some dude walked up to me and asked if he could buy me a drink. Remember now, I’m the little, town square. I didn't have a clue. He seemed like a nice guy, probably lonely like me, sure why not? He sat down and asked what I was drinking. This is pretty cool, I thought, I didn’t get kicked out, now I'm in here legitimately, I can kick back, relax and rest. “I’ll just have a Coke with a cherry.” O.K.

This guy—with horrible breath, and a weeks growth of, scraggly beard actually had a history. When in the Air Force, he guarded President John F Kennedy at certain times, he showed me the old, yellowed newspaper articles of him with JFK.

After a while, he suggested that we leave and go back to his place. I’m good, I got my rest, I was feeling refreshed. I’m up for the next adventure, anything has got to be better than sleeping in the weeds. So we left and walked over to his little bungalow which was right around the corner from the Black Cat. He made some sandwiches and mixed a couple of screwdrivers. We sat at his kitchen table and chowed down. After eating, I asked the dude if I could take a shower. I hadn’t cleaned up in a very long time. So I went into the shower, turned on the hot water, and let the universal solvent wash the grime away with my worries. Oh Oh, no sooner than I was starting to relax, his hand was on my ass, he reached into the shower and grabbed me! Now I get it! “Sorry dude, I don’t truck with that.” 

The next morning the guy was really pissed off; he wanted me to sleep with him in his bed, but I slept on the couch. Around 10:00 am, he brought me a change of clothes. He gave me a peach-colored T-shirt and white jeans with strawberries embroidered over the crotch area—he wanted me to leave as soon as possible. FYI The strawberry patch meant “strawberry ‘feels’ forever.”

Several days later, I called my wife “collect” and told her I was ready to come home, and I needed help. The next thing I remember was that she showed up at LAX with two return tickets in hand. We flew back to Denver, me with my strawberry-patched white jeans.

Once again, I was on a different planet, I vividly remember sitting with Susan under a tree at Washington Park. I felt like a conquering King returning to his domain. Believe me, I slept really well for the next few nights.

I soon landed “the job” at Shakey’s.

After being fired by the idiot manager at Shakey's—more about that later—things got rough, I moved back home with Susan. One night I found myself out at the Sheraton Hotel by Stapleton Airport. I was using the coolest walking stick with a weed bowl “in the side” and a smoking hole on top; there was even an aluminum insert where I could stash my stash. I made the thing, drilled the holes, added the inserts, and stained it Dark Walnut. I was trying to be cool—and I was on a search. The thing is, I was in desperate need to fall in love so I could continue to write love songs, I needed a new Muse.

I found Deborah Goldmann bartending at the Sheraton, she was drop-effing-dead gorgeous, her eyes—literally sparkled like diamonds. I found my muse. Since I was smoking a lot of weed, I would just order a coke with a cherry from her; after several visits to the hotel, she knew my order and would always give me several cherries. She was a really friendly gal. I was still high from living on the streets of Hollywood and my mind was pretty—big city—sharp. I tried to dazzle her with a poem—of sorts. I had this whole language thing going on, like I’d break down words into “syllables that turned into words.” It’s complicated but I’ll explain more in later chapters. One night I was taking medication because this shrink thought that I was bananas. I overdosed and left the bar on a stretcher. That was cool. I wrote a song about the encounter with Debrah Goldmann, I have it on tape but I have to have it transferred to disc. 

QUEEN OF THE ANGELS goes something like this: I was spending time and money — Trying to make a good connection — And then I met you — You are absolute perfection — Just as perfect as an image of the Sun — Sinking in the sea. QUEEN IF THE ANGELS — You are right — Where I belong! There are several more verses.  

T he en D

When I was wind walking in Hollywood, everything was broken down into two categories—me—and everything/everyone else. I was ‘T’ you were ‘D.’ Don’t ask why because I don’t know!

Notes:  

[Chuck loaned me $1500, to fly back to Denver after my first LA trip, I sold my VW bus to pay him back. FYI I think he may have borrowed the money from Joe Blue—a big-time Jewish mobster.]

T he en d (for now)