Bad Company

I want to write about another of the Hollywood "bad boys" (see my previous post).

I know I'm going to regret this when I sober up, but it was one of the more interesting chapters in my California past. As incredible as it's going to sound, I can assure you every word is true.
And, I can also assure you that I'll be deliberately leaving a lot out.......because I need to maintain a smidgen of dignity.......

No need to say how I met Phil. He was one of the most handsome guys in Hollywood. Blonde, blue-eyed, tall. I'm six-foot-one. He was taller than me. He could charm the pants off anyone. Don't even try to speculate. He was charismatic, reckless, and - - recently released from prison. On parol. For armed robbery and assault.
It is said that we are only as good as the company we keep. Don't believe it.

Phil had been raped and beaten in prison. It left deep psychological scars. He told me stories that I'd never repeat. He was tough and frighteningly psychotic, but he also had an intriguingly tender and vulnerable side. I won't elaborate.

Phil was a serious marijuana connoisseur. He smoked joints constantly. He had stashes hidden everywhere. I knew where he got it from, too. I'd like to be very specific, but I'll merely say that his supplier was a major-league baseball player on a California team. I met him.

I was with Phil the first time I ever smoked grass. We had driven down to Long Beach and sat on the sand watching the sunset. We smoked a few joints and I was amazed at how vivid and incredible the sunset became. This was around the time when the Queen Mary (the ship) was still a new acquisition in the Long Beach Harbor. We started throwing rocks at the ship. I always associate the memory of my first joint with sunsets, rocks, and the Queen Mary.

For some reason that I can't remember, Phil's driver's license had been revoked. We always used my car. Phil would hide his stash of grass in my car. Under the seats. In the trunk. At the time, I was too idiotic to realize the trouble I'd be in if I ever got caught.

I had a Guardian Angel watching over me in those reckless days of my youth. The angel has since committed suicide.

One of our favorite haunts was the Green Cafe on Santa Monica Boulevard. The cafe is no longer in existence, but at the time it was an incredibly popular hangout of the famous and the infamous. I saw Raquel Welch there, and Cher. Even porn stars went there. One afternoon Phil and I were having lunch and Linda Lovelace came in. She had recently caused a sensation with the movie Deep Throat. Nobody in the cafe recognized her, except the waiter. She just sat there - eating a salad and drinking iced tea - like a normal everyday person.

I'm going to bypass a helluva lot of other stories involving Phil (I don't want anyone to faint) and get to one of the most interesting. One night he surprised me by showing up driving a car. He told me it was a friend's car that he'd borrowed. I believed him.

So we're driving, smoking grass, drinking whiskey, heading toward Orange County. Somehow we wound up in the Orange Hills - winding roads, dangerous curves, pitch black, completely isolated. I want to tell everything about that particular night but it would be far too much to absorb - - I need to condense and keep some memories to myself. There are aspects of complete recklessness and wickedness that should never be whispered......

He's driving, we're both drinking, smoking joints. He accelerates to alarming speeds, seeing how fast he can go. Even though I'm thoroughly stoned I can sense a semblance of genuine fear. We screech around curves, literally bounding through the darkness.

Suddenly, we miss a turn. The car spins wildly out of control, we hit a guard rail, fly over it, hurl down a hillside. The car crashes to a jolting stop.
I'll never know how we were still alive. We were bruised, bloodied, shaken, but miraculously in one piece.

How do I end this one with dignity? The car didn't belong to a friend, I later found out - - it was stolen. We walked (or limped) miles down the hill, hitchhiked back to the city. It was a long night.

Phil lived in constant fear of his parol officer (with damn good reason). He was always afraid of failing the drug tests. I eventually lost contact with him (after a few very dramatic scenes) and moved on. I later heard through a reliable source that he was back in prison.
This was all long ago when I was around 21.

These were excerpts from my typically average California days.
Now, my "average" day consists of going to WalMart and McDonalds. And feeding the feral cats. Go figure.....

Few photos exist of me during my wild

Hollywood days (thank God). Here's one of them.

Someone should have shot me for wearing that shirt!