I’m in the lobby at the famous Chateau Marmont just off Sunset in Hollywood. I’m waiting to meet my friend Hank Moody. I can’t help but be in awe knowing I’m standing in the place were Jim Morrison stayed. The place where John Belushi died, where famous stars and their friend’s show up to be seen or not. It’s surreal. There’s always a party in the lounge, day or night. A place where the celebrity mingle amongst the common. A place where you might find Tommy Lee playing the bar piano to a group of co-eds or aspiring actresses. The architecture is that of an early European Castle, something short of a fairy tale, with turrets spiraling up from the hills and landscape that partially obscure it from the hustle of the Boulevard below. A place where you can be yourself or be anyone you wish. For the likes of me to live out my fairy tale of living in Hollywood in the midst of it all.
Hank steps from the elevator and quickly scans the lobby as though he doesn’t care who is present, but yet searching for something all the same. He walks towards the bar as I meet him half way. We embrace as though we hadn’t seen each other in years, he renders in a high squealing pitch “what’s up… mother-fucker” as we head to the bar…Vodka Rocks…”the good stuff”.
What was to follow would be the night of my life. A night that would be both memorable and un-rememberable. Drinks, women, drugs and a bald guy named Runkle. An argument, a fight and the police and I have a new friend named Trixie. I wake up in a Porsche convertible to sounds of Seagulls and waves crashing on the Santa Monica Beach wearing jeans and a tattered shirt from the nights past. We talk as we drive to the local Denny’s of the night that had gone before and how I shouldn’t take as long to come back out. After breakfast Hank drives me to LAX as I depart the Porsche for the last time he yells “Smell you later”.
I board the plane headed back to Ohio, back to reality, back to this blog and to where I can be anything or anyone I want.