For me however, life in the relative solitude of my garage had fallen to a general routine of writing by morning, walking to the nearby gym in afternoon, then enjoying whatever happened after that. But my private garage/bedroom was about to get a bit smaller.
Chris “Naco” (From Naco New Mexico) had pieced together an old Shovelhead with his own hands and almost no money then struck out to see the country. He’d been on the road all summer. Naco was now in Southern California and had hit me on the internet to inquire if we might hook up. I’d never met this guy before, but he certainly sounded interesting. So I asked Joe—the ruler of this twin mini-mansion party empire—if I could invite this Naco guy to make camp in my garage for a while. Joe enjoys a genuine love of wild and interesting times so his reply was, “I’d like more bikers here. Tell him to bring it on.” I did.
A few days later, Naco’s ratty Shovelhead pulled in and we made acquaintance. He’s a young guy with long hair who is just “Naco” and obviously doesn’t particularly give a shit about impressions and appearances. His positive and uncommonly easygoing manner had earned him admiration and acclaim across the country (I’d seen it on social media), and so it was again here. After setting camp beside my own, and probably because of his age (late 20s I’d guess), Chris Naco fell face first into this Hollywood party scene then swam naturally as the others. Everybody, and especially Joe, took a fast liking to this our newest resident. I did too. Naco played a little guitar and it became common to see him hanging in the music studio with our resident famous rap star, Micky “Memphis” Wright, or simply staying up partying with the crowd till all hours of the night.
For me, and although there were many here who adored city life and cared to be nowhere else, I appreciated countryside as well. For respite, my overnight and sometimes multiple day forays to other places continued.
Long ago, I’d worked on the set of a porn shoot in Sturgis. Adam and Eve productions had been making a series titled “Sex Across America”, and if one pulls up the Sturgis addition they’ll see, along with the others, my photo on the cover. For this shoot I was hired as a Production Assistant—which translates to: grunt, go-fer, chauffeur, Sturgis tour guide, pussy lamp, etc. In other words, I was not one of the actors. While on the set I’d become friends with the producer and his wife. Both live in the nearby suburbs of LA and I decided to pay a visit.
As I’d long ago been told by those who’d worked for them then, these were very kind and thoughtful people which, Rio Maria (porn star) had said, was unusual in the porn world. Anyway, it was a good visit and I actually slept in an upstairs bedroom that night.
By the following evening I was back in West Hollywood.
As time had passed, the home-front party scene was increasing to an almost daily activity while Joe, who loved the parties but was also very ambitious in his business ventures, fought to keep this action limited to only weekends. It was a battle that, in the coming weeks, he would almost loose.
It was one otherwise mellow weeknight when a couple of party girls showed up at the front door and Joe voiced his protest. But, being a sucker for a weird time, he listened as they offered to do a face painted, fire eating, skimpy lingerie dance out by the pool. This funky idea quickly won him over. Although the place had been quiet that night, those of us present, me included, got a big kick outta that show.
Although the constant flow of groupies and party girls who frequented this place were too young for me, I met a girl elsewhere. Lisa’s a Jewish lawyer and I began spending time at her condo. We attended gatherings (At one I saw Steven Tyler with his companions Ringo Star and Joe Walsh. Lisa told me Ringo and Joe are married to sisters, both of whom were present, and this trio hangs together a lot. I refrained from shooting photos however, because I am no paparazzi), and watching movies at her place. Although we enjoyed each other’s company very much, our relationship was mostly a physical thing mutually agreed upon. It had been quite a while and I appreciated this girl very much.
Although some distance beyond the city, my dad Robert, and his wife Robin, live in this area and it had been years since I’d seen them. I decided to pay a visit. The little house lay some distance outside the high desert town of Palmdale and, if the desert can be considered countryside, dad’s place is defiantly out in the country. In his 70s now, and for as long as I’ve known him, my old man has raised almost all of his own food. After setting camp in the back yard, I asked for a tour of the place.
There were more turkeys living with the chickens than on my last visit. Always ardently attuned to the ways of animals, when I asked dad why he kept that old turkey who wasn’t good for much anymore he replied, “It’s best for their society to keep some of all ages among them.” The rabbit pens were empty now. They’d been full last I’d visited. Dad said rabbits became pets, which made him not want to eat them. But farm animals cannot be pets and so he’d let them go. The horses were boarded elsewhere now. Goats were gone as well. Dad told me that as he’s gotten older it’s become to much work to keep so many animals. These were all he really needed anyway. Although it was winter and the garden lay pretty brown, dad’s bright green thumb kept those remaining winter plants in fine condition. By evening we sat near a wood fire drinking tea and, as always, I enjoyed a very natural plate filled with wonderful foods.
Thanksgiving was close and next day I helped catch the turkey that would soon give its all for this holiday. Dad took him far from the others, petted his feathers for a while, then set him upon the chopping block. And as it had been in childhood, I helped to pluck the thanksgiving bird.
Later, in conversation, dad told me he was having heart problems and they wanted to do surgery which, in his opinion, was ridiculous for a man of his age. I could not argue. Shunning doctor’s drugs, he uses only the natural herb so common to California these days. Dad said he didn’t expect to live as long as his mother, who’d died at 86, and I noted his obvious peace with this idea. It seemed to me that, because he’s lived a more natural life and seen death frequently in his own backyard, he may simply have a greater understanding and acceptance than those of us more isolated from such things.
Robin’s rather erratic and sometimes quarrelsome family was coming for thanksgiving so I was okay with the idea of not returning for that. After four days I was back in Hollywood. What a stark contrast it was to my father’s seemingly hillbilly ways.
It was late evening as Naco and I sat in the dark music studio with a handful of others. The smokey party atmosphere was quite buzzed and a little drunk as conversation rambled on. Then, as I watched, one very fine young girl pulled down here pants, shot a sly smile at Shawn, then turned ’round and bent into the microphone both. Shawn looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, then unbuckled his belt and grabbed her hips. Around the room others began to follow suit and the place slowly settled into one big fuck fest. What a trip. I turned to Naco. I’m old and he’s ratty so we had nothing. I said, “Shall we go?”, and off to the garage we strolled to then sit in conversation while sounds of the city carried on all around.
A very unusual woman, Little Laura loves to travel almost constantly and, in order to achieve this goal without encumbrance, chooses to live in her pickup truck with camper shell. Although she often wonders much farther, Laura’s main base is all of southern California. I’ve known her since high school and she’s always been like that. By my invitation, Laura showed up at the Hollywood house. From there she’d leave the truck behind and accompany me to the Easyriders Chopper Show; which would soon take place at the Oxnard fairground. Our attendance would require a 50 mile ride through Malibu then up the coastal hwy-1. I’d been anticipating this event since before coming to Hollywood.
The day finally arrived and, bike now packed for two, we started north.
Although I’d no idea then, my time at the Hollywood houses was about to end rather abruptly. But this Hollywood adventure was not yet finished. It would, in fact, only move into the next chapter of travel with a man who’s lived from only the back of his Panhead for 33 years, and our stay at the home of a well known actor/motorcyclist…
