In 1995 Scottie Taylor invited me out to LA to run the door at the Milk Bar in Beverly Hills. As usual the nightclub’s opening was delayed several months. I had no money. Only a credit card from my dear mistress, Ms. Carolina. Scottie and I lived on about $10 a day and the occasional treat at Jerry’s Deli on Ventura. Scottie had a battered Pinto, which he drove over every day to South Canon Drive to work on the club, which had one time been owned by Dean Martin of Rat Pack fame.
I took the 420 bus from North Hollywood over the hills to see friends.
“You’re the only person we know that we see walking in LA,” One said after picking me up on Hollywood Boulevard.
We were staying in a large pool bungalow behind his friend’s house. Dennis Morgan a warm-hearted man, ran Fantasy Island, a go-go bar on Santa Monica Boulevard. Every few days the dancers cane over early to sunbathe by the pool and hold a nude Bible reading. Scottie and I liked our sleep, but refrained from asking to the sun-worshippers lower the volume of their prayers. They were nice girls in a wicked town. They said they were praying for our wicked souls. Bless their hearts. And Dennis too. Good people.