909 N. Palm Ave. in West Hollywood – Get Inside

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lombardi by lombardi, you rebel you

Back in the timeless day… things happened so frequently, fast and furiously… they actually became timeless. So timeless; so fast moving; I didn’t even bother to treasure the lampshade handed me by Dick Clark; or the be-bop cap bequeathed me by John Belushi one fateful evening we shared… ten days before his untimely departure.

909 was one block from Santa Monica Boulevard… three blocks off Sunset Strip, where I regularly bill & cooed; chewed the cud; pleaded the dirty deed. Around the corner from the “carwash to the stars”! Across the boulevard from the newly planted Pacific Design Center; right near Cedar Sinai Medical–where all the stars get their blood drawn–home to the prettiest bastions of gay boys this side of Castro & Christopher Streets.

In our small apartment complex of around fifty soulful soles (actually, 100 soles, fifty kids), I believe it was four of us that were straight. Of course, being a minority in West Hollywood doesn’t count for much, aside from raising your price?! Jes’ kiddin’. But there were Fabianne (da French goil) and Dorothy (no relation to Kansas); they was roommates. I’d salivate watching those two pull away in a white VW Rabbit convertible, on their way to Ronald Reagan’s ranch in Pacific Palisades. Wild week-ends? Who knows.

There was W. Michael “L”–let’s keep this shit anonymous, shall we. He was a successful musician pal o mine. I guess he was successful… he’d get invited to the Grammys. Mikey had done some movie scores; the music for Nemoy’s In Search Of; a string of 70s disco hits, etc. etc. I met a ton of big shot music folk through Mikey. He was loved. Christ, I loved him. Whenever I got a producing gig I’d hire Mike on keyboards. Man, that cat could play.

concerto for goofballs

Then there was myself… a far-out struggling songwriter/producer/guitar player in a land where there were more guitar players per square foot… I ran a weekly poker game there. A friendly gambling gathering… seven of us; a coupla character actahs, a bigshot radio DJ, a radio personality, a screenwriter, my good bud, Stanno–a writer/director, and me, a screw-ball, would-be womanizer general fuck up. None of us were rich. We were not part of the Rolls Royce poshy posh, foofoo set. (Although, Mikey did own a Ferrari.) We were surviving in Hollywood, though. We were enjoying life to the fullest. If you think that’s easy try it sometime.

I miss those days… when Stanno and I would go to Shakey’s Pizza for a fried chicken buffet. All you could eat. I’d bring a briefcase with a large plastic bag in it. Filling it with chicken I’d grease out for the rest of the week. Oy vey is mere!

many moons anon
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