Sam Kinison, The Dwarf and The Stripper

Contrary to popular belief, I have never been into a strip club nor have I been on a porn-set. I have known a lot of people in the sex business, and even had a couple roommates who worked as dancers. In fact most the women I knew in Los Angeles had some kind of side job where they sold sexual commodities when they needed extra cash. They were adults, very young adults, but nevertheless it was their choice.

After my failed attempt at cocktail waitressing at the Troubadour in Hollywood, I got a job at The Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard. The money was great. The atmosphere was really exciting because at the time, Sam Kinison was just breaking it into the big-time and The Comedy Store was his home venue. He attracted huge crowds and despite his drug and alcohol addictions, Sam was a really nice guy who was always very nice to me. It didn’t hurt that he had a crush on me so I got invited to all the “in” parties. I was hanging out with all the cool people at The Rainbow Club. I was even on 20/20 featuring the Comedy Store and Sam Kinison. I’ve never seen the footage, but my family has verified that they’ve seen it.

Things got really crazy around The Comedy Store. Sam was like a rock-star and attracted people like Ron Jeremy, Rodney Dangerfield, Motley Crue and Mikey Rourke. He also attracted a lot of strippers and porn-stars. The place turned into a circus. Clowns and contortionists started hanging around. A bunch of Hollywood little people started hanging out, one dwarf in particular was a guy in a wheelchair who was on some sit-com. He played an eleven-year-old girl even though he was in his thirties. And the guy was a complete pervert and hit on all the waitresses. Imagine a drunk dwarf in a wheelchair trying to cop a feel every time you walked by. You just wanted to run for your life when you saw him zooming around on that thing. When you get famous in Hollywood, you attract freaks from all over the globe.

One night Sam was having a party in the Chateau Marmont, the place where John Belushi died, and all the waitresses went over there after our shift. I had never stepped foot in the Marmont and I was pretty excited to check it out. Think of all the Hollywood history in that place. They had a really cool suite that overlooked West Hollywood. The windows opened out like shutters and there was a warm breeze blowing through the suite. I sat on the windowsill to take in the beautiful view of the L.A. night. Everything was really mellow and then the dwarf showed up. I really didn’t like the guy because he never tipped for his drinks and he was generally an asshole. He was wasted drunk and spilling the contents of his bottle of Corona all over himself. Apparently it was his birthday. A few moments later this stunning woman walked in the door. She had short bleach blond hair, and wore a black motorcycle jacket and high heels. She walked around and chatted with everyone. She reminded me of a very young Melanie Griffith, and in fact could have been Ms. Griffith’s stand-in. All the sudden someone turned up the music and she starts dancing and taking off her clothing. I sat there with my mouth dropped to the floor because I had never seen a woman strip. I was torn between watching her perform, and looking out the window. She started doing interactive dancing; that’s where she would let the guys dance with her and they stuff money into her panties. Cash was flying everywhere.. Then she gets on the wheel chair with the dwarf and starts grinding her hips on him. He pours his beer on her breasts and licks it off. I was mortified. The girls I worked were talking and laughing like there was nothing going on around them. Like I said everyone had side jobs in the sex industry so I guess they were used to this. I, on the other hand, was not conditioned or comfortable watching a dwarf lick beer off of Melanie Griffith’s breasts. Just as they were doing “Feed the Kitty” I left. I was pretty much traumatized for life and never stepped foot into a strip club.

The Girl Who Wouldn’t Do Bret Michael’s

When I was nineteen I moved to Hollywood California. I didn’t want to be in the movies or whatever it is they do there. I just wanted to get the heck out of Chicago, see the world; break free from my past. I didn’t really have much of a past since I was only nineteen, but hey, that’s just how I felt. I had never been to Hollywood before I arrived and in my imagination I envisioned everyone really clear-eyed with smooth skin because I thought, everyone in California was healthy from all the wheat grass juice they drank.

I was wrong.

My sister Jennifer (left) and I saying good-bye at the airport. Off to Hollywood.

The very first week I was in Hollywood I got a job at the world famous Troubadour. I didn’t plan it, but I moved to Hollywood in the height of hair metal band mania, where the boys looked like girls and the girls were all strippers. The guys wore more make-up than I and looked better in shades of pink. Everyone drank Long Island Ice Teas and it seemed like no one had a job, except for me. The guys depended on their stripper girlfriends for rent and drinking money. All the girls wore tight short white skirts with no panties. Fake breasts were popular before they were popular in the rest of the country. I had moved into Disneyland and I was not prepared. I couldn’t compete no matter how big I ratted my hair. I didn’t have the attitude. I was cute and all, but honestly I was a bit of a dork. It seemed like everyone was in porno’s or some sex related industry making loads of cash while I was trying to get by serving cocktails to broke glam rockers.

The second week I lived in Hollywood all my clothing was stolen from the Laundromat. I left to get some coffee and someone took off with all my wet clothing. I think I was left with two decent outfits that I rotated, and they weren’t sexy.

Gun’s and Roses played one night at the Troubadour and they attracted every musician in L.A. The place was filled with  hair-sprayed guys wearing lipstick and eye-liner. I saw this one cute blond who was my height and had a smaller ass than me. We flirted and exchanged phone numbers. My girlfriend grabbed me by the arm, “Do you know who that is?”

I looked at the matchbook, “Bret?”

“Give me that,” she snatched it out of my hand and looked at me in disbelief. “That’s Bret Michael’s from Poison.”

“Who the hell is Poison?” I asked.

“They are the biggest band in L.A. right now. They just got a huge record deal. And he’s hitting on you! Put this number away and don’t show it to anyone.”

Bret Michaels Top Right

It took about twenty back and forth phone calls for Bretand me to finally go out. He said his record deal included some rental house in Hollywood Hills and the band was in the midst of moving, so he didn’t have a lot of time. He needed to go shopping for a gift on Hollywood Blvd and would I want to join him?

I lived on Hollywood Boulevard so we didn’t have to walk very far. We went into a couple of souvenir stores and then into a jewelry store. The saleslady knew him and knew what he was interested in. She opened the glass case and pulled out a gold necklace with a tiny charm heart. He asked to see another and then asked me which one I liked better? I pointed.

“This one is thirty-five dollars,” he said.

“It’s nicest of the two.”

“I only have twenty-two dollars,” he said.

“I have thirteen dollars you can borrow.”

“You do? Wow, that would be great. I’ll pay you back right away. We’re going to get an advance on our album.”

On the walk back to my apartment I asked him who the necklace was for.

“My girlfriend Tracey,” he answered.

We get back to my place and we kiss and pretty soon his hands are all over me and I’m peeling his arms away from my body. His pink lipstick was smeared all over his face and mine. He was trying to put his hands in my pants and I repeatedly refused his advances. Finally he relented said, “You’re not going to have sex with me, are you?”

“Ummm, No,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. I’m not going to have sex with you.”

“Wow,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”

I saw him a couple months later and by that time their album was popular and playing on the radio.

He stopped and said hi and yelled out to his friend, “Hey Ricky, this is the girl I told you about, the one who wouldn’t have sex with me.”

So embarrassing.

I ran into him five years later in Chicago. Same thing. “Oh my God,” he said when he saw me. “You’re the girl that wouldn’t have sex with me.”

Ironically Mr. Micheal’s has a reality show on VH1 called “Rock of Love,” where he plays the rock star bachelor looking for a lifetime mate. A better idea for a show would be one called “I Owe You A Real Date,” where he finds the women of his past and takes them out regardless of their current position. That’s what I would call “reality” entertainment.

I aged much more gracefully than Bret Michael’s. He never did pay me back the thirteen dollars and I’m pretty sure he can afford it.

Disclaimer: This story may or may not be the truth. And no humans, animals or plant life were hurt for the making of this post.

Poll Results (So Far)

The results so far:  There was a tie between stories about my over-trust-funded Ex and rendezvous with rock stars. There was one vote for childhood trauma, one vote for  horseback riding while there were zero votes for overdosing stories. Luckily for me horseback riding lost because I’ve only been on a horse a handful of times and know nothing about the sport.

There were a couple write in votes. One for “all of the above.” Some guy named John said he would like to hear stories about himself. And then someone wanted to hear about my secret life with my Tivo. I have Tivo, but I don’t ever watch TV. In fact I’ve lived in this apartment for eighteen months and finally hooked the Tivo to the television. That would have been one long story about electronics collecting dust.

I suppose people want to hear the dirt on my relationship history. That will be fun to write about because I’ve dated a lot of colorful characters, freaks or whatever you want to call them.

Thanks for taking the time out to do the poll. I always appreciate any and all input, even if you hate me.

I’m Taking a Poll

I’ve been told by some of my readers that they would like to see more of the “dirt” on me. I’ve decided to write a little more detail about myself; to expose myself a little more. The problem is that stories about childhood trauma, living on my own at fourteen and overdosing are so boring. Not to mention getting married and divorced by the time I was nineteen and then spending twelve years with an over-trust-funded-unmedicated-manic-depressive. Who wants to hear this crap? It’s all so mundane. No one wants to hear about the years I would only date rock-stars and the nervous breakdown that followed. Sigh. So when in doubt, it’s always good to take a poll.
If I forgot to list a topic, please write it in.
Thanks.

Become My Fan

I am taking over the internet. You can watch my progress if you become a fan on Facebook.

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#/pages/Whats-Your-Plaza/85512868730?ref=nf

Thanks ahead.
Rose

Love

I go through phases where shiny things make me stop and look and then there are times where I don’t notice them at all. With Valentine’s day around the corner you can’t help but see something sparkling out of the corner of your eye. I’m not a big supporter of Valentine’s Day. I don’t think anyone should feel obligated to say I love you, unless they’re really feeling it of course. And what better way to say it than with this kick-ass bangle from Cartier. For a mere $7900 you can buy me this 18K white gold Love Bracelet decorated with four diamonds. Eight grand is nothing when you consider you could only get one third of a Toyota Prius with that money. You could probably put a down payment on a Mercedes, but then you’d have to make payments and who wants that? It’s best to spend your cash at Cartier.

They call it the Love Bracelet because it comes with this tiny screwdriver that you use to open and close; kind of like a handcuff, but only for one hand, so no one gets locked to a bedpost or something. Anyway, beside for the weird connotations of the Love Bracelet screwed to your wrist, I love it. Some men like buying things even though they don’t have a girlfriend to buy for. If your one of those men (or women) and you just have to buy this bracelet, you can always send it to me. It will be like a virtual Valentine. It’s so sad that I have to look at my naked wrist all day. Can you feel my pain?

My Blog Sucks

So I’ll be doing some dusting and polishing this weekend. There will soon be proper categories and real topics. And since this is supposed to be a personal blog, there will be a personal category because I know there’s nothing you’d rather do than read about me. There will also be interviews with normal regular people, if I can find one. And of course there will be my usual ever-so-interesting observations and rants.
Feel free to suggest anything you’d like to see, or just suggest anything at all.

Thanks for reading.
Rose

Tattoo My Forehead

Yeah…that’s right. I want a tattoo of a unicorn on my temple. It’s all the rage these days. Forget the piercing-through-the-eyebrow phase. As a culture we are soooo over that wimpy piercing crap. It’s tattoos on the face that are hot right now.

There are way too many people with tattoos these days. Maybe I’m old fashioned or maybe I’m a dork, but there was a time when you had to be cool to get away with tattoos, not the opposite. I hung out with the coolest of them all and even some of us cool people couldn’t pull it off; me being one of them.

Back then it was the belief that choosing to ink meant you were choosing a lifestyle; the lifestyle usually being creative, edgy and different, and more-so than everyone else. Musicians, artists, and other creative types got tattoos. These people knew who they were and they made a choice to take a different road than most people. They didn’t plan to be employed by others. They planned on making a life for themselves by being who they were. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that if you have a tattoo on your neck, you’re probably not going to be hired by Kraft and if you do get hired, you’re not going to be in some high profile job. I know….I know, things are changing, but if I were a Kraft executive, which I wouldn’t be, because I don’t believe in Kraft products like cheese whiz or whatever other crap they make. Anyway, let’s say I’m interviewing you and I see this big tattoo of a snake on your neck….because, you say, you read on a Chinese Restaurant paper placemat that you were born in the year of the snake. I’m thinking, this is not a smart person. Anyone who gets a tattoo knowing they were going to be to working in corporate America doesn’t have much common sense and you don’t even look cool. When are people going to learn that being edgy comes from within? It’s something that you are, not something you achieve with tattoos or other trends. Being edgy is something that comes naturally. It’s in the essence of your personality. Kraft would like to get a hold of some people with real edge that really do think outside the box, but you know, they are too busy being themselves. They don’t want to work for Kraft. They want to make their own cheese whiz and share it with their friends.

I have a tattoo and after I got it, I decided that the tattoo thing doesn’t work out for me. It took me years to decide what to get and where and I’m still not happy with it. I got the tattoo in a place that could be covered, so no one ever knows unless I tell. Some of the women I know look so hot all inked up. It seems so natural for them as if they were born with inked art on their skin. It’s amazing to me how some of them look better as they get older. Their tattoos have become a part of their identity; they have literally worn them in like a pair of jeans. They have become very comfortable with their ink. I don’t see this when I walk around town and every goofball out there has some permanent flower anklet, or even better, a circular pattern on their lower back.

You know what started this stupid trend? Reality TV. I liked a couple real TV shows but the ones I liked got cut off the air because they were too real. Then came the poser reality shows where you see people that wished they were edgy and cool but have instead rebranded their-selves into a non-recognizable freak, who doesn’t know his ass from his shoe. I’m serious. Some of these people are not intelligent and have zero common sense, which puts them in the same boat as the special needs population. Anyway, everyone thought they were seeing cool people on reality TV, but they were really seeing people with fetal alcohol syndrome and wet brain and then they all went out and got tattoos just like the assheads on TV.

You know what? The real edgy people are laughing. They don’t care that everyone went out and copied them; they’re finally making some money selling their wares. They are happy. They aren’t judging anyone. In fact they find it a little sad because they see that young people had to go out and copy rather than finding their own form of self expression. Being edgy is an inside job and takes intelligence, work and experience. You can’t pick a truly edgy person out of a crowd because they don’t advertise their edge. Part of the allure of being edgy is a secret.   Being and expressing your true identity is hard enough without adding a bunch of physically visible distractions.

Surreal in New York

There is something peculiar about New York, something that makes me feel not trusted; like a shadow of a doubt. It could be that everything is caged or fenced. It could be that once you turn down a street there is no way out until the end of the block. They build the homes flush: there are no gangways here, no alleys. The only light comes through the windows in the front and back of your home. The center rooms are lightless.

The cages come down over the windows every night at closing. Some businesses never open their shutters. In Miami we called these Hurricane Shutters. You see them only when the city is on the verge of disaster. Walking in New York I get the feeling I’m on the verge of something not quite right. I feel shrouded in cement. The sky is somewhere above all that concrete, but one can never be too sure. I start to think of Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman and I wonder if everyone in New York is just holding their head together enough so they appear to be rational.

I see strange and irrational things here. Like this Styrofoam plate in the train station. Who dropped this plate and why? Is this someone’s version of take-out or is it graffiti to-go?

DickChicken has a partner in crime called PussyHam. I missed them both, but they left a message on the door, just to let us know they stopped by….how nice.

Word on the street and black is the new rage. I guess the hipsters think it’s cool to be broke. They’ll learn.

These stuffed animals are right at home. They have been hanging in this elementary school playlot for a week. I have no answers.

In all the chaos there seems to be a certain beauty in the rawness and reality of New York; something young and innocent.  I can see how one can get lured in to its’ appeal and its’ edge. It isn’t for everyone. I can imagine starting to feel a little crazy after being surrounded by cement day after day. I can walk for miles and not see a blade of grass. The dogs have to poop on the sidewalks. Even the smallest patch of grass is protected by fencing. New Yorkers appear to really love gates, steel security bars and mesh fencing. It’s the style here. The neighborhoods are quite safe so I can’t think of any other reason to barricade everything except for it being trendy.

You have to be in a pretty good headspace to find beauty in complete ugliness, or you need to be just slightly whacked out of your head to live here for any real length of time. The temporary residents look really cool in their sunglasses, black boots and True Religion jeans.

Is this guy posing for me?

This is the only Starbucks within a mile of where I sit. On the same block there’s a Mc Donalds and some major banks.  A typical block in Brooklyn consists of a grocery on the corner, hair salon, deli, a greasy restaurant, pharmacy, hardware store, western union or the like, a medical office, and a real estate office. This set-up repeats and repeats and repeats.   Some of these small businesses are open to the public, some are open but they are not user friendly. In fact, I don’t know what or why they’re selling half the junk they carry? It seems like certain shop owners have long lost interest in their shop and they are just opening the store because that’s what they’ve been doing for years. It’s their routine. I want to ask them, “How in fuck do you make any money selling this crap from 1982?” I know that would be rude, but I really want to know. Of course there are many neighborhoods that are a little more upscale and manicured, but they still seem to have a decrepit look.  Oh yeah, when walking here be careful not to get your high-heels stuck in the grates.

Rather than just shutting down at their own choice, the New York Health officials eventually come and do it for them like this little diner in the Greenpoint part of Brooklyn. Currently there is a huge need for goods and services catering to the hipsters in this historically Polish dominated neighborhood, so if anyone has any good ideas I’m all ears.

Sunset in Red Hook, Brooklyn NY

There is also the side to New York that is overflowing with life and energy, but you can read about all that on some other blog. (Below)Manhattan grocery.

Thanks for reading. Have a great day.

Rose

New York City

I hear it’s like the tropics there. People bike riding in the street, the parks filled with joggers. Oh wait, it’s only ten degrees warmer than here. It’s not the tropics, it’s a bunch of crazy people acting like it’s warm. Regardless, ten degrees is better than NO degrees warmer.

I was trying to think of a topic dedicated to New York that I could write about. Here are my ideas:

Corn Beef and other cured meat. Yuk.
Fashion. They dress way better in NYC
Transportation. Why the hell can’t you take public transportation from the airport?

That’s all I got. Any ideas?