Well it’s the last days of summer and I can already feel those first electric, slightly cool winds of fall. My favorite time of year. Except for maybe this year. 2008 saw financial misery for nearly everyone. From art exhibitions to the checkout line at CVS people were loudly and bitterly complaining about their unhappiness. In 2016 it felt like just about every musician I grew up with dropped dead. 2020? Well let’s just call it the Murphy’s Law of the century. Everything that could go wrong pretty much has so far. Just as I was about to embark on a year of fantastic travel and adventure I was incarcerated in a global lockdown that no one saw coming. Adventures put on hold, I sat home with my digital devices. If not for the escape provided by Netflix and Amazon I would only be bombarded with the constant reports of riots, injustices, death and opposition of people who refuse to even try to work together. With no new real experiences to write about and zero interest in writing another piece about the current state of the world, I have had very little inspiration of late.
Which brings me to my point. As with a high percentage of my social media posts lately I am looking to the past. I am reminiscing about times when we could easily leave the house. Times when dealing with unwarranted snobby attitudes and what I was going to wear that night were my biggest problems. And with that, I give you snippets from Los Angeles at the turn of the century…
Trolls
Like most big cities in the US, Hollywood nightlife in the 90’s had become all about the promoters. The concrete floors, black walls splattered with day-glo paint, black lights and smoky clove-scented clubs that I had loved were being replaced by more brightly lit, plush, super lounges. The music had gone from grunge, rave and techno to top 40. LA was no exception. A new club or bar could open on any given night but it was the promoter that made the place. A truly hot promoter with a strong following could pack a rat hole (but they wouldn’t) with Los Angeles’s “penny-millionaires” if they so desired (and this was before the power of social media). The penny-millionaires would leave their studio apartments for the night and pull up to the valet attendant of the club du jour in their brand new leased Mercedes, BMWs or Hummers. They would clammer around the troll with the clipboard, boob jobs flying out of Gucci and Prada (or knock-off) mini-dresses, $100 bills flying out of wallets. Many would be shouting “I know the promoter, I know the owner…” or dropping any name they thought they could use.
The troll, always the stereotypical high school loser bitter by the experience was thrilled to have been given such power for the first time in their miserable lives. They would look up from their clipboard with exaggerated importance and decide who among this crowd would gain entrance past the rope and stanchions. Occasionally the crowd would part like the red sea and a celebrity (or a “C” or “D” list celebrity or reality show star) would be greeted by the troll as if they were royalty. They’d be whisked inside, their entourage following closely like proud little lap dogs. The rest of the crowd would stand there pretending to be patient then go back to trying to gain the troll’s attention with bribes of sex and money.
Hollywood Clubs had become like castles in a kingdom, their entrances strictly guarded by gates of rope and stanchions controlled by their very own little mythical forest creature. Every time we went to one of these clubs I couldn’t help watching the troll. I was fascinated by the way they walked around with their little clipboards feeling all the importance of someone who had just cured cancer and was asked to ride on a float in the Macy’s Day Parade. The Clipboard Trolls were rarely attractive and you just knew that they had come from sad lives. Maybe they were picked on or maybe the girls/boys never gave them any attention. Somehow these trolls had gotten this coveted job either from a cousin or a friend or sheer luck and they were playing it to the hilt. This was payback time.
I wondered how many girls had gone home at the end of the night with some of these guys just to ensure entry into the club the following weekend. The Clipboard Troll at Deep, once one of the hottest spots in Hollywood but now long gone and barely a memory, was so short he used to stand on an upside-down milk crate to see over the crowd that was huddled around. This troll would make people wait out in front for at least half an hour before letting them in even if they were on the list. Part of this was to give the illusion that the club was at capacity even if it was empty inside. The owners of the club took a small hit at the bar for this tactic but they allowed it because it made the fickle crowd of LA want to return to their establishment for a longer period before dropping it for the next elusive spot.
The other reason for holding up the line was undoubtedly was the rush of power it must have made the trolls feel. At Deep, the Clipboard Troll had this strange habit of mouthing to the people walking up “how many?” as in how many people are you with? When the people responded, he would just turn away and mouth the question to someone else. He seemed to enjoy watching the rise and fall of hope on people’s faces as he did it. On one particular night, after about 20 minutes he had gotten on my nerves so I called the club manager from my cell phone. I knew him through my job booking and planning events at the (now also gone) Key Club in Hollywood. He came out and let my friends and me in, apologized for the inconvenience and bought us a round of drinks. The night was saved and, after a couple more rounds, we were off to the dance floor. (I couldn’t dance but I did it anyway.)
Vinyl, another super spot in Hollywood circa early 2000’s had a female Clipboard Troll. She never remembered my name though it was the same as her own. She was known throughout Hollywood as the biggest bitch of all of the clipboard Trolls and she worked at more than one of the popular clubs at that time. Everyone used to talk about her. One night, a friend of mine asked if I could help get her and her friend who was visiting from out of town into a club the Female Clipboard Troll was working at and, against my better judgement I said we’d try. It would be a crap shoot given some nights the Bitch Troll acted like a friend and other nights she acted like she didn’t know me at all. I’m sure it had to do with how I looked and who I was with that night. It was all about conveying the right image.
Unfortunately, when I met up with the girls they were not in proper velvet rope attire. They wore very little makeup and simple jeans, t-shirts and leather jackets. Far from the perfectly coiffed hair and makeup, expensive-looking miniskirts and tall heels that would get them into the place. Even I had traded in my beloved recycled men’s Levis I had bought in South Beach, Miami and my Doc Martens for a dress I bought at Bebe in the Beverly Center.
Suffice to say the girls would have fit in just fine down the street on the Sunset Strip (but that’s a story for another post…) This was going to be tough. I had them stand up against the wall and went to get the approval needed to gain entrance. I was going for the angle that I would tell the female Clipboard Troll that I was with two girls and that the troll would remember me and let me in without examining the girls. She ended up sending her assistant over to inspect them. He then pulled me aside and told me they could not admit me that night and next time to come with girls in proper attire.
A week later, my cousin and her college friend were visiting from Atlanta for spring break. I brought them to another club that was guarded by the infamous female troll . The girls were young and decked out for a night in the big town. Not only did the troll let us in right away, but she let us in for free. We proceeded inside where we would be surrounded by a bunch of well-dressed strangers who had pretty much nothing of interest to say.
The Hollywood Velvet rope scene was really quite a scene. It was everything you see in the media and then some. I’ve seen girls get nose jobs when their noses were perfect before, boob jobs when their boobs were big enough in the first place. I knew people who scraped the money together to buy an expensive car when they could barely make rent. They figured no one saw where they lived but everyone saw the car they rolled up in every night. Actually, they may have been justified. Once I drove up in my Miata and was informed by a valet attendant, every bit as snotty as the rest of the people that worked at his establishment, that I would not be getting in that night. (The valet attendant said that!) Later, I traded in my Miata for an Audi TT Roadster Convertible. Not only did the valets take my car, they parked it up front where they showcased fancy cars so others could judge the place by the cars that were parked out front. I didn’t mind that as it meant retrieving my car at the end of the night would be quick. I did mind, however, when they returned the car and the radio station had been changed and my seat and mirrors had been adjusted. Clearly more had gone on with my car than being put on showcase while I was in the club.
Ah well, by the end of the night we were all too drunk to care that deeply about trolls, valets and other elves and wooded creatures who worked the entrances and exits to our nightly fantasies.
Once Inside
Rachel worked for a popular promotions and event logistics company in Hollywood. She was from New York but had been in Los Angeles for 5 years already. She had a good body due to daily trips to the gym and wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that was not the latest in labels and trends. Not even during the 90’s when grunge and surf rock were just as popular a fashion statement. She had a group of friends that hit the party circuit every weekend and sometimes during the week as well. Rachel and I liked each other from the start. Both from the east coast we still had that mentality and humor ingrained in us but Rachel had taken to LA life more easily than I. It was my almost unwillingness (or inability) to adapt that was likely what limited my invitations out with her group.
Kent was the group’s leader. He was a trust fund baby who had gone to high school with Rachel. He had moved to LA coincidentally around the same time as Rachel and bought his way into every one of the best night spots in town. He tipped the bouncers $100 bills as they allowed him and his entourage into the clubs. Every girl in the place wanted to join him. Tall, good-looking and charismatic, he had apparently been the most popular boy in Rachel’s private school. Rachel still looked up to him the same way as she did back then.
Kent always had this air about him as if he was trying to be nice to you but was clearly bored and couldn’t possibly be bothered lest you said something about getting into the club or the after party or invited him on a ski trip in Switzerland or to Fiji on a private plane. He was almost always dressed in expensive jeans, expensive shoes and one of those (expensive) tight-fitting ribbed t-shirts that were so popular for men back then. He was also never without his number one accessory, an almost carbon-copy of himself, his best friend Drew.
“They’re dressed exactly alike again.” I said to Rachel as we were walking past the bar on our way back from the ladies room. Having just arrived we didn’t need the bathroom. We just wanted to check ourselves out in the mirror to make sure we looked as cool as we felt walking past the crowd still waiting outside.
We were at the hottest Saturday night going at the time, for the life of me I can’t remember the name of the place now. Everyone from Mark Wahlberg to Jamie Foxx could be found there. I wouldn’t know. I could walk past my own mother in a shopping mall and not notice. It is fun when someone points them out to me though. I was allowed out with Rachel’s crew that night and we had all just played the “I’m on the list” game to get past the velvet rope and stanchions at the front door. We had walked in at the same time as Carmen Electra. It was some kind of strange coincidence in those days that she always seemed to be in line at the same time as me. I almost wanted to consider her a friend. But I digress…
“Look at them.” I motioned to the table with bottle service where Kent and Drew sat drinking champagne and talking to three of Rachel’s friends. There was Samantha, a workout fanatic obsessed with labels. She was emaciated due to her bulimia yet had this over-inflated and inaccurate idea of how good-looking she thought she was. Try as I might, I never found her to be good-looking in any kind of way at all. I always referred to her as well-groomed, like a show dog. Clean, styled and dressed right but still a dog. She might have been a little better looking if she didn’t have such a negative attitude any time she spoke. Then there was Jenna, a tall, pretty blonde. She was nice enough, easy-going and went along with whatever everyone else said. I never got to know Jenna very well though because every time we went out she pretty much found a celebrity toward the beginning of the night and went home with him. Last there was Gina. Of the group, Gina was the girl that everyone looked up to because she had been the lead child actress on a television show that had a five year run.
Rachel looked over at Kent and Drew who were both wearing tight, light blue t-shirts that complemented their built upper bodies as well as their blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. If you didn’t know them well, you could only tell them apart because Kent’s hair was a little longer with ringlets at the end. Drew opted for a shorter cut with his stick straight hair.
“Why do you always have to make fun of them?” From Rachel. Before I had a chance to answer I was rescued by Tony the bartender.
“Hey it’s The Twins!” A lot of people actually commented that we looked alike. Shortly after moving to Brentwood, I had gone to the Giuseppe Franco Salon in Beverly Hills and spent half my paycheck on trading in my long, bottle red hair for my natural dark brown hair plus thick golden highlights. Rachel had the same brown hair, blue eyes and freckles. We had bonded talking at an event one night over hating our freckles.
Tony wasn’t the only one who couldn’t tell us apart. One day I was having a drink with a friend at The Brig on Abbot Kinney in Venice Beach and a guy I had never seen before walked up and asked me if I was Rachel. I said “no but I’m friends with her. How do you know her?” The guy withdrew immediately without another word. When I told Rachel about it she said it was a guy she had met on an online dating service. I guess he didn’t want anyone to know he was online dating. This was the very beginning of the online dating scene and the stigma was much different back then. Rachel was ahead of her time looking for love online instead of settling for what was in the bars.
Every once in a while, Rachel let her real side come out and it was one of my favorite things about her. That, and her genuine intelligence and humor. Tonight, she was in LA mode and she barely even looked at Tony as her eyes scanned the room for celebrities and/or dating prospects.
“Hi Tony,” I said. Then before I could come up with anything clever to say, Tony had turned around to pull the Bacardi from the shelf. He returned with two Bacardi and Diet Cokes with lime, my signature drink and one that I had gotten Rachel hooked on as well. “Drinks for The Twins on me.”
“Thanks, Tony!” In unison from The Twins.
Later that night at an after-party in a mansion at Mt. Olympus we sat on couches next to a wall of open windows, the LA breeze a perfect temperature to keep us cool without needing a sweater. The music was decent and had some people dancing. The couch I had found was incredibly comfortable and had a great vantage point for people watching. On one side of me I witnessed the very recently divorced basketball player Rick Fox get hit on by various women. On the other side of me Jenna was flirting with the singer of 311. Everyone else in the group was spread out around the room or on the balcony just beyond the open windows. Anyone I couldn’t see was likely upstairs or in one of the back rooms powdering their noses with LA’s finest.
On any given night
“Hey Jenn, you’re a Prince fan right?”
“Yeah.”
“Go check out the VIP room…now.”
Making our way into the middle of a tiny VIP room in the back of a club called Blue, we saw Prince had rope and stanchioned himself and his entourage off against the wall in a corner of the VIP room as if the room wasn’t enough. I stood talking with my friends and at one point I turned around to scan the room behind me. I came face to face with Prince himself. Even in his fancy outfit and platform shoes he was much shorter and much skinnier than me. Both facts were hardly believable given as thin as I was back then and as larger than life as he always was. In my head I screamed and turned around. I then mouthed to my girl friends “THAT’S PRINCE!!!!” Of course in reality my face probably screamed “YOU’RE PRINCE!” Right in the poor guy’s face.
God knows anything I am thinking is broadcast across my face like a flashing neon sign. Like the time I was leaving the restaurant Dan Tana’s and I came face to face with Billy Corgan. I said nothing as I wanted to respect his privacy but my face went right on and said “oh my god you’re Billy Corgan!” Billy said nothing but his face replied with “please don’t say that out loud and attract attention.” Then we both quietly continued on our ways, faces and all.
On another night Andy Dick showed up in the VIP room of the Key Club, where I worked, and rope and stanchioned off a section for just himself in the middle of the room. He was clearly poking fun at Prince. Not gonna lie I would choose Prince over Dick any day but that was pretty damn funny.
Then there was the night of my birthday party, Hugh Hefner and the Playboy Bunnies. My then-boyfriend and I had celebrated our six month anniversary with dinner and drinks at a new bar in Beverly Hills called Joya. We rarely went out in Beverly Hills but this bar was getting so much talk from everyone I worked with that we decided to check it out. We ended up having such a good time that I booked a table for my 29th birthday party. At some point during that night, Hef walked in with 6 of his girls who looked a little skanky. My boyfriend said “he must have brought his B-list tonight.” One of the girls heard and gave him a dirty look. Ah well…
Mostly the nights during this phase of my life blur together. Like any other phase in my life, there were high points and low points. There were some disappointments but there were a lot more good times. And as it goes with phases, there was a time when it came to an end.
Turning point
I really hated dealing with the trolls of the rope and stanchion scene so for New Year’s 1999 my friends and I bought tickets to a weekend long event at the Hyatt on Sunset Blvd. Nicknamed “The Riot House”, the hotel was known to have hosted some of the wildest musicians and outrageous parties over the past few decades. You could say it had seen its share of notoriety and been trashed in the meantime. Newly remodeled, The Hyatt had agreed to allow a handful of Hollywood’s most popular promoters take over the entire hotel. Those who bought tickets were given a room for two nights, parties with DJ’s all weekend and a countdown from the roof at midnight on New Year’s Eve. So, a week before the event my friends and I made a trip out to the giant Peppermint Rhino Strip Club (as one does…) to pick up our room assignments and wristbands and prepared for our weekend of fun.
Arriving at the hotel on Friday afternoon and waiting to get the keys to our room I looked around the lobby. It was filled with good-looking people dressed in the trendiest of clothes. Some were the Gucci/Prada set and others were the club kids. In both cases there was a high energy of people trying to project an image. At the time I was impressed by that energy I picked up from them but after a time I found it exhausting. Later that night as the DJ’s, music and parties began everyone loosened up and had a great weekend.
Over the next couple of years I went out less and less in the velvet rope scene and began exploring other scenes. I had recently met Stacie who immediately became my partner in crime and we were in search of something different. I returned to the 80’s cover band Saturday nights that I had loved in Santa Monica. Stacie and I checked out the bars of Abbot Kinney, Venice Beach and even The Valley. We had many adventures (possibly for another future article…) before discovering the Sunset Strip. In the early 90’s I had visited the Strip a couple of times as somewhat of a tourist. It’s a much different scene when you become a regular (definitely enough for a future article or two.)
One of the last times I went out of my way to hang out at a velvet rope club was on Halloween probably circa 2006. All dressed up in costumes I was with a group of friends at a club called Mood. I was on the list plus 6 I think and we were just about to walk inside. Just before we did I stopped and looked at all of the people in the line that was forming. I was in my 30’s now and they were all kids in their 20’s. They also looked a little douchey to me. I turned to my friends and said “we can go in here with THESE people, or we can go across the street to Bar Sinister and be guaranteed a good Halloween night.” My friends agreed and we headed over to what is still Hollywood’s best goth club, Bar Sinister. The ambience was dark and smoky, reminiscent of the old grunge and techno days. I was happy to find the scent of clove in the air. The music was awesome with a lot of New Order, The Cure, The Smiths, Sisters of Mercy, etc. The only attitude people seemed to have was one of having fun. Between the Sunset Strip and Bar Sinister, Stacie and I had found our phase for the next 10+ years.
