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Bikernet Road Stories: Hollywood Scotty

Lights, Cameras and ACTION!

By Scooter Tramp Scotty
12/5/2016


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It was years ago, while staying with an eccentric entrepreneur who surrounded himself with old motorcycles and ragged biker types in Milwaukee Wisconsin, that I experienced a very unique adventure. In fact, the situation was so outrageous I've thought of writing it but have no idea where to start. The Compound, as JP's place was sometimes called, was a big piece of property by the river. It held three large brick buildings, his beautiful but strangely eccentric home, single-story plastics factory that sat atop three more stories below it, and a huge sort of garage with machine shop where ancient/custom bikes were built and maintained by scraggly young biker types on the left, while an ocean ready cigar boat waited in a corner at right. One of this show's characters was a guy named Joe Hart. For a time Joe lived in the Greyhound bus/motor home conversion JP kept in the yard. Joe was a wild, young, and I think it's safe to say, jet setter who rode Harleys, tended to stay out all night, endure hung over mornings, knew all the people, and always had his foot deeply embedded in the action. For whatever reason we took a liking to each other and came to bomb around town together a lot. At one point Joe had us out on a yacht with a bunch of drunk friends and me the only sober person. There was other stuff too. One night Joe asked to hear the story of a book I was working on at that time. I told him. It seems he liked the idea more than I’d realized.
 
At some point Joe moved to Hollywood California and I lost track. As of late though, he'd contacted me with some crazy ideas about getting that, as yet unpublished, book published. Well, winter was closing in and I hadn't visited California in three years anyway. I decided to drop by and show some face.

A course was set for the heart of West Hollywood.

 

  City concrete was everywhere as I passed the seemingly endless wall of storefronts and businesses that line Santa Monica Boulevard. Although it was late evening with rush hour long past, traffic still clogged the streets as multitudes of pedestrians held down sidewalks and crosswalks. Eventually I turned uphill onto La Cienega Boulevard and began looking for the driveway described over the phone. It soon led past two car parking at left, between two large double story houses, then downhill some short distance to driveway's end and a garage at left. Joe greeted me in the driveway and, after re-acquaintance, I was led past the pool and inside to tour of one of Joe's two houses. Six bedrooms and, of course, the place was quite nice. The house seemed devoid of much activity, which I'd soon learn was uncommon around here.

 
After introductions to a couple of passing roommates, Joe and I wandered outside for a better look at the garage—which sat down and behind the pool. After moving a few things I set up camp and deemed the place home. Unbeknownst to me, this would be my pad for the next month.

Aside from the house Joe lived in, he also had the place directly next door. It offered seven bedrooms and was filled with roommates as well. Although that place had no pool, it had a freestanding structure in the yard that was being converted into a music studio but, and this time, was not quite finished. In the fence that separated these houses Joe'd installed a large gate so residents of his Hollywood party community might wonder easily back and forth.

 

As the days passed I came to know some of our residents. Micky “Memphitz” Wright is some kind of a rap star. Although I’m told his past is jaded (I know nothing of rap), for whatever reasons, we got along very well. On the living room wall a red album boasted sales on one of his albums at 10,000,000 copies, and a gold one boasting 500,000. A picture of him and Oprah Winfrey accompanied them, and I saw him once on TV while here. At least partially for his presents, as well as the Hollywood party atmosphere, there were always hot young groupies hanging around and seldom less than three in Micky's bedroom at any given time. Imagine the ego trip. Next we had a small time producer, then Shawn who made music videos, and most everyone else in residence was either looking to make it big, or already had their foot in some kind of show business door. I guess that's what folks come Hollywood for.

 

Joe had originally arrived with $350 to his name then built this little empire with the profits from various business ventures I didn't ask much about. But Joe likes to stick his foot in a lot of different, and sometimes unorthodox, business doors. The publishing of my book, and another written on the subject of Tupac (a dead rap star), was just another of his crazy, and occasionally profitable, ideas. In truth though, I didn't put a lot of stock in anything coming of it.

On the second night, of my life here, we attended a big crazy drunken party next door. At Joe's places it was the same, if not far more constant. The drunken antics, naked people in the pool, etc. etc. were an endless source of entertainment to me. On occasion someone would point out a television star in attendance, but of course I’d not know of them because I have no TV. 

 

Almost all residents were young and this nutty scene seemed reminiscent of life back in my 20s. But along with a great love of the party scene, Joe was ambitious to succeed in business and sought to keep the craziness limited only to weekends. For if left unchecked the insanity wouldn't stop even for a day.

 

L.A. traffic was always horrible but most everything one needed, except a grocery story, was two blocks walking distance on Santa Monica Blvd. Subway Sandwich, Starbucks, bars, restaurants, ice cream, you name it. So it was some errand, or just wanting to get out of the house, that brought me to that area regularly. Now I've stayed in some gay areas—Key West, Palm Springs, etc.—but this place took the cake. In fact, if I was gay, I could have attended an orgy at least everyday and never gone without. In time I became acquainted with a few of these guys. One told me that, for sex, men are the gas and women the breaks so when two men are attracted to each other it's all gas. In fact, almost all those I talked to had problems with way to much frivolous, meaningless, sex. This seemed to pose a serious problem. Quite a few had, or were trying to, abstain. Us heteros should have such problems huh? But gay areas lean toward an uncommon acceptance of most anything in general, which also means that almost any other manner of weirdness goes, and it was there that I saw other strange and interesting Hollywood sights as well.

One day Joe told me a production company would be shooting a movie scene in the backyard that evening. Sounded interesting. One scene would be shot with a bunch of supposedly unruly teenagers in the pool. Even though this is southern California, it was winter and the nights were downright chilly. All afternoon Joe fought tooth and nail with the pool heater, which would come on then shortly thereafter turn itself back off. He said the pool guy had recently replaced it but was unable to come look at it today. By the time evening rolled around, cameras, crews, equipment, and lighting was assembled and shooting began first on the street. By now Joe was running around going nuts with that damn pool heater! Eventually shooting moved to the backyard (my yard) then the pool. Still no heater. Joe was livid. 

 

One scene portrayed a bunch of supposedly drunken kids who'd snuck into some unsuspecting citizen's yard for a little fun in their pool. With the hour growing later, time eventually came for those kids to embrace their “fun time” in the ice water. I couldn't help but laugh as they stood shivering until the director called “Action” whereupon all would start splashing it up and having such a good time! Price of fame I guess. For me however, it was just a great comedy show.

 
 

Although my garage offered some sanctuary, by the time one walked to driveway's end he was completely immersed in crowded, high traffic, fast paced city. For one more used to the freedom of small towns and open highways the constriction of this place became oppressive rather quickly. Although this city goes on seemingly forever, the quickest sanctuary is into the nearby hills above Malibu, along Mulholland Drive and the other small twisting roads that sometimes offer a view of the Pacific Ocean far below; or simply to ride hwy-1 up the coast. Many local bikers also seek weekend escape to these places and there are two staple hangouts. One is Neptune's Net along the coast, and the other the Rock Store up on Mulholland. Since none of the party-house residents rode motorcycles I missed the company of other riders and this was a welcomed reprieve. I also began taking overnight trips out of the city; a simple task for one with the ability to easily make his home anywhere.

 

One day a local Shovelhead guy made contact on the net. John lives in the nearby suburbs and wanted to drop by and take me to lunch. I gladly accepted. He and the old Shovel soon showed up. From my garage we walked to some swanky, high priced restaurant and had a wonderful meal on the deck at street-front. After that John and I began getting together to ride the hills quite frequently. We visited hangouts, beaches, mountains and, on one occasion John, his wife Janie, and I made a trip to the less glittery town of Oxnard. Some nights John and I would go back to his house where he'd grill steaks while Janie made fixens' in the kitchen. Next we'd hang in the hot tub and bullshit. I soon learned of John's violent past and his many years in prison. But you'd never know it now, for these days John owns a pool businesses, lives in a regular home, and is anything but an outlaw. On many occasions I've seen time and age mellow a man as the dark memories of his youth fade to the distant past.

 

But some of the greatest segments of this adventure were still yet to come, for my time in Hollywood was far from finished...



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