Motels I have known: the Hollywood years

Part Two of the "Never send your son on the road" series

The author in repose at the Glenn Valley Motel

There came a time in my life when trips out to Hollywood became a thing.  I’d pick up an assignment from, say, Oui Magazine, Hefner’s second-string boob-o-rama out of Chicago, or Penthouse, Guiccione’s first-string boob-o-rama out of New York, or New Times, the late lamented utterly boob-less progressive offering out of New York, and I’d make a reservation in coach and fly out to the coast. 

Depending on who was paying, I had a selection of motels I would stay in back in the early 70’s.  If it was New Times, which always seemed to be on its last legs and then it finally was, I’d stay in a run-down joint on the corner of Ventura Boulevard and Coldwater Canyon called the Glenn Valley Inn.  The picture above was taken in the Glenn Valley by my friend and photographer, Terry Arthur, who shot the photos for a New Times piece I wrote on the burgeoning van culture that was taking over California and spreading eastward through the rest of the country.  The New Times piece turned into a book for Crown Publishers called “The Complete Van Book,” which Terry also shot, and we spent many a night in the Glenn Valley, which as I recall was about $17.00 a night and featured a front desk protected by a three-inch-thick plexiglass shield with a drawer that slid in and out for your credit card, or more likely, cash. 

The Glenn Valley was what you would call a colorful joint, principally because it was located right next door to a bar in an A-frame building called The Swing.  “Swinging” had hit it big in the early 70’s, especially in the San Fernando Valley, where the population of divorced people probably outnumbered married couples.  “Swinging” was “hip,” it was “in,” it was the thing to do for bored suburbanites looking for a good time, and the Glenn Valley sat there on Ventura Boulevard next to The Swing as if it had been built just for them.  People would stumble out of The Swing in well-lubricated foursomes right into the Glenn Valley and proceed to “swing” at quite high speed into the early hours of the morn.  The check-ins they got after midnight far outnumbered the customers they got during daylight hours, that’s for sure.  I can remember heading out the door of my room in the morning headed for breakfast at Nate ‘N Al’s, running into sheepish couples with their heads down trying to make their way to their cars in the back lot without being seen.  I used to give them a cheerful wave and chirp, “Another day in paradise, huh?” as I passed them by.

If the assignment I was working was from one of the more flush rags, usually of the boob-o-rama variety, I made my way over the hill to Sunset Boulevard and checked into the Sunset Marquis.  In those days, there were two terminally hip places to stay in Hollywood:  the Sunset Marquis, on Alta Loma Road just off Sunset, was where rockers laid up when they were in town on a tour or recording.  Just down the Sunset Strip was the Chateau Marmont, which was where many young actors and actresses who were just getting started in Hollywood stayed.  It was famous as the place the artist David Hockney lived for many years, and in the lobby you could run into DeNiro, or Faye Dunaway, or John Belushi, who years later would famously die of an overdose in one of the Chateau’s bungalows.

I remember the first time I checked into the Sunset Marquis, which was my favorite.  The rooms were all mini-suites.  They had a small living room with a kitchenette behind a bar, and bedroom that was open to the living room.  The price in ’73 or ’74 when I stayed there several times was $23 a night.  The same room today will cost you $400. 

I had checked in and found my room and hadn’t even unpacked when I heard a knock on the door.  I thought I had forgotten something at the front desk, my credit card or license, and they had sent someone to return it, so I opened the door.  A skinny, long-haired guy with hooded eyes rushed right past me into the room.  “You the re-port-ah?” he asked, seeming to know who I was.  He sat down on the sofa and picked up the phone.  I confirmed that I was a reporter.  “You the Lucian Truscott writes for the Voice, right?”  I nodded.  “You’re on assignment?  Who for? The Voice?”  Still wondering what was going on, I shook my head no, and said I was writing a story for Penthouse.  “Good.  They got fat expense accounts, right?  They pay pretty good?”  I think I nodded in assent.  “I’m Bob Neuwirth.  I’m kind of the mayor of the Sunset Marquis.  Welcome to my domain.  Give me just a minute.”  He pressed a couple of buttons on the phone, waited a moment, covered the receiver and asked, “What’s the room number?”  227, I said.  “This is room 227.  We’d like two cases of Budweiser…” he covered the receiver and asked, “Bud all right?”  I nodded.  “Make that three cases of Bud, two quarts of Jack Daniels, a quart of Stoli, a bottle of Gilbeys gin, a couple of big bags of pretzels, one of those cans of mixed nuts…” he covered the receiver again.  “Anything else you can think of?” he asked.  I think I shook my head, no.  “That’ll be it then.  Yeah, 227.  You coming right now?  We’ll be here.”

I was standing there dumfounded.  I had never met him, but I knew who Neuwirth was.  He had been Dylan’s road manager on his famous tour of England that was the subject of the documentary “Don’t Look Back.”  He was more or less the co-star of the movie.  Wearing the same dark Wayfarers that Dylan wore, you almost couldn’t distinguish between the two of them in the hotel scenes until Dylan picked up a guitar and started strumming. And now, in my suite at the Sunset Marquis, Neuwirth was the same speedy wise-cracking guy he had been in the movie. 

Neuwirth got up from the sofa and started pacing the room. I think I managed to recover my senses enough to ask him what the hell was going on.  “Hey, man,” he said.  He strung the word “man” out in the hipster manner so it sounded like “ma-a-a-n.”  “Hey, ma-a-a-n, this is the Sunset Marquis, ma-a-a-n.  You pick up the phone, and you dial 411 for an emergency.  You dial 114 at the Sunset Marquis, you get Turner’s Liquors, up at the corner on Sunset.  Cool, huh?”

I think I managed to nod my assent that direct-dial for a liquor delivery was sort of cool.  Neuwirth grinned and continued.  “Don’t worry about the charge.  They put it on your bill as room service.  Penthouse will never know what it was for.”  I asked why he thought we needed so much booze.  I mean, I was only staying there a few nights.  He looked at me like I was missing some kind of genetic factor.  “Hey, ma-a-a-n, there’s all kinds of people staying here.  There will be a lot of hanging out.  Geoff Muldaur, Benny Keith, Kinky Friedman, Iggy will be here, Donnie Fritts, Don Everly will be coming by…there’s a lot going on, ma-a-a-n!  You don’t want to run out do you?”

I allowed as how running out wouldn’t be a good idea, given the circumstances.  About then, there was a knock at the door and Neuwirth sped over and opened it.  A long-haired hippie kid entered, pushing a hand cart and immediately started unloading the beer and liquor into the kitchenette.  When he was finished, he turned to us and giving us a knowing smile asked, “Will there be anything else gentlemen?  Grass?  Speed?  Coke?  Acid?  I can arrange another delivery if you would like.”

I shook my head and Neuwirth pulled a couple bucks from his wallet and gave them to the kid and he left.  He shoved a couple of six packs into the mini-fridge and opened two beers, handing me one.  “Welcome to the Sunset Marquis, ma-a-a-an.  Drink up.  You got a rental car?”  I answered yes.”  Good.  We’ve got to go over to Cedars and check up on Iggy. I had to check him into detox this morning.  We’ve got to see when he’s getting out.  He’s got gigs coming up.”

And that’s pretty much how it went for the next several days.  We visited Iggy in the hospital, but he was still out of it and had another day or so of detox to go, so we drove back to the Marquis and I got settled in for the duration.  The next night, Neuwirth came by around midnight and took me over to Ben Keith’s room.  He was Neil Young’s long time steel guitar player and was in town to play on an album it turned out Neuwirth was recording.  Don Everly was there, and Donnie Fritts, who was Kristofferson’s piano man, and Geoff Muldaur, who had recently gotten divorced from his wife Maria and was playing for Paul Butterfield’s new band, Better Days.  I vaguely recall some pretty sweet picking and singing, but I don’t recall getting to bed.

I do recall waking up, however, to loud banging on my door the next morning.  It was Neuwirth again.  “Are you okay to drive?” he asked, without further introduction.  It must have been around six or seven o’clock – early anyway – and I was somewhat worse for the wear from the night before, but I was okay.  “C’mon,” said Neuwirth, holding my jeans in one hand and my Levi jacket in the other.  “Get dressed.  We’ve got to get Kinky up and pour him onto a plane.  He’s got a gig tomorrow on Long Island at the Nassau Coliseum with the Texas Jewboys, and if he doesn’t make it, his manager’s going to fire him.”

Down the hall to Kinky’s room we went.  When we got there, we found the singer and guitarist famous for his hit, “They don’t make Jews like Jesus anymore,” splayed across a double bed like roadkill.  Neuwirth started packing his bag and told me to get Kinky in the shower and sobered up.  So my introduction to Kinky Friedman was stripping him down and dragging him under a cold shower until he sputtered awake and asked me who the hell I was.  “That’s Truscott, from the Voice, asshole,” Neuwirth yelled from the other room.  “He’s going to get you to the airport so you make your gig tomorrow.”

I drove at speeds which if not breathtakingly fast, were certainly illegal and more dangerous than I knew at the time, given the fact that my rental car was a Pinto, later to be famous for its exploding gas tanks.  We arrived at LAX on time for Kinky’s flight, and he made the gig and didn’t get fired, and we’ve been friends to this day, all because I was marginally sober early one morning at the Sunset Marquis Motel.

Aaaaahhhh, Hollywood!

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