A few nights ago I did a random Internet search for Hollywood hustlers (aw, settle down - it was for a very legitimate cause) and I was completely shocked when some ancient photos of me showed up. I kid you not.
After I regained consciousness, I realized that the Internet photos were lifted from some posts about Hollywood that I had written on my old blog Lone Star Concerto.
So what's the point of all this, Jon?
The point is, it's ironic and almost funny that I'm inadvertently associated with gay porn stars and Hollywood hustlers. That's a term for a male prostitute - in case any of you innocent Midwest Baptists are wondering.
A Hollywood hustler
(it's not me - - hell, I looked better than that)
actually I think this hustler photo was taken in San Francisco....but who cares?
First of all, I never made any gay porn movies (well none that I'll admit to, anyway). Second I was never a hustler. I was a cruiser. There's a subtle difference.
Why do I have the feeling that I'm digging myself into a hole and will soon be buried?
I'm smiling while I'm writing this because
1) I find wry humor in the whole situation, and
2) I'm an idiot.
I plan to write a book about my Hollywood adventures, hopefully soon - - not because I'm particularly proud of my youthful debaucheries, but because I had the rare opportunity of experiencing many extraordinary things in an extremely unique environment. The few incidents that I revealed in my blogs are only paltry fragments of an incredible journey.
Yea, I know - the sleazy subject of West Hollywood, aptly known as Boystown, has already been done to death in more tawdry novels and mediocre memoirs than anyone cares to remember. A few of the memoirs are good. Most, however, are embarrassingly bad - with poor writing about inconsequential incidents that drag on for unnecessary chapters.
I'm not saying that my contribution will be any better, but it's a subject I know well. I was a part of the Hollywood scene during a fantastic time: when it was still dark and trashy, raw and real, with delicious lingering remnants of the golden past. It hadn't yet become the renovated, revitalized, plastic Disneyesque parody of Hollywood that it is today.
.....my life is an open book......
One of my big regrets is that I have very few photos of my Hollywood years. When I moved from California to the Missouri Ozarks most of them were lost. Ironically, when I moved from Texas to Tennessee, all of my California diaries and journals were lost (stolen?).
These are enormous loses from which I've never recovered. With the absence of my photos and journals, my California past is largely expunged. All I have left are my memories - which is why I have a desperate desire to write them down.
A question may arise concerning my photos.
Why, do you keep using the same old photos of yourself over and over, Jon?
Good question. I'm glad you asked.
First of all, I looked a helluva lot better a hundred years ago than I do now. If I use recent photos I'll frighten people and dissolve illusions.
Second, since I only have a few Hollywood photos, I admittedly have to overuse them. Most of those old photos were taken by my "friend" Phil - - the ex-con-drug-dealer-turned-photographer, who had been in prison for attempted murder. I wrote about him in a previous post.....
The night we were stoned and drunk and went over a cliff in a stolen car after a 90 MPH joy ride.
In retrospect, the story of my life would not only make a good book, it would probably make a damn good movie, too.....
Alas, it's far too late for me to die young and make a good looking corpse. I'd rather be remembered as a young California cutie than the dilapidated, washed-up, sunburned alcoholic that I am now.
I'm starting to ramble. Time for me to quit writing and go to sleep.
Me now -
an ancient relic