It turns out that Rockstars are people just like anybody else. And like you’re gonna learn from my story and pictures, Rockstars can be a hell of a lot sicker.
You don’t see it at first.
He was so cool.
After that first night he takes me up to his place. It’s on one of those twisty little turny roads that thread through the hollywood hills like intricate embroidery, stitching a pattern wealth and snobbiness that’s not hard to see over the hedges. And his place wasn’t blow away big or anything but it was cool. He didn’t really say much about it because I don’t think he knows much about it. Architecture doesn’t interest him. He says shit like, "I don’t know. It’s just walls to me."
But they weren’t walls to me. His house was this platform shoved into the side of a steep hill surrounded by arches and glass. And of course there were walls but they were natural. They were right. I’m not saying that I know two shits about architecture but I can say that his little platform on stilts improves that hillside more than it detracts.
It stands out. Most of those other little places up there are Spanish style things with those red clay tiles and the walls facing the street so you can see the front of the house. Mr. Rockstar doesn’t even have a wall like that. If people knew where he lived they could drive right on by and see him in his underwear through the big plate glass windows.
Yeah, I wanna see pictures of hot, naked chicks!
