Dirty Rocker Boys (6 page)

“That was
O. J. Simpson
?” I said, glancing back at the bar. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Since arriving in Los Angeles, everything had felt effortless. Hollywood values youth and beauty above all—as a young model with a contract, I was automatically on the list at every hot club in town; the bookers at my agency just told me where to go and who to ask for at the door. Within days, I was cutting lines and breezing through velvet ropes without a thought. It was just part of the job, I figured. Those left waiting in line eyed me jealously. I had no idea how success-driven people are in Los Angeles. I had never had to work for my own, so I took it for granted from day one. Things were not working out as well for Kenny, though. Neither of us could understand why this town wasn’t falling in love with him the way it was with me. We had arrived only a few weeks ago, but already I was something of a scene queen. I had enlisted a group of super-babeish girlfriends from the modeling agency, and together we ruled the roost at Helena’s, with Kenny tagging along, letting me pay for his drinks at the bar.

Later that night, the R & B singer Bobby Brown came dancing up to me. “Hey, Bobbie Brown, you wanna dance with Bobby Brown?” he said. We danced for a while, and he seemed interested in continuing the conversation, but I politely took my leave. I had arrived with Kenny, and I would leave with Kenny. Maybe it was something they taught me at White Gloves and
Party Manners class in New Orleans—but I simply abhorred cheating. Nobody ever said a little flirting wasn’t allowed, but I wasn’t about to go around giving out my number.

Helena’s was owned by 1970s cult actress Helena Kallianiotes, known for playing a butch lesbian hitchhiker opposite Jack Nicholson in the movie
Five Easy Pieces
and an aggressive Roller Derby girl in
Kansas City Bomber
. Her supper club was a Hollywood fantasyland—not that you’d know from the exterior, until the Ferraris and Rolls-Royces would start lining up at around 10
P.M.
Madonna and her then husband, Sean Penn, would be served dinner under a canopy by waiters dressed all in white. Susan Sarandon and Cher would make conversation with Rob Lowe and other Brat Packers. I danced with Judd Nelson, smoked cigars with Harry Dean Stanton, shared lipstick with Melanie Griffith, and talked poetry with her husband, Don Johnson. (I had been writing poems for years, so we shared that in common.) I fit so easily into the scene at Helena’s, it was hard for me to remember my “other” life, as a small-time pageant queen in Baton Rouge. My unself-conscious flair for conversation and my relaxed energy made me stand out from the crowd of insecure, overambitious model-actress-whatevers. Having been schooled in Southern manners and etiquette so early in life, I knew how to charm the socks off anyone I was introduced to.

Not once did I stop to think about just how remarkable it was that I, Bobbie Jean Brown, should have so quickly and easily gained access to the most exclusive echelons of the Hollywood scene. In my mind, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
My don’t-give-a-fuck attitude was serving me well. I’d march up to the front of every line as though it was my God-given right, look the bouncer in the eye, and wink, with the confidence of a star who had already made it. And they would let me in, not because I was necessarily more beautiful than anyone else in line (L.A. is chock-full of beauty), but because of my fearlessness. Of course, this is only the kind of game that you can get away with for so long. Unless you back up the bullshit with some bona fide success, sooner or later, Hollywood will tire of the façade and swiftly, brutally put you back in your place.

Hollywood was bored with Kenny almost the second he arrived in town. He had very little charm behind those good looks, and absolutely nothing in common with Don Johnson, Melanie Griffith, or anyone else at Helena’s. He was out of his league, and no matter how many triple vodkas I brought him, it seemed like nothing could pull him out of his funk.

We were sharing a one-bedroom apartment on Riverside Drive in North Hollywood, in the sprawling superheated basin known as the San Fernando Valley, home to gum-snapping Valley girls, salon tanners, and porn stars. It was close enough to the action for me, just a ten-minute drive into the land known as “Hollywood,” encompassing the music venues and nightclubs of the Sunset Strip, the bars of West Hollywood, and the glitzy restaurants and hotels of Beverly Hills.

Los Angeles rewards youth, beauty, and balls—all of which I possessed by the boatload—so I started booking jobs almost the minute we arrived. These included my very first music video,
for the song “I’m On to You” by a semipopular heavy metal band called Hurricane. “I’m On to You” was the only Top 40 hit Hurricane ever had, and when I found out, I shrugged, thinking,
Of course.
Everything I touched turned to gold. I was a young model in Hollywood, making friends, making money, and starting to hang out with rock stars. Everything was going according to plan. I couldn’t believe just how
easy
it was.

Look closely at that video, and you’ll notice my nose has a little bump in it. Also, my chest is nothing to write home about. But about two weeks after the shoot, my face and body had taken on new dimensions, thanks to a very nice plastic surgeon, whose services were paid for by my mom. I loved my brand-new D cups, but I knew there was no way I was ever going to be the next Cindy Crawford or Christie Brinkley. First, I was too short to be a supermodel, and now my figure was far too juicy for high fashion. I was sexy in a California surfer–girl next door kind of way, not a pinched New York runway model way. And I was okay with that. The L.A. look was hot, and it was
so
me—blond, bubbly, and rock ’n’ roll. This was the era of casual sporty chic, of L.A.-centric TV shows like
Beverly Hills 90210
and
Melrose Place
, and the poppy hair metal music exploding out of Hollywood was the hottest thing on the
Billboard
charts. I recalibrated my high-fashion aspirations and rebranded myself as the ultimate California babe, switching to a different agency, Flame, which specialized in a mainstream, commercial look. The gamble paid off—at Flame I found myself busier than before, with photo shoots, auditions, and test shoots, not to mention
more music videos. To me, they were just another money gig, as workaday as a Sears catalog shoot. I never thought any of those shoots would make or break my career.

The second video I did was with a short-lived pop duo, Times Two, who were touring the country as Debbie Gibson’s opening act. I wore a tasseled black outfit and go-go danced in the video to their 1989 pop take on Simon & Garfunkel’s “Cecilia.” I’m ashamed to say, I had never even heard of Simon & Garfunkel. Or Times Two (which is more forgivable). Then the rock band Great White called, saying they wanted me for the video for “Once Bitten Twice Shy,” a cover of Ian Hunter’s (Mott the Hoople) original. It was a fun shoot. I got to play a hot groupie babe, sitting on the back of lead singer Jack Russell’s Harley, looking babeish with a bunch of other groupie babes while wearing a leather bra with studs. The song would become the band’s biggest hit, charting at number 5 on the
Billboard
Hot 100, earning them a Grammy nomination for Best Hard Rock Performance and some sell-out tours with Bon Jovi.
But of course
, I thought.

When Great White, now bona fide rock stars, called me back for a second video shoot for “House of Broken Love,” my job was to wear blue jeans and a white T-shirt, stand on a desert highway, and look lonesome. The shoot was less fun than the “Once Bitten” shoot—Jack Russell, the lead singer with a pair of lungs that rivaled Robert Plant’s, was starting to use drugs again and was having difficulty leaving his trailer. Nonetheless,
the song was a hit, and gained me a little recognition, especially when they used my photo for the cover of the single.

Not long afterward, I shot the “Sittin’ in the Lap of Luxury” video with Louie Louie, who had played Madonna’s boyfriend in the video for “Borderline.” I could see why Madonna had chosen him for the job; he was one of the sexiest guys I had ever met, but as sweet as he was, he showed absolutely zero interest in me
. Terence Trent D’Arby, on the other hand, was nothing
but
friendly when I was hired to dance in the video for his “It Feels So Good to Love Someone Like You.” He had apparently told the press that his debut record was “better than [the Beatles’]
Sgt. Pepper
.” A few years later his career tanked, so he changed his name to Sananda Maitreya and moved to Italy. Hollywood is a cruel mistress.

Kenny, having grown up rich and spoiled in Baton Rouge, had no work ethic whatsoever. He thought he could just show up in L.A. with his curly mullet and mustache and land a record deal straightaway. But guys like him were a dime a dozen. They waited tables and washed cars, hustling while trying to get a foot in the door. Kenny had no foot
close
to any door, so he just terrorized me instead.

“Did you fuck that French fuck?” he screamed at me one evening. I had just stepped in the door, home from a test shoot
that day with a fabulous European photographer. I threw the black-and-white photos angrily on the kitchen table, too frustrated to even argue. He was pressuring me to quit modeling, give up the dream. I was starting to think he was losing his mind. The next day, he did.

I stopped at the bank on my way home, and was politely informed that both my accounts had been completely drained by the other joint account holder, Kenny, just that morning.
Now why would he do a thing like that?
I wondered, rushing home from Wells Fargo. I opened the front door to our apartment, and Kenny was sitting on the floor, cutting up photos of me with my sewing scissors, shredding my face into thousands of little pieces. My whole portfolio, gone; my bank accounts, drained. Kenny was having a fucking meltdown. I had no idea how to handle it.

My best friend at the time was a model-actress-dancer called Rebecca Ferratti, a
Playboy
Playmate in 1986, and star of many a hair metal video. I locked myself in our bedroom and called her, told her she had to come over with her boyfriend, a tough-looking Italian actor called Jimmy Franzo.

“Yo, Kenny! It’s Jimmy. Open the fucking door!”

I was hiding in the closet but could hear everything that was happening; Kenny was sobbing as he let Jimmy in.

“Kenny, bro, you gotta go. C’mon, pack some shit, I’ll take you to the airport.”

Jimmy drove Kenny straight to LAX and put him on a plane back to Louisiana that night. When I called Mr. Earl and told
him what had happened, he sent one of my uncles over to Kenny’s house to gently—so very gently—request that Kenny pay Miss Bobbie Jean Brown the five thousand dollars she had been so generous as to loan him from her bank account.

I was happy that Kenny, with his jealous mood swings and shitty attitude, was out of my life. I was single and ready to mingle. One of the first dates I went on was with Scott Baio, who I had met at Helena’s. I remembered him as Chachi, the cute guy in that show
Happy Days
. I was a little surprised when he invited a buddy to dinner with us, a chirpy little yes-man who loved to chime in and agree with whatever Scott had to say.
Maybe that’s just the Hollywood way,
I thought.

“Hollywood is a dark, twisted place, Bobbie,” said Scott, with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Yeah,” said his friend.

“Something about it here just brings out the worst in us all,” continued Scott, toying with his fettuccini.

“You’ll see,” added his friend.

Jeez Louise. What a pair of depressives! After having to put up with Kenny and his bummer vibes, this was the last thing I needed. I had only just arrived in town and was having my Hollywood honeymoon. Little did I know that, as Scott Baio warned, the city will start playing tricks on your mind if you let it. But that night, I just thought Scott was a negative Nancy. Also
he had these thin little lips, and my mom always said never to trust a man with thin lips. When those thin lips headed toward mine at the end of the date, I made a side dodge and air-kissed Scott on the cheek. He smiled, surprised. “See you around, Bobbie,” he said, and I nodded, sure that he would.

A few nights later, I found myself in the middle of a throng of screaming women in downtown L.A. It was mass hysteria at the Chippendales show.

“Take them off!” screamed the woman next to me, and I had to put my hands over my ears. Women were standing on tables, hanging off railings, desperately reaching out for the sweaty hunks in G-strings, hungry for man flesh. It was like feeding time at the zoo.

My girlfriend had dragged me along, promising a good time. I wasn’t so sure, until my eyes came to rest on one of the dancers. He had long hair and tattoos, and looked like a Viking warrior.

“You can get us backstage, right?” I yelled at my girlfriend, who rolled her eyes.

“Duh!” she said. “Of course!”