Beverly Hills, CA – 1982
I was in a hard rock band in L.A. in the early 80s. We used to play around the strip in Hollywood. During that time we had a lot of fun adventures… and some misadventures. Here is one of them.
I met an incredibly hot Armenian girl named Milena. She came into the bar where my band was playing with some of her other hot girlfriends, and we chatted after our set. There were warning signs that she was a bit shallow. I’m not going to lie. This girl’s credit card was platinum, and she drove a convertible Maserati and lived in her parent’s Beverly Hills mansion.
She was completely vapid but oh, so hot. We dated for a few months and everything was fine. I just did my best to ignore/overlook when she did things I didn’t like… specifically talking.
The holidays came and went. We had a few very fun sleepover parties while her parents were out of town. I’d never met them. Milena was like a tiger in the sack. I felt like a burnt matchstick after a few of our sessions together.
Alika gets the bright idea to invite me over and meet her parents who were hosting a New Years’ party. Normally I’d skip that but I was curious about trying to see what kind of parents produce a vapidly oblivious, self-obsessed, girl with the common sense of a squirrel crossing a highway. Besides, I’d drunk enough of their booze and eaten enough of their caviar and slept their daughter for 3 months or so at this point, so I thought why not? I was a nineteen-year-old guitarist from Philly. So have at it!
From the moment I met them I got a very distinctly “chilly” reception. I usually gel pretty well with parents of girls I’ve dated. The mother looked like a grown-up version of her daughter and the father looked like he couldn’t remember his own kid’s names. Polite but certainly chilly.
They kept making pointed comments. Pointing out to me where the bathrooms were without being prompted. Pointing out that the floors were hardwood and that they had “many, many bathrooms.” I was confused by the fact that 1 out of 4 conversations all somehow led to me being directed to the nearest bathroom.
At the end of the night, I wished them both goodnight and her mother said she was glad to see “I was still on the wagon.” I smiled through it. As soon as the door closed I had a big “WTF was that all about?!” conversation with Milena.
Long story short, Milena has a really old cat named Arman. And her parents have a 100+-year-old Persian rug that Arman soiled on one of the nights I slept over. Apparently, Milena was afraid of Arman getting put to sleep by her angry vengeful parents for ruining the rug. So Milena helpfully made up a story that she had been helping me detox from heroin, and that in a fit of withdrawal I’d soiled their prized antique Persian rug!
Mind you this was a few months back, and her parents have been under the impression that I was fresh out of rehab after a horrific addiction to pills and heroin. She also told them that she had helped me through the worst of it and that I was deep in a drug withdrawal stupor. Apparently, I had lost all bladder control, and that I had no memory of destroying the rug.
So…rich parents…spawned a spoiled, habitually lying rich girl…owned a fat tabby cat with serious digestive tract problems. The guy who’s in a band and has only smoked weed and drank beer is suddenly a horrific heroin addict, who in a drug induced haze soiled an $80,000 prized family heirloom antique rug.
I continued to see her anyway.
Thank you for reading my blog. Please like, comment, share, and most of all, follow Phicklephilly. I publish every day.
You can check out my books here: https://www.amazon.com/s?k=charles+wiedenmann&ref=nb_sb_noss_1