Diary of a Rock and Roll Chick

By Virginia C. West

Diary of a Rock & Roll Chick affords the reader a raw, unabashedly candid look at the daily struggles of a determined young woman fighting to carve a niche for herself in the unforgiving, competitive world of musical entertainment. It's all there, from the first uncertain days in that arid parcel of real estate known as Hollywood, to confrontations with the myriad predators, miscreants and con artists, to the intoxicating romantic entanglements that straddle the line between uninhibited pleasure and heartbreaking disillusion. Whether you're a rocker or a roller, or fascinated by all that is Hollywood, or merely have a fondness for a little down and dirty sex, Diary of a Rock & Roll Chick is a turbulent, absolutely true-life account you won't want to miss!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Virginia C. West
• Release date: Oct 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393120599

Book preview

When I arrived in Los Angeles on April 14, 2009, I was twenty. I brought two things with me from Utah: a guitar and a dream. The one thing I didn’t bring with me was my boyfriend Nathaniel. Natty killed himself months earlier, just six days before Christmas. He was 22. I was in a total state of shock after he died. About two months later I had a wildly vivid dream in which Natty told me I needed to follow my dream of being a singer and songwriter. So I planned my escape (from work, family, etc.) and got on a bus to Los Angeles.

I was 11 when I started my first diary. I stopped writing in it when I was 17, a very short time before I met Natty. This is a decision I’ve come to regret. I so wish I had kept a record of all the things I did and said during our 2 ½ year relationship.

I started my diary again the week before I got on that bus for L.A. I did it for Natty. It would be my way of having him back in my life, of sharing myself with him once again.

What follows are raw, mostly unedited pages which detail my daily fight for survival, success–and yup–LOVE. It’s all here: the good and bad, every bit of it. I should mention that I have little modesty about the details of my life. Look, we all shit, fuck, masturbate, and we all have hangovers, zits, body odor, bad breath, rashes, and we all have our hearts broken–so if find any of these things at all objectionable, read no further. Again, this is raw stuff, written on the fly. If you’re looking for fuckin’ Jane Austen or some such shit, look elsewhere.

A friend said to me not long ago, You loved Nathaniel so much, yet you’re so willing to write in detail about loving other men. I told this friend what I truly believe: There’s no jealousy in Heaven.

So I hope you find some meaning in my modest jottings. I hope they enlighten, embolden, inspire, or at the very least entertain. I would like that. Nathaniel would like that also.

xo

– Vee

PS – I’ve occasionally added a bit of coloring–explanation–to certain sections of this diary in order to provide setting and/or description lacking in the entry. You’ll find these comments bracketed and in bold.

Tuesday – 4/14

My dearest Nathaniel: I got off the bus at the depot in downtown L.A. Fuck me, what a dump. I made a pit stop at the bathroom, had a pee, washed my hands, washed my face. Then I found myself a cab. I told him to take me to Hollywood. He asked, Where in Hollywood? I told him, Fuck if I know, mister. Just take me there and we’ll figure it out. I saw him grin. I put my duffle and my guitar in the trunk and we were on our way. I was right about downtown, it was a dump, and the freeway ride wasn’t anything to write home about (if I had wanted to write home), but I liked the look of Hollywood once we got there. Palm trees right in there with the head shops, derelicts, losers and scum-suckers. I guess they all end up here, don’t they? Now I was among them. But I got something they don’t have. A little thing called T-A-L-E-N-T. I got a dogged determination to succeed in this fuckin’ life. I told my driver to take me to a motel. He asked what my price range was. I told him Cheap as they come.

The driver dropped me at some dive just off Sunset Boulevard, not far from Hollywood Blvd. I paid my $19 fare, gave the guy a three dollar tip (he didn’t seem to appreciate that too much), then I went to the motel’s office. Some dopey middle-aged guy was sitting there, a small fan running on his face (it was pretty fuckin’ warm that day), and he was reading the Wall Street Journal. Got any hot stock tips for me, Mr. Rockefeller? He just gave me this look. OK, so he had no sense of humor. I guess I wouldn’t either if I was some piggo, middle-aged guy working a counter at a fleabag motel. Do you have any rooms? I asked. He told me he did and that it was $73.00 a night. I asked if he could make a deal if I paid two weeks in advance. I figured two weeks would be enough time to get settled and find another, more permanent living arrangement. He got out his little calculator and tapped it a few times. He told me he could do 14 days for $950.00. I’ve always been good at math and I quickly figured that came to about $68.00 a day. For a shithole like this, it was still too much, but I was in no mood to dicker. I told him that would be fine. He asked if I’d be paying by credit card. Fuck that. I pay cash, I told him. I dug into my duffle and pulled out a wad of bills. [This was pretty much everything I’d saved since my first job–washing cars!–at thirteen. I had a little under $5500.] I liberated the $950.00 while Mr. Rockefeller’s eyes bulged from his fat head. I knew what he was thinking. Don’t even think about it. I get robbed, you’re the first person I’m coming to see. He knew I wasn’t screwing around. [Don’t let this pretty, freckled face fool you–I can put on an pretty intimidating façade when necessary. Then there are times when I can be a playful, goofy kitten. Now before you get your minds all a flutter as to what I look like, let me paint you a picture: I’m pretty slender and just under five-foot-seven; my blonde hair is arranged in a shaggy bob cut (though I’m presently thinking of shaving myself nearly bald and dying what’s left a brilliant orange); my eyes are big and blue. Friends of mine back home say I look like a blue-eyed Anne Hathaway. Why do we have to look like other people? I only want to look like me, like Virginia.]

I got my key and I got up to my room. It’s number 20, up on the second level. [I considered that number fortuitous because it was also my age. 20 going on 40. Shit.] The room wasn’t nearly as bad as you’d think. The bed was firm, the closet space was sufficient, the bathroom wasn’t too awful (although the toilet was too damn close to the sink), the bed wasn’t too saggy and the carpeting wasn’t too ugly. I’d been in far worse, believe me. Soooo, off to a decent start!

A few hours later, after I had taken a nap and a shower, it was coming up on 8 PM. The sun had just gone down a short while earlier and the temps dropped nicely. I put on my torn jeans, my well-worn Vans, and leather jacket, and I hit the streets. My plan was to get on over to the Whiskey, about two miles from the motel (at least according to Mr. Rockefeller), but I wanted to take my time and soak up some of what Hollywoodland had to offer. So off I went, trudging my tight little buns up Sunset Boulevard.

It was love at first sight. The sounds, the smells, the people, the horror and beauty of it all. We’re sure not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy, ya dweeb. I nearly came in my panties right then and there while standing on the corner of Sunset and Vine. Best sex I’ve ever had was with a town named Hollywood. I knew