I heard Dion Agius was in Los Angeles. Had been for a few months, with trips to Hawaii and Morocco sandwiched in. He was living in the Hollywood Hills, which is not near good ocean but which is near an ample party scene. I called him and told him I wanted to ride along for a day. He told he’d allow it in exchange for punching out Emile Hirsch. I agreed. What follows is a, more or less, unedited description of a rainy Friday descent into madness. I had a notebook and my friend Herb had a camera.
Dion tells me to meet him at the EconoLodge
Hollywood. Ugly Hollywood. Next to the
Seventh Veil strip club and the Titty Twister
(strip club). Both are closed. Rotten luck.
Room 202. Second floor overlooking the motel sign and
sort of the smallest kidney shaped pool I have ever seen.
And Guitar Center is across Sunset. Location isn’t actually
terrible. Probably two miles east of Chateau Marmont.
John Belushi died in the Chateau Marmont. Do not disturb
sign upside down in the lock. Knocking. After three heavy
pounds he answers. Bleary eyed.
“You, Charlie? Nice to meet ya mate, lemme get my keys
and we’ll go out for a bit.”
Dion is wearing a red Globe flannel with the sleeves
ripped off over a black Dior singlet, torn Globe skinny
jeans and a pair of Globe skate shoes. His hair is a halo
of mess. There are glass jugs full and half full of rotgut
spread throughout the room, but more on the room later.
He closes the door, locks it and puts on a pair of Anon.
sunnies. John Lennon style.
Down the stairs to the car. Shitty stairs. The Indian working
the desk is glaring. Angry or confused. We’re walking
to Dion’s car. Porsche Boxster. 2008. Black, convertible.
Triptronic paddle shifters on the steering wheel. Good
taste. Taut black leather interior.
“I’ll show you why I drive this car later. She’s a hot little
worker.” We tear out of the parking lot and straight onto
Sunset. Fishtailing.
It had been raining the day before and is supposed to
be raining right now, but there are only looming clouds.
Seems as if everyone knows Dion on Sunset. He drives
fast while talking. Open rotgut bottles in the car. Rotgut
is illegal. Driving with open bottles of alcohol is illegal.
People shout and he waves. One bearded hipster wearing
black Yves Saint Laurent Jailast Moccasins and acid
washed jean shorts waves an empty glass gallon jug toward
Dion. Dion gives him a two-fingered salute.
“You just get back from Morocco?”
“Yeah. Trees and goats. Hahahah. It was fun, though.”
“What about Hawaii?”
“Ah fuck mate, I don’t know. I’m not too keen on Hawaii.
You know it’s just such a cluster fuck. Everyone is there
but it gets boring. You sit out at Pipe for three hours and
catch one wave, if you’re lucky. I don’t compete and I
know loads of guys charge a lot harder than I do, so sometimes
I don’t know why I’m there. Whatever.”
“What is your favorite wave in the world?”
“Favourite wave in the world is a secret beach in France.
Only breaks on a particular swell, tide and wind and the
locals will cut off your balls if you don’t have the magic
pass to surf there.”
He takes a sip out of a bottle. Drinking while driving is
illegal.
We’re winding our way up the Hollywood Hills now. Up
Doheny. He wants to look over his kingdom. He’s the only
one he knows who sells rotgut. Six bucks a bottle.
“How do you make any money?”
“It costs fucken 60 cents to make and one dollar to buy
wholesale.”
“Oh.”
Christina Aguilera’s house is across the street. Neutraesque.
Big windows overlooking the strip.
Dion is getting a little drunk.
“Chrisistina whateverthefuck’s husband used to like
my rotgut. Makes his wifff’s musicsound better. Prollymakesss
‘er look better too. Fuckenvoooleyvoookoooshey
a vet moi…”
It’s colder now. He pulls on an old Vietnam era jacket and
fingerless gloves.
“How does your manager feel about you selling illegal
homemade liquor?”
“Ahhhh, I don’t have a fuckenmanager. What for? I’m not
hard to gettahold of. Anybody who needs to gettaholduh
me can do it. Beren Hall sometimesacts as my manager
though. Sommmuh those other guyssIguess might need a
managerbuh nah me.”
His phone rings. “Time for buisnesess.” He
shakes his head and seems to sober up, for
a minute. We wind back down Doheny and
end up outside Cantina, a Hollywood bar
famous for dubious cliental and happy hour. It’s across
from The Standard Hollywood. Dion parks in the red noparking
zone right next to the window.
“Now this is why I got a Boxster. Most people are too
stupid to realise that a Porsche has its boot in the front. I
can sell rotgut and everybody thinks I’m just fixing her up.
No problem, mate.”
We sit for a few minutes and Dion ends up selling two
bottles to a movie-ish type, the person who called him,
and another one to a female lawyer, who came out of the
bar. It takes all sorts. I think Dion makes around 30k a
year off rotgut. He can clear a grand at an event, like art
opening or Cold War Kids show, without even trying. Rotgut
is hipster chic, now. The Malloys love it, for instance.
Dion is seen as a rad artisan.
The lawyer also tries to climb into his pants. She’s from
Canada so he rebuffs her. His drunkenness has turned semisoberness
turned belligerence. He tells her to, “Sit on it and
spin.” She cries. “Lessgo back to the hotel,” he says.
It has started to rain. Dion has not put up the roof of the
car and everything is getting wet. The steering wheel and
the paddle shifters. We drive east on Sunset, toward the
EconoLodge. Wet. LA drivers are retarded in the rain and
Dion may or may not be drunk.
“You got a girl?”
“I did. Dated a chick fortwo andahalf years, but that ended.
I’m sorta seeing this girl in Venicebut Emile Hirsch is
always pokinhis nose around.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Emile. I hated Into The
Wild.”
“I donn really care.”
“You gonna take her back to the Goldie with you?”
“Dunno. We haven’t got thatfaryet. And fuckenEmile
Hirsch.”
Dion is not the jealous type, but only homosexuals are
content sharing women. Dion is not a homosexual.
We miss the turn in to the EconoLodge and have to take
another roll around the block.
“Will you ever do the QS or the CT?”
“Fuck no. I would hate to do the QS. Slopping around in
shitty waves. When you first do it, all it is is a party, so
why fucken compete?”
“So what, just do what you want and video and stuff?”
“Yeah, and sells the fucken rotgut jessfor kicks. This
whole city belongs to fucken me. All cities belong to me.
I am fucken now! I surf and get paid. I deal ‘gut and get
paid. Men wanna fuck me and women wanta be me!”
“What’s the best part of surfing?”
“Best part is getting to travel around the world and seeing
places that ill remember even when im and old dried up
sea dog selling newspapers for a living.”
“What’s the best thing about selling rotgut?”
“Whitetrash pussy.”
Finally make it to his room. Inside room 202. There are
the rotgut bottles all over. Maybe thirty. I don’t know how
long Dion has been living here. All the furniture is askew.
The closet door appears to be off its hinges. The floor is
littered with Globe gear. A surfboard leans against the far
wall and a guitar leans against the surfboard. All the hotel
linen has been ripped off and is lying in the corner. The bedspread
seems to be from Dion’s personal stash. It is black
on one side and tiger stripped on the other side. Porn mags
litter the bed and favourite pics are tacked up on the wall. A
white teddy bear is tied up with phone cord and Christmas
lights. It looks to have a vagina, maybe. Tyra Banks is playing
of the TV. She is interviewing The Biggest Loser. There
are one-dollar bills everywhere. And candles.
Dion rips off his shirt and shoes and pulls on a brown,
fur-lined Armani trenchcoat. He grabs cold beers from the
mini fridge and hops onto the bed.
“What do you like better? Beer or rotgut?”
“I like a beer tarelax, but ‘gut when it’s times to get crazynwild.”
“What else you do? Ecstasy?”
“Fucken ecstasy is crook. I hate the stuff. Hate when people
come up taya and try to talk when they’re on it, saying
the same stupid thingzover and over again like an inch
from your face.”
“Do you love LA?”
“Mmmmm sometimes but when I’vebeen here for a whileit
starts to get old. I’ve beengone too long. See that fuken
guitar?”
“Yes.”
“It sucks. And that board sucks too. Fuckemboth.”
With that, Dion gets up and, grabs the guitar and surfboard,
flings the door open, half slides down the stairs and
marches out to the middle of Sunset. There he proceeds to
bash the board with the guitar. Passing drivers are bewildered.
Dion is swearing in Tasmanian. A fire marshal pulls
over and escorts him to the curb. His hair is a soaking wet
halo of mess.
Back near the room Dion grabs two half bottles of rotgut
and a cigarillo and jumps out onto the roof. He isn’t finished.
The rain is coming down harder harder. Dion has a
crazed look in his eye. He screams at the top of his lungs,
“What you lookin’ at? You all a bunch of fucken assholes.
You knowhy? You don’t have the guts to be what youwanna
be? You need people like me. You need people like me
so you can point your fucken fingers and say, “Thasss the
bad guy.” So... what that make you? Good? You’re notttgood.
You just know how to hidenhow ta lie. Me, I don’t
have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth. Even when I
lie. Sosay gooooonight to the bad guy! Come on. The last
time you gonna see a bad guy like this again, lemmme tell
you. Comeon. Make way for the bad guy. There’s a bad
guy comin’ through! Better get outta his way!”
The next morning I wake up in a gutter. Dion is nowhere
to be found. I text to make sure he is ok. He responds.
“Got walked in on fully nude going to town on that chick
by one of the Mexican maids. It was pretty fucked up. She
(the maid) screamed some shit in Mexican and ran out.”
Posts: 36
Reply #36 on : Mon October 19, 2009, 14:41:58