For over a decade, I lived in one of Hollywood's most famous punk flophouses - Disgraceland. It was 1/4 of a buff-colored stucco Twenties-era fourplex residing in the shadow of Frederick's of Hollywood, and right around the corner from The Masque. By the time I moved in with my pals Kid Congo and Marci Blaustein in 1978, the building - hell, the entire neighborhood had seen better days.

Photo by Art Fein

I lived there until 1988 along with various roommates, including: Go-Gos Belinda Carlisle, Ward Dotson of The Gun Club, writer Iris Berry (who was my longest running roomie), and literally a changing cast of thousands. Almost everyone involved in the punk scene partied there. Touring bands crashed there (sometimes for months!). And, for a period of time, Don Bowles of The Germs, 45 Grave, etc. lived in the driveway in a white van with the license plate UNIT666, with extension cords snaking their way across the driveway into electrical sockets in Iris' room. Our neighbors were gypsies who did body work in their driveway; and, a guy we called 'The Hitman' because he looked like one - always wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase yet living in this horrifying, shabby dump. We were sandwiched between an elementary school and the K-thru-8 catholic school that belonged to Church Of The Blessed Sacrament, located right around the corner from us. Recess, for everyone who lived at Disgraceland, was hell.

My bail bondsman boyfriend, Billy Persons, dubbed it "Disgraceland" because we had a Tijuana plaster bust of Elvis (with Alice Cooper make-up that I added) on the mantelpiece, surrounded by empty fifths of booze. Billy also contributed the pink porch swing, obscured sometimes by the six-foot tall corn growing incongruously in the front yard. "D.G. Land", as we called it, was within stumbling distance of lots of major Hollywood nightspots - The Masque, Cathay De Grande, afterhours club The Zero (when it was on Cahuenga, and later on Wilcox), Club Lingerie. And, about five dive-bars that all opened at six a.m. - including some that are no longer there, like The Firefly and The Sideshow. My brother Chuckles called this Bermuda Triangle-like setup "The Circle of Death".

Disgraceland was a total pig sty, and that's being kind. When Belinda was seeing Suggs from the English ska band Madness they were all so horrified / amazed by the mess they wanted to do a video there. The Split Enz once walked into a bash , "The Forbidden Food Party" - ten chicks all fucked up in the middle of piles of garbage wearing negligees, tiaras, false eyelashes and eating chocolate cakes, French fries, potato chips, lasagna, cannolis, jellybeans, burritos - and when we offered them blue and purple rum punch with lollipop stirrers, loudly proclaimed: "We LOVE Los Angeles!"

We had "Mr. T." (our idol from 'The A Team') written on the living room wall in stick-on Stay Free Maxi pads, flanked by Xeroxed band flyers, a toilet seat and 'Lost Pets' posters stolen from the 'hood. You always had to step over passed out bodies, clothes, amps, guitars, drum sets, total strangers fucking, dirty laundry, fast food wrappers, miniature school desks, a Christmas tree stolen from Club Lingerie that we didn't throw out for months (it was adorned with empty Budweiser cans, Marlboro packs and fishnet stockings) a craps table, piles of petticoats, and millions of empty beer bottles. Many people had some of their most memorable sexual experiences in the walk-in closet at the end of the hallway.

Our landlord was Jayne Mansfield's ex-husband, body builder Mickey Hargitay. Criswell, of 'Criswell Predicts', had built a bomb shelter underground in the front yard - which we used to climb down into and 'get bombed' in. And the manager always seemed to be on Valium, which was probably how we got away with hardly ever paying rent. For years, there was an outstanding balance. And, somehow - I guess it was the drugs - we'd never get evicted. But the cops were there so often they knew me and Iris on a first-name basis!

I was once at a New Year's bash at a soundstage on La Brea and the Riot Squad was busting the party, which was packed. There were about seventy-five people standing around drinking outside and I was one of them. When the Riot Squad started marching on the place - helmets on, batons lifted - one of them walked up to me, lifted his visor and said in an absolutely friendly, genuine way:

"Hey, I know you! I busted a party at your house last week!"

Yes, indeed, the parties went on for days, blending into one another for the decade-long duration. Another time, during the mid-morning my friend Brad Dunning was jogging on the roof of the YMCA (about two blocks away from Disgraceland) and he said he could hear The Velvet Underground blasting, and knew it was coming from my house and that he knew we'd more than likely been up all night. Brendan Mullen of Club Lingerie used to offer our floor to touring bands as an alternative to renting a motel room without our permission, but we never turned anyone away. Bob Forrest of Thelonious Monster used to climb in through the kitchen window all the time, even though it was a ground-floor apartment. We usually kept the windows open 'cause we were always so drunk we'd lose our house keys. In fact, when I moved out of there I found, like, nine garter-belts and a few pairs of panties under my bed all with house keys safety-pinned to them!

The phone never stopped ringing - ever...unless, of course, it was shut off. But Iris and I were such telephone abusers that when she got her own line we actually used to lay in bed and call each other's bedrooms and have conversations even though we were literally fifteen feet down the hallway from eachother.

People would show up for a specific party and then stay for weeks. Others were always bringing "strays" over, like this one guy Clam Lynch - whom Iris found sleeping under a bulldozer on Melrose. Clam cleaned the house two or three times, and probably bought a communal bottle of Jack Daniels. And, to us, that was as good as paying six months rent. Everybody would come over at four a.m. looking for someone. Disgraceland was like a human lost-and-found department. Can't locate your friend? Try D.G. Land, the Bermuda Triangle of the Hollywood underground scene!

One early morning, Iris, our roomie Laura and I trashed the entire living room. I mean, we seriously destroyed every stick of furniture we owned by re-enacting G.L.O.W. - Gorgeous Ladies OF Wrestling - bouts. There were a ton of people there that night, and the party got completely out of hand because we all took Ecstasy (back when it was still legal). It was so raging that even The Hitman couldn't stand it - he called the cops on us. Iris saved the day by telling them that her boyfriend, Rat's Ass, was joining the Marines the next morning. God only knows why they believed her, but they did.

Sometimes we'd wake up to complete strangers cooking breakfast for us, or soundly sleeping beside us. Matt Lee of the local band The D.I.s said about Disgraceland:

"Usually, when I wake up I have no idea where I am. When I wake up here I always know EXACTLY where I am. The question is: how long have I been here?"

He wasn't alone...members of T.S.O.L., The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Detox, Poison 13, R.E.M., The Vandels, Tales Of Terror, The Rockats, The Cramps, The Gun Club, The Big Boys, The Blasters, The Joneses, X, Blood On The Saddle, The Gears, B.Y.O., The Mumps, Teenage Jesus, The Hickoids, Hard As Nails Cheap As Dirt, Mary's Danish, Bulimia Banquet, The Mentors, Top Jimmy & The Rhythm Pigs, The Go-Gos, The Dicks, Tex And The Horseheads, The Plugz, The Dickies, D.O.A., Red Scare, The Runaways, The Senders, Blondie, the Screamin' Sirens, Fishbone, Guns'n'Roses, etc. etc. - shit you name it - all felt the same way. MTV did a special on famous punk hangouts and featured Disgraceland; Art Fein wrote about it in a book; it was featured in Rolling Stone; on the Tanquery Rock 'n' Roll map; it's even - no lie - on the current version of 'Maps To The Stars Homes'! Disgraceland got more famous than anybody who ever lived there! That movie 'The Boost' with James Woods used the exterior as a crack house. It was perfect, all they had to do to 'dress it up' was put a shredded up old mattress in the yard. That was the only change they made. The location scout for that movie must've gotten a raise!

After I (finally) moved out - actually, it was an eviction that for once worked - the whole place was remodeled into an office building. And handicap ramps were installed. Because we were always so wasted, someone observed: "Too bad the ramps weren't there when we really needed them!"

Years later, I keep finding out that many people were terrified to even go near there. But there are others who claim - right to my face - that they used to party there...people I never saw before. I'd be thinking: I wasn't THAT fucked up. Then, I'd realize they were lying! It got to the point that I was skeptical of believing anyone I didn't recognize immediately when they said they'd hung out there.

But one girl restored my faith. She was a lovely redhead who said she'd been there. Of course, I didn't believe her.

"What'd ya do there?" I asked, expecting to catch her in a lie.

"I'm not sure," she said. "All I know is there were a bunch of punk bands from Texas staying there, and I got really shit-faced and wound up fucking someone's fat roadie on top of a pile of clothes in a closet!"

Obviously, she was telling the truth.