Memoir
A Night at the Roxbury (I Was a Rad, Bad Hollywood Girl)
The Night I Turned Into Shannen Doherty
“Don’t you know who I am?” I slurred with belligerent defiance.
The figure before us narrowed his eyes at me, furled his upper lip, pointed to the side of the room, and quietly responded, “get out.”
I knew at this moment…I had made it in Hollywood.
Los Angeles, California—1994.
I moved to Los Angeles about a week after the Northridge earthquake, much to the dismay of almost everyone who knew me. I’d been, oh, going through some things; after running away to a few different places in the middle of the night, I ended up moving in with my junior high school sweetheart/future gay ex-husband after a year of letter writing. Not email. Letter writing. Like with stamps and secret PO boxes and whatnot.
Jason’s friends immediately adopted me. Our weekends were often filled with overnight visits from his college crew—drunken bodies camping out on the floor of our scant one-bedroom apartment in the Miracle Mile. On this occasion, our childhood friend Sean was visiting us from the east coast and we were determined to show him a good time — 1990s L.A. style.
Enter Krista and Scottie
Krista and Scottie were among the best of our friends. Although Jason and I tried (nearly) unsuccessfully pretty much every weekend to get these two together — shamefully, even when they were dating other people — it just never happened that way. Even though they both carried a torch for each other. (I stand by that to this day.)
Scottie was Jason’s fraternity brother and former roommate in college and he met Krista during a theatre production.
Their personalities matched the wild and manic chaos the two of us were at that time. Our weekends were pretty much the same—Scottie would drive in from San Diego, Krista would drive in from Orange County—they’d throw their bags down into whatever corner of the room near some shitty Ikea furniture, Krista would yell, “Hey pal!” and the pre-partying would commence. Sometimes in the living room, sometimes on the roof of our old brick building. After the pre-partying, we’d either go to a club or a pub, depending upon our moods, and we’d typically lose Krista at some point.
Krista: Gregarious, flamboyant, loud, fun, outgoing, had a habit of breaking into groups of strangers when drunk and either bumming cigarettes and/or acting like she knew them. Long brown hair with blunt-cut bangs and an Old Navy sense of style. Very kind.
Scottie: Quieter than the rest of us but extremely funny. Nervous and a bit neurotic. Always wanted to find a nice girl to date but had a difficult time — probably because he was still stuck on his college ex-girlfriend. The most loyal friend in the world. Goofy and willing to be goofy. Often took the role of “The Krista Wrangler.”
The Night I Turned Into Shannon Doherty
Sean was on his way to becoming a pretty successful radio personality in New York City at the time of his visit. Instead of staying in our Ikea Palace on Cochran Ave., he opted to stay in luxury at a hotel. I don’t blame him. I would have chosen room service over potential mid-city roaches as well.
Jason and I parked at the Beverly Center to pick him up. I recall riding down the escalator and staring through the window of the hotel bar across the street to see Sean sitting there sipping on a whiskey listening to the piano player. We (lovingly) joked about how he was “all that” now, sitting there like Burl Ives in front of a fire with scotch, and hurried to bring him home before Scottie and Krista arrived for the evening.
This was going to be a big night.
The Roxbury was one of the hottest nightclubs in LA at the time. It was one of those clubs you always heard about the young hot actresses at the time getting into catfights and getting kicked out of. We wanted to show Sean Los Angeles in style, so that was our goal.
As we prepped and dressed in our 90s city-finest, we did tequila shots, jello shots, vodka shots, drank beer, and none of it quality. We were poor wannabe actors. The most expensive alcohol we had on hand was Popov. Not a good hangover.
I don’t remember what the others wore, but I know exactly what I had on. I wore a long, tight black v-neck cotton dress that I bought on Melrose that had Adidas stripes down the sides. Platform shoes. A choker. My hair was platinum blonde at the time and curled in a long Marilyn Monroe type style. Retro makeup. Just coloring in the 1990s picture, folks.
I was determined to make this a good night.
We got out of the cab and walked up to the club. The queue was long, which was to be expected. In hindsight, I’m not sure who they mistook us for, but as we approached the building, they waved us past the line of people waiting to get in. The bouncer grabbed me by the arm gently, pointing to the stairs off to the side, and said, “go on up.”
As the VIP bouncer lifted the velvet rope, the others looked back at me suppressing laughter and excitement. “Who do they think you are? We’re in the VIP room!”
Getting into the VIP room at the Roxbury in 1994, well, that’s exactly where you wanted to be when you were a douche of a wannabe.
All of this excitement made us extra hyper. We ordered our drinks enjoying our rounded leather booth that was front and center in the VIP room, it was like we were on stage. I mean, I felt like a superstar. I almost met my goal of becoming the new Marilyn of our time.
Not long after, a shadow grew cold over our spotlight.
“Excuse me, I’m going to have to ask you to leave this table.”
I don’t know if it was mania or my new superstar power, but I took over as leader of the pack. “Why?”
“This table is reserved for someone else.”
I was indignant.
“We were here first.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s reserved. You need to move.”
“We’re not moving.”
“I think you should leave.”
The alcohol was hitting me hard. My head was spinning, I was lightheaded, I was slurring, but I wasn’t going to let it go. My voice was getting loud—very loud.
“Who do you think you are!?” I spat.
“Out.”
“Don’t you know who I am?” I slurred with belligerent defiance.
(Who did I think I was?)
The figure before us narrowed his eyes at me, furled his upper lip, pointed to the side of the room, and quietly responded, “get out.”
Another bouncer arrived behind him.
“All of you leave now.”
We all stood up, bumping into each other, and started marching through the VIP room in a line. At this point, everyone was staring at us and it was silent. I secretly prayed the paparazzi was taking pictures. At the side of the room was a case of stairs that led down the outside of the building, and we officially took our walk of shame.
There was no paparazzi, but I got us kicked out of The Roxbury — just like Shannen Doherty did the week before.
On one hand, I ruined our night. On the other, our adventure was taking the walk of shame from the VIP room of The Roxbury. Yeah, today we know it’s stupid and immature. Back then I thought I was cool as shit.
The evening ended pretty much in a typical manner. Krista tried hitting on Sean but that went nowhere. She got lost. Scottie tried to find her, so then he was lost. We just went home. Scott came back without her. She fell asleep under the neighbor’s stairwell. Came in with donuts the next morning.
And then, we began planning for Saturday night.
