That went on for a good five minutes before I went downstairs in the lobby and broke down crying. A rather young officer comforted me and directed me to the supervisor. I was taken into an interview room and a report was drawn up. That was in December.
Friday night, someone gave me tickets to the Viper Room with the rumor that Tom Petty would appear. I invited a few friends, including my boyfriend, had a few drinks and even dropped a few disappointed tears when Petty did not show up. Tipsy and disappointed in music, that is the typical night out for me anyway. Isn't my boyfriend a lucky guy?
My friends suggested we walk down Sunset to catch another show before the clubs closed.
As we walked down Sunset, to the House of Blues, guys got behind us. They were the typical tourist types. Cheap suits. Bad cologne. And they were shouting at my friends. We asked them to stop. They didn't.
I stopped and advised the shorter fellow that he was balding (just in case he didn't know). Then I skipped ahead to my friends.
The shouting turned to violent profanity. Every name imaginable was thrown at me. My boyfriend is only 5'4, but he turned towards them and asked them to stop. They threw insults at him. I intervened and advised the two men that now that they were in Los Angeles, they were free to have sex with each other without judgment. I was not as eloquent, but you must make word choices based on your audience.
That evoked a violent response from both men, and the shorter one started throwing West Side Story gang signs at my boyfriend. I kept pushing my boyfriend behind me. I am 5'9 and a woman, that seemed practical. They threatened us. I told them they sickened me and I spit. They said I spit in their face. That may be, but being Sicilian I probably just spit on the ground in front of them.
Then the shorter, balding stranger shoved me into Sunset Blvd. I landed in the middle of traffic on my butt. My wrist took the brunt of the throw and immediately started to swell up. That is when my boyfriend, all 5'4 of him, tackled the guy.
One of the women in my company came back to help me pull apart the two men. She is well over 6 feet, by the way. That is when Baldy pulled a knife.
Remembering the incident in December, I immediately called 911. Baldy fled the scene, and his friend tried to enter the Standard Hotel. Security stopped them and we waited for the police in the cusp of valet.
The police came and started taking a report. "Because the suspect fled the scene this will probably just end up on someone's desk, like a detective, and not a whole lot can be done," an officer said.
"You have his friend here. Can't you get their room number and find his name?" I asked.
"We can't just go around asking for room numbers," she said.
You may have remembered a story about Bill Murray and all his bizarre, kooky stunts. I am a big fan, so I remember. One of the stunts was checking in guests at the Standard Hotel. So Bill Murray can find out names and room numbers, but the West Hollywood police department cannot.
Baldy returned. Mysteriously the knife was gone. They handcuffed him and put him in the back of their car. Justice was served, right?
Wrong.
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
