We left The Viper Room, hopped back into the car, turned right from Larrabee hooking onto Sunset heading east. Prince’s “Controversy” is on the radio.
As we slithered through the sidewinder curves of the famous Blvd, passing the gentrified buildings that once held entertainment, beds, and walls encasing scandal for multiple eras of Hollywood; classic black and white stars, summer of love hippies, 80’s hair metal rockers, dashed with a short lived punk scene in between, we made our pilgrimage towards the Thai town area of Hollywood. An area new money has barely touched, but will soon infect and erase the blemishes of history, face-lifting it with more modern looking facades ruining the charm it still holds. Destination: Jumbo’s Clown Room.
We came upon the once great mecca to pop culture, the former Tower Records building, before the convenience of streaming and lifeless overnight Amazon delivery shut it down, now holds a vulgarity of SUPREME merch in its hallowed walls. The parking lot is unsurprisingly empty as we drive by.
Cruising slowly now past the hotel once known as the Continental Hyatt House (aka the Riot House), where legends of 60s and 70s rock bands violated balcony policies over and over, by swinging from them, or tossing television sets onto the traffic below, or a motorcycle being driven through its hallways by a coked up John Bonham. It now stands refurbished, polished and regal, as the Andaz hotel. Boring.
We approached the intersection of Sunset and Crescent Heights occupied by the Chateu Marmont with rooms starting at $550 per night, still hiding its secrets with giant trees and landscaping obscuring its French gothic architecture and the ghost of Belushi from commoners passing by.
Catty-cornered on the Blvd, the Sunset 5, has been through many existences over the years since occupied by TMZ on its top floor, and the Virgin Megastore on its first. Many memories flash through my head of new music releases at midnight and seeing celebrities in the wild browsing for entertainment before the Spotify “Made For You” algorithm existed.
The theater, a quaint row of 5 screens, currently shuttered for renovation, held independent fare for the artistic crowds who forgo major studio releases in chain theaters. Its search online has article after article of promises to reopen later this summer under new management.
Guitar Center has rolled its gates down for the night. TOI rock-n-roll thai restaurant still glows a bright neon pink from its window onto the gray street. El Compadre still looks authentically Spanish untouched by young architects eager to prove their visions and project their skills learned from expensive education on the old building.
We rainbowed across the Sunset overpass above the 101. Traffic below seemed awfully sparse in contrast to the famous freeway’s reputation of gridlock and car horns. Cut left up a neighborhood street that would intersect at Hollywood Blvd, then a sharp right into Thai Town.
The corner of Hollywood and Western has been beautified and remodeled several times since I’d first been there in the early 2000’s. One of my favorite Starbucks I frequented for caffeine boosted writing sessions and general public observation in the plaza is now gutted and just a shell, no indication a store had been there. Even the countertops are gone.
Apparently, the rest of the shops in this little corner pocket have all been taken out, walls separating them knocked down, creating one big space, and filled with a NORMS diner. But what is NORMS in a strip mall that will eventually be torn down? NORMS is a landmark in other areas of the city, not because of the typical diner food it slings, food, but for its architecture. Now, sitting here, it’s just bland, and tasteless, as if okaying the future to rid it from memory to make room for something newer, shiny, more modernly relevant yet also a vapid fad passing through like a tourist. Maybe something like a Sephora, or a Funko store will temporarily fill its place in the near future.
Above left: The Hollywood/Western Metro Station. Above right: Piet Mondrian’s “Composition with Red, Yellow, Blue and Black (1921)
The Metro rail station directly across the street looks the same as it always has. Deceptively interesting with architecture nodding to the abstract paintings of Piet Mondrian. Artistic tiles blanketing around the escalators and elevator, shimmering in the street and traffic lights. However, that corner is shady. Platform stabbings, zombie-like vagrants walking around and urinating anywhere they please. Hustlers hustling their dope to young Hollywood rats and addicts at night as they scurry along the station floors. Yet in the morning hours, the trains cater to business folks on their daily commutes to clean office spaces in downtown LA.
I realized then, I shared something with Hollywood, though I haven’t been around nearly as long. The memories of what used to be, but can never be again. Like memories shared from a grandparent who has lived a full life, passed down to the grandchild who is still growing while creating their own memories, now only live through photographs, and words on the breaths of conversations from everyone who was there.
We opted for neighborhood parking instead of paying valet to park us. We wanted to save our dollars for the girls at Jumbos.
Surprisingly, there was street parking on Winona. A street that is a small vein running from south of Sunset, over Hollywood Blvd, and ending as Franklin crosses its tip like the top line on a capital “T”. A street that is looked over by the mansion rumored to be the location where the Black Dahlia was murdered over 75 years ago. It’s the former home of physician George Hodel, who was, and remains, a suspect to this day, but never formally charged.
The house sits back behind thick bushes and tall trees. All you can see is the front of the home, sometimes referred to as the “Jaws house” because of its architecture. I think it looks more like the mouth of a pissed off swamp dwelling snapping turtle ready to tear apart, limb from limb, anything in front of it. Mouth agape as if it is swallowing any who enter.
Rumors true or not, it is an ominous structure whose design is far out of place with the other neighborhood houses that feature classically styled columns holding up the mansion balconies they are attached to.
We walked up to the front of Jumbos which is sandwiched between a barely stocked convenience store that I suspect is a front, and a moderately priced Thai restaurant. Its section of the brick building schellacked with thick circus red paint, and a marquee sign with “Jumbo’s Clown Room” in carnival lettering.
ID’s checked, and ages verified with a warning to not use cellphones for photos or recording, there’s a two drink minimum, and a command to tip the girls since entry is free.
Jumbo’s is unique. I consider it “rock’n’roll burlesque”, though the routines are not choreographed. It’s not quite wholesome entertainment, but also isn’t a fully uncensored anatomy lesson like most every other joint with female dancers as the entertainment. There is no “champagne room”, and apparently they don’t even offer “touch free” lap dances any more. I assume this practice ended due to the pandemic.
Though scantily clad in layers of see through shirts to remove sexily, revealing a bikini top while artistically balancing in platform thigh-high boots, they show no nip, no lip, and can’t be touched when the audience tips.
I take people here because it is classic “trashy” Hollywood. That Hollywood featured in 80’s cinema long after the glow of the projectors put the black and white beauties on screens, after the shimmering gold plate turned green, and the city everyone sang “Hooray!” for. The dancing is just shy of vulgar, but just enough to get the idea across to those whose eyes set upon it.
Plus, Jumbo’s has some lowbrow Hollywood history in its 40 year existence. It’s been patronized by Lemmy, Bourdain, Barrymore, Slash, and appeared in movies and music videos. Essentially, anybody who’s anybody in Hollywood has taken a night off from the “glamorous life”, and darkened the doorstep of Jumbo’s. Roddy Bottum from Faith No More used to DJ there back when they had a DJ booth. Though, it’s most famous story is that alum alt rock goddess Courtney Love danced there before Kurt and Hole took her to world infamy.
The bar is small and already full of patrons drinking, shouting over the music, and the dollar bills are flying to the varnished stage reminiscent of a ticker tape parade. The storm of green dollars reflecting in the mirrors that line the wall and the ceiling making it look like a game show money booth. Directly in the center is the star of every show there, a brass pole.
I quickly checked the night’s roster of dancers names handwritten on the erasable white board beside the bar looking for a name I’d recognize from my tenure as a weekly patron when I lived half a block from its front door. The collective names sound like a coven of Disney princesses. There was Nixie, Charlie, Topaz, Cleo, Pantera, Delilah, Duchess, Kitty, Lily, Caroline, and the only name I recognized, Ophelia.
I’ve got some “history” with dear Ophelia. I’ve been gifted a lapdance by her around 10 years ago or so. Clearly she is classically trained in the movement of ballet. When on stage, she mixes her elite skill with the moves of an exotic dancer which is extremely unique and does sprinkle a bit more class on her performance as compared to other bump, grind, booty shake girls with no formal training. She really could be a full length show all to herself.
One night on a past visit, I saw her perform pirouettes during Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”, and I was entranced. The dollars in my pocket met no challenge getting to the stage.
I’ve also seen her in daylight hours though, in music videos as well as auditions. She goes by her real name during that time, and dresses more conservatively. I suppose lacy see through shirts over a bustier, while wearing a matching black vinyl tutu and sky high heeled boots don’t travel well on the Metro Red Line during the day.
While at an audition once, I spoke to her about a video I saw her in on MTV. It was just small talk in the waiting room kind of thing. No depth or anything stated that would require further inquiry or turn into a full conversation. I never let on that I recognized her from her night job. Those in the know, should never reveal the superhero’s identity when out of costume and blending amongst us mortals. It’s rude, and awkward.
Customers bought drinks and exchanged their larger bills for singles with the bartenders. Since the bar no longer has a DJ, dancers chose their performance music from the jukebox by the bar to earn those notes. Two separate girls picked the same song, “Fuck the Pain Away” by Peaches, which we felt like was a little bit of a faux pas. Which then begged the question in my brain, “are there faux pas in the exotic dance world? If so, what are they?”
The audience didn’t seem to care about the repeat. Enthusiasm didn’t simmer. The dollars rained. The dancers smiled.
I’d venture to guess, they are tipped about $100 per song. At least from what I could tell as each performer swept up the wad the audience shot on stage in their honor. They perform around 4 songs an hour, with a shift equalling 3 hours. So, $100 x 4 songs, x 3 hours = $1200 for the night. That is enough cash for most of rent, and a solid COBRA health plan. This was just a simple Thursday evening, the weekday matinee to the weekend. I’m sure tips are exponential on a Friday or Saturday.
On any given night though, Jumbo’s is a variety show of stage acts. Not just performers and their chosen songs, but also how the performer chooses to communicate with the audience.
Some simply dance and make coy expressions of pleasure with a wry, knowing smile and a wink. Some make it a show of athleticism and skill.
For example, Charlie, at least I believe that was her name, came out on stage in tall platform stiletto snakeskin boots. She swung around the pole a few times, climbed it and slid down, and then walked to the edge of the stage, where she proceeded to keep one heel on the stage floor while lifting her other leg up in the air to rest the heel of her other boot on the mirrored ceiling. Her body was in a straight line, floor to ceiling, essentially doing a standing split. More dollars flew in from the impressed audience.
Other girls co-opt famous pop culture characters. A Harley Quinn look-alike, complete with crop-top and two-tone blue and pink hair, twirled and danced to Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.” (Side note: I think “Cherry Pie” is the stripper song of all stripper songs, even beating out “Pour Some Sugar On Me”. That’s just my personal opinion).
She even had harlequin make-up that formed a playing card diamond shape over each eye. Actually, we couldn’t decipher if it was make-up or a real tattoo. This being Hollywood, you never really know. It wouldn’t have been shocking if it was permanent.
Another girl strutted the stage to “Happy Together” by The Turtles. She then walked to the edge of the stage with a dollar bill in hand, squatted down in her tall boots to get closer to the audience, and made that green piece of legal tender “float”. The audience clearly loved this quirky magical move of hers and floated their pocket bills to the stage in gratitude.
Some of the girls make it a full on performance art piece. This last one won me over. The girl came out on stage, black Bettie Page haircut in a bun pinned to the back of her head. Eyes adorned in black rimmed glasses, a professional blazer covering a full set of black vinyl lingerie, complete with garter belt and stockings, while carrying a briefcase. She’s a dancer, but for the next 4 minutes, she was a “business woman”.
She danced a few moves, removed her blazer, then leaned down to open the leather valise she placed on the wooden stage earlier. She removed a stack of “business papers” which turned out to be Xerox copies of her ass pressed down on a copy machine window that she handed out to the audience. The crowd went wild with “woos!” and dollar bills filled the atmosphere.
It was an outstanding, unique performance far about the level of establishment this just took place in. It was like a scene in an office party porn scenario.
To answer your question, yes, I received a copy of her memo. See below.
