I reconnected with Theresa, and we rented an apartment in the Canterbury, a large, run-down apartment building from the thirties on Cherokee. It was a terrible neighborhood, but only a block from the Masque, which was why, aside from it being cheap, it seemed like everyone we knew lived in the building. If someone had blown up the Canterbury, and God knows someone might have tried, most of Hollywood’s punk scene would have been destroyed. I heard rumors the Canterbury’s landlord was also a pimp and oversaw a theft ring. True or not, he was a dodgy guy—but perfect as the ringmaster for the characters who called the Canterbury home. All the punks had apartments throughout the building, including my friend Connie, who had gotten me into Black Randy. She was also a former beauty school student and sold drinks at the Masque. She had lived at the Canterbury for years and liked to say she predated the punks, having moved in when the renters were merely drag queens and pimps. Connie gave haircuts to anyone who wanted one and boasted about having hundreds of clients.
