(Recycled from the House of Love)
It’s late November, 1998. I’m on the phone to Casey, talking about my upcoming trip to Los Angeles. He asks if there’s anything special I’d like to do while I’m there. He knows I don’t like LA, so it must be a trick question.
“Well, there is one thing…” My voice trails off.
“What? Disneyland?”
“No, we’ve been there.”
“Rodeo Drive?”
“No, you know I hate shopping. And rich people.”
“Mann’s Chinese Theatre?”
“Not even close.”
“Well what is it then?”
“I wanna see the beat where George Michael got busted.”
There is silence on the line for the longest time, before he asks the key question:
“Why?”
And I give the key answer:
“Because it’s there.”
“OK, it’s a date then.”
I had assumed, foolishly, that it would be easy to find the place. Will Rogers Park, the news reports had said. In LA, I bought a map and looked for the scene of the crime. Will Rogers (1879-1935) was a cowboy entertainer in the early part of the 20th century. He must have been pretty good, because there are at least three parks in LA named after him. But George was nicked in Beverly Hills, and there — at the corner of Sunset Blvd and Beverly Blvd — a small triangle of green ink on my map: “Will Rogers Memorial Park” This must be the place.
“Are you kidding?” Casey refused to believe that there could be a public lavatory anywhere in Beverly Hills, least of all right at the corner of Sunset and Beverly. And the park looked so tiny on the map. But we set out anyway.
After driving for about a week (just to drive next door in LA takes at least half an hour) we get to the location shown on the map. And there is a park … a true Beverly Hills style park, with magnificent palm trees, fountains, frangipani, flamingos, metal detectors, security guards and hidden surveillance cameras. Casey still refuses to believe that (a) there could be a public loo in this place; (b) it doesn’t cost $8.50 to take a piss; or (c) if it does exist, that George Michael could be stupid enough to get arrested here.
But there it is. I think I know now what Henry Livingstone must have felt when he caught his first glimpse of Victoria Falls … through the bushes I saw it.
It’s the neatest, cleanest, and most improbable beat I’ve ever seen. I’ve done the occasional beat in my time, and I know what makes a workable one. But here there is no warning if someone is coming, no privacy … I can’t imagine how anyone could even think they’d be able to get off here. But someone did.
So there we were, in the sanctum santorum. Because it’s there. We should have brought a wreath, or some old Wham! records, or something to leave as a tribute to the passing of George’s double life, but we hadn’t thought that far ahead, and anyway, from the look of the place, within seconds of our departure unseen Mexican immigrant slaves would have arrived to clear our impromptu shrine away, in case Tom Hanks or Charlton Heston should be passing and need to take a slash.
I fell to my knees. “Why, George, why? You could’ve come out of the closet in triumph; instead you came out in handcuffs. You could’ve opened your heart in Wembley Stadium, but instead you opened your pants in a public bog.” It just seemed such a tragic waste of opportunity.
Suddenly, the sound of a chopper. Dogs were barking. We were surrounded. As the burly LA cop wrestled me to the ground and slapped the handcuffs on, I thought to myself, “Next stop, London: I gotta see the beat where they nabbed Alan Jones”…
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