The Triplets

Last year, three male Swedish triplets in a glam-metal band called Snake of Eden lived in the apartment above mine. Their names were Izzi, Rock and Kelli, but everyone in West Hollywood who knew them simply referred to them as “The Triplets.”

These pale, scrawny Swedes were in their early 20s and looked like they lived off a steady diet of cigarettes and alcohol. Their eyes were rimmed in black eyeliner, and each one of them had spiky, white-blond hair à la C.C. Deville, with their own version of the ‘80s hair-band uniform—leather pants, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, a scarf and some kind of animal print accessory. Often, they were shirtless; if I was fortunate enough to see them with a shirt on, it was usually a red, mesh sleeveless number. (Note: They were always dressed like this—even at 10 a.m. on a Saturday.)

Parties were part of their nightly, rock ‘n’ roll ritual. I’d often hear them tumbling down the stairs drunk. Or I’d be arriving home from a night out to find one of The Triplets hunched over, puking off the edge of the driveway. And just about every morning, the stairwell was filled with the distinct herbal essence of weed. During the week, I would knock on their door at midnight and ask politely if they could turn their music down because it was too loud. Whichever one answered the door would reply innocently, “Oh, ve didn’t knuw.”

Yet, as annoying they were, I was a little intrigued by them. What did they do during the day? Did they have jobs? Where did they get their money to pay for their apartment? Was their band actually pretty big, and I just didn’t know it?

One Friday night, I was given the chance to learn the answers to all of my questions about The Triplets. I had been at a happy hour, and I came home around 10 p.m., fairly buzzed. I didn’t want to call it a night, but I didn’t think I should drive anywhere either. As I was debating what to do, I heard two girls talking outside my door. It was a conversation that was all too familiar.

“Man, I hate being tall. I feel like I tower over everyone. And I can’t wear heels. You’re so lucky…”

“Well, I’d rather be tall than short. How tall are you?”

“5-foot-9.”

With a generous amount of alcohol in me, I felt compelled to intrude on their conversation. I opened the door to see two young, cute rocker chicks—one dark-haired and tall, the other short and blond. I said to the tall one, “Oh girl, that’s nothing. Try being 5-foot-11. I’m telling you… You just have to embrace it. You’re beautiful. Be proud of your height.”

The girls stared at me, a little shocked by my sudden interruption. I sensed their confusion. “Sorry,” I explained. “I just got home from a happy hour, and I heard your conversation from inside my apartment.”

“Oh, that’s cool. So you’re The Triplets’ neighbor?” the short one asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Jenna,” said the tall one. “And this is Carrie.” She motioned to the shorter blond one.

Just then, The Triplets came bounding down the stairs. Two of them put their arms around the girls.

“Ya, let’s go,” one of The Triplets said.

“Hey, what are you doing right now?” Jenna asked me. “We’re going to the Whisky to see Sierra Rose. You should go with us.”

Hmmm…I’ve always wanted to go to the Whisky. And I’ve never hung out with The Triplets.

“Okay.”


We walked across Sunset Boulevard to Whisky a Go-Go. On the way over, Jenna told me that she and Carrie were planning to marry Rock and Kelli so they could get their green cards.

“We’re not in love with them, and they’re not in love with us. We’re only doing it to help them,” Carrie assured me.

We filed into the Whisky, grabbed some drinks at the bar, and then worked our way up to the stage. More of The Triplets’ friends joined us. They looked similar to The Triplets, only not as much like they stepped out of Headbangers Ball. One wore head-to-toe leopard print. I glanced around and noticed that everyone had black, white-blond or pink-streaked hair and was dressed in some type of fishnet-leather-black-eyeliner-skull ensemble. Even though I was in a black dress and boots, I felt like Betty White amidst the emo punk crowd. Sore thumb? Hi, that’s me.

The band played for a half-hour or so. Then, The Triplets invited the crew back to their apartment.

As we crossed the street to our building, one of The Triplets turned to me and said, “We’re having un aftur-party at our place. Ya, you should come.”

I hesitated. “We’ll just keep you up anyway…” he added. “Might as well come to da party.”

Then, it hit me: The Triplets just invited me into their apartment. Lord knows what this place was like. I had to go.

We climbed the stairs to their place. They opened their door, and the first thing I noticed was a giant sex swing. It was the focal point of their living room. Hello, and welcome to my sex den. Would you like a breath mint, or perhaps, a condom? I scanned the room: The whole place was decked in red, black and white, with plethora of skull items strewn about—skull string lights, skull candle holders—even a skull blanket draped over the couch. They had keyboards, a keytar, guitars and amps. White bits of paper were embedded in their dark brown carpet, and a giant jug of Southern Comfort sat in the middle of their coffee table, amidst a sea of plastic cups. It kind of looked like a dirty ‘80s rock ‘n’ roll funhouse.

I sat alone on the couch and drank Southern Comfort. Kelli, the quietest of The Triplets, stood next to me. (I could tell them apart that night because Rock was the one in the cowboy hat and Izzi was wearing the white scarf.) I was a little bored, so I asked Kelli if I could see his keyboard.

“Ya,” he said, and followed me over to it.

It was loud enough at the party that I didn’t think it would be a big deal to plunk around on the keyboard. (As the only non-fishnet-leather-black-eyeliner-skull-clad person, the last thing I wanted to do was draw more attention to myself.) The keyboard was in the corner, and everyone was talking. I figured no one would notice. Plus, I had a good amount of alcohol in me, so I really didn’t care if they did.

I hadn’t touched a keyboard in a while, and the only songs I could remember were ‘80s rock jams--perfect for this crowd. I began with the opening chords of “Jump” by Van Halen. Then, I played Motley Crüe’s "Home Sweet Home,” followed by “Stairway to Heaven.”

“Wow, you play gut,” Kelli remarked. “You play any other instrument?”

“I play the guitar a tiny bit,” I said.

He handed me the acoustic, and I sat on the couch and strummed it. I was a little nervous because his brothers came over to watch. My mind was a blank, and the only song I could remember that they would know was Guns & Roses’ “Patience.” So I played it.

“Ve love Guns und Roses!” Rock exclaimed. “Dat’s Izzi’s favorite band.”

When I finished my all-chord, extremely elementary version of G ’n’ R, Kelli commented, “You play keyboard and guitar. Vat else do you play?”

“That’s it,” I said, as Izzi and Rock were leaving. Kelli sat down on the couch next to me, and I seized my chance to ask him some questions:

Me: So, what are you guys doing here…in the States?
Him: Going to da Musician’s Institute.
Me: Is that a sex swing?
Him: Ya.
Me: Where did you get it?
Him: Un friend gave it to us.
Me: Do you use the sex swing?
Him: Ya.
Me: Where’s your mom?
Him: En Sveden.
Me: Does she ever come visit?
Him: Ya, sometimes.
Me: Has your mom seen the sex swing?
Him: Ya. She vorries about us…ve tell her it’z alright.

I glanced up and noticed their friend who was dressed in head-to-toe animal print had passed out. It looked like a leopard had died in the corner chair. Then, someone announced that the party was moving to some guy’s place in Hollywood—so I headed back downstairs to my apartment.

* * *
I saw The Triplets periodically after that. But I never hung out with them again. Then, about a month later, I heard the sound of rushing water coming from the back of my apartment. I went into my bedroom, flipped on the light and saw water rushing through my ceiling fan and onto my bed. It had to be coming from The Triplets’ apartment.

I went upstairs and knocked on their door. The one who answered seemed a little out of it. “Ya?”

“Do you guys have a leak or something? There’s water coming into my apartment.” Jesus, how could they NOT hear it? It was loud.

“Hold on, un I’ll check.” He said something in Swedish to his brother. His brother went around the corner and returned shortly. “Da toilet vaz ovurflowing.”

“Your toilet was overflowing?”

“Ya, ve didn’t know.”

“How could you not know?” I shook my head incredulously. I was pissed. Their toilet must have been overflowing for a while to generate enough water to go through the floor into my bedroom. Plus, the running water sounded like friggin’ Niagara Falls! Then, I looked at the three of them with their bloodshot eyes, and suddenly, I got it. They were baked.

I went back downstairs, and dirty toilet water was still running into my bedroom. The shit was literally hitting the fan. My smoke detector went off from the water running through the electrical wiring of the light, which kind of freaked me out. I called the fire department to make sure it wouldn’t start a fire.

After that fiasco, I decided that I wanted The Triplets to move. My neighbor, Mike, told me that he reported them several times to the landlord for being loud, and that he thought they were moving out soon. Within two weeks, The Triplets had left our building.

Several months passed and I only saw them once, out in West Hollywood. Then, my friend, Rusty, told me about Daisy of Love.


“Check it out—your old neighbors are going to be on there!” He sent me the link, and sure enough, it was unmistakably The Triplets. I had to watch.

They only appeared in the first episode. When they were introduced, they told the camera that they were ‘rock ‘un roll stars…baak in Sweden.’ (Daisy nicknamed them ’84, ’85 and ’86—because that’s what year they look like they’re from). All they did on the show was drink and eat. At one point, they were shown dipping raw hot dogs into salsa. Those scrawny Swedes must’ve been hungry!

Not surprisingly, they were the first to get kicked off the show.

“Datz okay,” they said, unaffected. “Ve only wanted to party with ze free booze un food…”

Once dismissed, host Riki Rachtman told The Triplets they could take home all of the food they could carry. So, true to form, The Triplets' final scene shows them leaving Daisy’s Hollywood mansion holding multiple aluminum trays of meat and sides.