Steve McQueen was living with his girlfriend in a hangar at the Santa Paula Airport. During the day, he learned to pilot a World War II-era biplane. In the evening, the tough-guy superstar would crack open cold beers with grease monkeys, fledgling pilots and aging flyboys who still had a few loop-de-loops left in them.
McQueen and his girlfriend, a stunning model who would become his third wife, slept on a four-poster brass bed amid his vintage motorcycles and airplane parts. His bright- yellow Stearman biplane loomed over their cramped quarters, its wings close enough to create a head-whacking hazard for someone groping through the dark.
But life was good: On Saturday nights, the couple kicked back in their hangar -- really a big storage shed -- to watch “The Love Boat” and “Fantasy Island” on a black-and-white TV. Dinner was often a feed at the local Chinese restaurant.
I lived in a hangar for 15 years, and boy did I ever get shit on by virtuous Canadians for doing that. Best place I ever lived.
Eagles may soar, but weasels never get sucked into jet engines - Brian Mulroney
It’s a sad state when you see 20-30yo chicks demanding guys they “date” be 6’+, makes 6 figures and let them go out with the girls clubbing, while they stay home, and not golf with the boys.
