The 1979 tour was very successful and enjoyable, but it also had a dark side. I had some very dedicated fans for sure. There were some syndicated self-help columns in the newspapers back then, and occasionally I would see one of my fans writing to a doctor. Here’s an example:
I went to a concert to see Leif Garrett and fell in love with him instantly. I know that he could care less about me but I won’t go out with any boys ever again even though I’m 16 years old. My friends think I’m crazy and my mom who is religious asked me to pray to God for guidance. Well, I did and I got this vision of Leif sending me a package with a small box in it but I checked the mail every day and it hasn’t arrived yet. What do you think this vision means? Signed, Debbie from Columbus Ohio.
The good doctor answered:
Debbie, you are living in fantasy land. Leif Garrett, I assume, doesn’t know that you exist. Does he know your address? It’s perfectly natural to have a crush on a “star” but keep in perspective. Give the boys in Columbus a break and start dating again. I have a vision you will meet one who catches your fancy.
The same doctor received another letter about me:
I have a most uncommon problem and I hope you can help me. Last month, my parents and I drove over 400 miles to York, Pennsylvania to see Leif Garrett in person. On the way, I bought six red roses to toss at him on stage, but we were lucky, we had front row seats. Instead of tossing the roses, Leif actually took them out of my hands, smelled them, flashed a beautiful smile and winked at me. That did it. I was hooked. A bodyguard of Leif’s told me where he was staying and said if I was in the lobby by 7:30 AM, I could see him. [Gee, thanks bodyguard!] I was there the next morning and saw him in the lobby kicking a soccer ball. To make a long story short, I got his autograph, he posed for a picture and I got a kiss. That day, I was the happiest girl in the world. My three-year dream came true. My problem is that now that my dream has come true, what’s left for me? I’ve shunned my girlfriends and dropped my boyfriend. I’m just not interested in anyone but Leif. I have over 200 pictures of him and three copies of all his albums. I feel like I care for him more than anyone else on earth, even though I hardly know him. My parents are the type who buy me anything reasonable and that’s their showing of love. I simply cannot talk to them about anything. I felt love in Leif’s arm when he put it around me. I saw love in his beautiful eyes. But I do realize that he’s a super rock star and I’m only a fan and he probably doesn’t even remember me. Please don’t tell me to get rid of all the mementos that remind me of him. I just couldn’t do that. I feel very mixed up I need your help. Karen
The doctor responded:
Karen, you are not unique. Girls for many generations have had crushes on movie and music stars, including Rudolph Valentino, Clark Gable, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, John Travolta and yes Leif Garrett have made millions of females swoon. You were more fortunate than most. You were kissed by your idol. As you said, your three-year-old dream came true. That’s good, but Karen so are other goals and dreams. You have them, they just need to be defined. So get with yourself and while you are still aglow over Leif, put these new goals in the front of your mind. Once you start fulfilling these new goals, your life will change for the better.
I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.
I was getting fan mail from, at one point, forty-seven countries around the world. There were people who wrote me letters and sent me their scrapbooks. Other fans would go to concerts and personal appearances. There was even a group of people who used to camp outside my house.
By 1979, I could not go out in public at all without some security detail or the kind of elaborate arrangements usually reserved for heads of state. Even at home in my new house, I started to feel very claustrophobic. As I’ve said, there was a group of young fans who regularly camped outside, whom I would race past in my Porsche when I would come blasting out of the gates. My life became basically a series of private escapes—lots of service elevators and little-known stairwells all strategically used to get me from point A to point B. That was part of the deal. For the most part, the fans were very sweet, and I always did my best to treat them with respect. There were always a few who could get out of hand, but I tried to remind myself that I was their fantasy; for them, this was not reality. They were acting on supercharged emotions.
The only thing that scared me and the people around me was the idea that somebody could get hurt in the occasional stampede or that we ourselves might even be crushed. But then something happened that took things to an entirely new level. All of a sudden, we were all scared.
I was still getting dozens of giant sacks of fan mail delivered to the office every week. Occasionally, I would get things sent directly to my home, if the fans were clever enough to figure out where I lived. Nobody, though, ever had access to where I stayed on the road, which is why it caught our attention when, during the summer tour, letters were waiting for me at each hotel I was staying at, left by the same person. Some of them were postmarked from Los Angeles, but others, creepily, had no postage, and so obviously had been dropped off in person. The letters all began the same way, “Dear beautiful boy…” Then this person would go on to express their deeply obsessive love for me. They would describe how they imagined us being together, going swimming, riding on motorcycles together. What was weird and even scarier was that this person seemed to know many personal details. Once the letters began referencing friends who had been swimming in my pool, with details including things like what they were wearing, we contacted the FBI. As the FBI launched an investigation, the letters continued. At hotels, I never had to check in myself; I was always whisked away while my manager took care of everything. Now I would nervously await him up in my room for news on whether or not there was a letter waiting for us. Most times, he walked in grimly holding an envelope, and I knew what it was. This was getting serious, truly a sickening distraction. I spent my time playing two shows a day at state fairs all across the country, then return to the hotel exhausted only to discover that the person had struck again. “Dear beautiful boy…I have been thinking about you all day…I love how you look in that blue bathing suit that you wore the other day with your friends at your lavish home…”
Another one read, “Beautiful boy, coming in late at night after a long drive, I said to myself, “I’m home,” and I kissed your photograph as I always do… signed, Your Far Away Lover.”
Then, in Ohio, my manager walked in with the envelope and said, “Look at this.” That letter was different. He read it to me: “I was close enough to touch you today. But I was too scared. I wanted to. But I was too scared.” On top of that, my stalker included a cartoon they had presumably drawn. It was the two of us together on a motorcycle.
As the tour cranked on through the summer, we waited for an answer, and finally it came. The FBI contacted my manager and told us there had been an arrest. They discovered that my stalker was a Los Angeles motorcycle cop who, given his job, was able to gain access to things like my home address and my itinerary. I don’t recall the exact details of what happened to him, but I know restraining orders were issued and he was stripped of his badge. It was all very hush-hush, but we were told that it was finally over. I’d never been so relieved in my life. Fandom was a double-edged sword, and I accepted all of that. Most of the time, fans were wonderful. That was all good. What wasn’t good—what will never be good—is when people take things too far. When the devotion and obsession morph into something dark and all-consuming. Think of all the famous people whose lives have been ruined or even lost to obsessive fans. Think of what their families have to live with then.
After that episode was resolved, they gave me the cartoon back, after it had served as evidence. I still have it today, and it remains a chilling reminder of how scary it is when somebody crosses the line. I still get a fair amount of fan mail today, which I find very touching and I appreciate. But sometimes there will be a piece that feels strange—just too much. It can still get obsessive, and I know the person writing it needs help. These moments always take me back to the summer of 1979, when I was haunted over and over by those three simple words, “Dear beautiful boy…”