All-Access Pass
In 1976, I was back in the place of my birth, Chicago, for another offer that couldn't be refused. Skip and I were on tour, enjoying an evening of room service and lovemaking, when he suddenly asked me to marry him. My marriage to Jerry Slick had been nothing more than assumed theory sliding into practice, and Paul and I never tried to formalize things, so no one had ever actually proposed to me before. I was honored and delighted. But since Skip was so young and we were both high at the time, I said, “I love you, too, but it's late, we're loaded, and maybe you're just reacting to the moment. If you still feel this way in the morning, ask me again. And if you don't, I'll understand that it was just temporary enthusiasm.”
Since Skip had to get up early for work the next morning, he was gone when I awakened, but there was a note on his pillow that said, “Will you marry me?” The guy was serious.
YES, I wanted to be his partner; there was no question about it. And I knew that China adored him, which also helped me make my decision. Skip was young and energetic enough to offer her more than the usual “I'll watch while you play” togetherness that often passed for adult/child bonding. Both mother and daughter found his antics pretty irresistible.
The group always tried to book Hawaii as the last job on our tours so we could stay a while afterward and enjoy the islands. One afternoon in Oahu, Pat Dugan, China, and I were hanging out in Pat's hotel room on the ninth floor, when she looked over at the window and let out a yell. There was Skip, who had climbed up the outside of the building. Casually swinging one of his legs over the ninth-floor balcony railing, he smiled and said, “Good afternoon, ladies.” China did a hand-clapping giggle, I decided Skip was Robin fucking Hood, and Pat wanted to strangle him for almost giving her a heart attack.
That same night, the band and crew had dinner at Michelle's, a fantastic restaurant right on the beach. The open room included long, wide windows facing the beach, close enough to the ground for a child to climb out and run off for some fun in the sand. Skip and China took advantage of the situation. While the two of them headed off in a random dance toward the water, the reddish pink sunset and bright blue ocean surrounded their silhouettes—a clear memory that I call up from time to time when I want to remind myself how lucky I am to still have both of them in my life.
Skip is from Philadelphia, and as a lighting director, he literally shines his lights on me, so this old Elton John song still makes me get out the Kleenex:
Shine a light,
Shine a light,
Philadelphia freedom,
I love you.
Another wedding party: Cynthia Bowman, the bride, China Kantner, Skip Johnson, and Billy Johnson. (Ivan Wing)
From cleaning toilets at the Spectrum in Philadelphia to production manager for The Who in the space of three years, Skip was one of the lucky kids, like myself, who saw it, wanted it, and got it.
The all-access pass.
Drugs, groupies, limos, five-star hotels—we lived the all-expenses-paid life that everyone dreams about while they're wiping off the countertops at Burger King. A lot of people will tell you, quite sanctimoniously, that money won't buy you happiness, but as David Lee Roth said, “Maybe not, but it'll buy you a big fucking yacht that cruises right up next to it.”
Sure, there've been times when I've been miserable over one thing or the other, but I'd rather not have the burdens of back rent, no job, and an overdrawn bank statement to pile on top of whatever the base misery may be. Bucks grease the hassles; a good attitude drives the whole car. But maybe it's a matter of personality types, because I've noticed that some people are unhappy no matter what's going on. I remember feeling pretty good, even in my rats-in-the-basement, shit-hole apartment in Potrero Hill in San Francisco, so I guess I've managed to live my entire life in a kind of splendid Disney denial. Whether I'm ecstatic or furious, my life seems part of some colorful fairy tale that just rolls out in front of the 130-decibel soundtrack with endless production credits.
Skip and I were married by a Japanese justice of the peace in the outdoor pavilion of the LaHaina Hotel in Maui in November 1976. Right up to the last minute before the ceremony, my mother was helping me sew organdy flowers onto my wedding dress. Nervous and afraid we wouldn't finish in time, I snorted some cocaine to zip through the sewing process, then popped a quaalude to get “serene” for the wedding. Everything came off as planned, but, in hindsight, I would have preferred to be a totally sober bride—no chemicals at all, not even food.
Some kind of belated desire for purity.
China was the flower girl at the ceremony on the beach, where we both stood by Skip in front of a spectacular Hawaiian sunset. Cynthia Bowman was my maid of honor; Skip's brother, Billy, was best man, and I brought the entire band and their families over for the occasion. Everyone seemed genuinely happy for us, and the party afterward took place in various parts of the hotel until people were wearing the champagne and confusing some chips of fallen white ceiling plaster for lines of cocaine, trying to snort up the rugs. Paul wasn't there for obvious reasons, but neither was Marty. Why? Who knows. The man remains a mystery to me. Everybody else in the group brought their girlfriends, wives, and children, but I guess Marty had his own illusion to attend.