My life was splashing in front of me like sensational headlines as I groped my way toward the spot onstage that I had occupied only in rehearsals. I was about to present myself to a throng of grasping, gyrating fun-seekers, and this time, instead of jostling for a place among them, I was going to hurl myself at their faces and ENTERTAIN them. Even though I had prepared for this moment all my life, it still came as a surprise to the shy part of me still lurking around the edges. It was pitch black and I could see the glowing exit sign beckoning, but the stage was creaking as the rest of the GTO’s tiptoed to their spots, and despite my desire to disappear through the floorboards, I wouldn’t dream of damaging the girls. We had rehearsed the show to smithereens, but I was visibly trembling under my feathers and sequins as the spotlight altered my pupils. I hurtled back in time to my first ballet recital in 1956 (also at the Shrine Auditorium!). When the lights came up on me as a little kid, I stood stick-still as all the other little tutued wonders got into position. I was supposed to hop around in a little circle on one toe, a finger to my lips in a sweet little “ssh” gesture, but I stood there in horror, gaping at the audience until they gaped back at me because I wasn’t doing what all the other little tutus were doing. This brought me back to the planet and I burst into a perfect pirouette. My mom said her heart stood still.
A few Mothers of Invention were our backup group, and the charming melody of “The Captain’s Fat Theresa Shoes” snapped me to attention as all the hours of rehearsal worked a miracle. We sang about a pair of huge ladies’ shoes that Captain Beefheart wore, and the fun-seekers loved us!
The T of his T-strap stands for tippie-toes
His tippie-toes fit him to a T
Oh C.B. do a tap dance for meee-eee
With your bigga fatta Tippie-Toe-Theresa-Shoes!
Six months earlier, our conversations with Mr. Zappa had started escalating to constant replays of stunning nonsense. He would beat his knee and encourage us to foam at the mouth with previously unuttered info. He made us feel like we had very important ideas, and praised me for keeping up my diary/journal so faithfully. I started carrying it around with me at all times, and would stop to write whenever inspired:
July 30 . . . Mr. Zappa was in the highest of moods; for the first time he hugged me tight, tight, tight and swung me around in the air. I love Mr. Zappa to such an idolizing point. He really started me thinking, inhibitions are the fear to LIVE, love, and just reach out for life and take it in your arms. I find myself just accepting things instead of loving them, so can you imagine the bumpkins who walk through the world buying flower muumuu’s and losing their children? I’m still not THERE yet, though, like Mr. Zappa, Captain Beefheart, Paul McCartney, etc. God, I pray for The GTO’s, perhaps we can open a few minds.
Frank and the Mothers were going to play the Whiskey, and glory of glories, he asked us girls to work up our theme song, “Getting to Know You,” to perform on Saturday night!! Whenever we wanted to meet someone, we would accost them and croon, “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you, getting to like you, getting to hope you like me . . .”
August 10 . . . Our “coming out” was superb, we did two numbers and danced for awhile and received A STANDING OVATION!! As Rodney says, “You just scream success.” And we do! The GTO’s are on our way!! Everyone said Mick Jagger was there. Can you imagine?? Mick watching me?? I didn’t see him, I wish wish wish I did. I really had a gala time with Victor. For the first time in my entire life I finally feel on his level. We communicate 100% better, and I have so much to thank Mr. Zappa for. Such a lovely man, so “where it’s at,” so concerned and involved in it all. And ME, I’m a part of it!!
Mr. Bernardo disappeared from Miss Lucy one night and we heard the very next day that he had been seen in San Francisco with Mercy Fontentot. Lucy was crushed because Bernardo and Mercy had been on the very first cover of Rolling Stone together, which had created some inexplicable bond between them. He dared to flee the auditorium while we danced our partially nude butts off with a new local group, Three Dog Night. He hadn’t even waited for us to take our curtsies, and here we were, two days later, watching Lucy sulk; very heavy tragedy sulking on the rock steps of the log cabin. We always commiserated heartily with each other, and that’s what we were doing when the foliage dramatically parted and Bernardo appeared, arm in arm with Mercy Fontentot. Conversation ceased and we were staring at a plump version of Theda Bara wrapped in layers and layers of torn rags, an exotic bag girl with black raccoon eye makeup that dusted down both cheeks and looked like she had twisted two hunks of coal round and round on her eyelids. Her lipstick was a red seeping slash and both earlobes had been split down the middle by the weight of too many dangerous earrings dangling too far down. She was carrying a beat-up satchel that had once been an alligator, its seams bursting open, shedding gaudy garments with each step of her black patent-leather pumps. It looked as if she had come to stay. It was frightening.
The relationship that Bernardo had with these two amazing girls went beyond what I could conjure up, with my limited experience in matters of the heart, because Mercy had indeed come to stay, and Lucy wasn’t about to give him up. They tolerated each other, and since neither one of them was having s-e-x with Bernardo, it was slightly less complicated than it sounds. (Bernardo was a BTO, the male version of a GTO, only the boys “got in there” with each other on a more serious basis, sometimes disappearing for days behind closed doors.)
Mercy scared me. She was such a threat to normalcy that I thought of her as a human facsimile, and would nod in agreement rather than tell her she ought to put her brain in an industrial-sized washing machine, wring it out real good, and hang it up to dry. She always seemed on the verge of saying something very profound and would catch herself just in time to leave you hanging in suspense until you realized she had left the room. When I met her she had already taken a thousand acid trips and her mind was on the endangeredspecies list. She was tired of the San Francisco hippie scene and was looking for something new. Her timing was unravaged and impeccable.
One sparkling afternoon, we were sipping tea with Gail in the spic-and-span kitchen cleaned by Miss Christine, discussing our amorous exploits, when Frank walked in and said he wanted to have a serious talk with us. He had given it a lot of thought, and believed that the GTO’s had real rock and roll potential, fabulous original ideas, and maybe even some hidden talent that might be tapped, and why didn’t we all capitalize on it??! Why didn’t we write a dozen songs while he and the Mothers were on the road, and when he came back, MAYBE we could record them for Frank’s new label, Bizarre Records!! MAYBE we could be the very first all-girl rock group and write all our own songs for our very own album, have our very own groupies, and be world famous!! It was too much to fathom, and for a few minutes we sat in silence, staring at each other, until Lucy jumped up and hugged Frank, and then we were all squealing and shrieking, jumping up and down with Gail, beyond thrilled. When Miss Christine wrapped her thin white arms around me, I knew it was a very special moment. During the hubbub, Frank interjected that Mercy would be a much-needed addition to the group because she added an imperative bizarre element that we sorely lacked. We were stuck with her and she started to grow on me like a barnacle.
August 21 . . . My God!! I have 52,000 goosebumps from reading Frank’s fantastic article in Life magazine. Just to be a part of this scene makes me want to scream and cry. To be considered a MEMBER. God, I hope The GTO’s make it. It almost seems destined, all of us chicks with the exact same attitude, loves and dis-loves. Last night gave us such tremendous hope. MZ and GZ [Frank and Gail] think we’ll make it. MZ is going to send some pix of us to Life magazine, and we have already been mentioned in his ten page article in this issue! Our scene won’t just be singing, but everything The GTO’s stand for. It’s destined!! GZ says, “The country is ready!”
Mr. Z took off to entertain the goofballs, and the six of us turned the basement of the log cabin into our workroom and entered our songwriting phase. We were still making lists of ideas when Miss Mercy danced down the bowling alley with a pretty pixie-haired blond girl who had a big bottom and announced that she should join the GTO’s. She was Cynderella, and she had a great idea for a song about an old crone in a place called Eureka Springs who loved the local blacksmith so much that she became the garbage collectress just so she could pick up his trash every day until she died. We were feeling expansive and liked her idea, so we greeted Cynderella with open arms, but decided not to accept any more applications. All available positions had been filled.
Cynderella also added a bizarre element. She was a confirmed fibber and we never knew if her long-winded stories were true or made up as she went along. She had so many different childhoods that if the conversation was lulling, I could ask her about her upbringing and hear a fantastic tale about Russian royalty or a black daddy in Watts who beat her ass every morning after dishing out the cold Cream of Wheat. She had a funny, deep, musical voice, and I liked to hear her talk; besides, she openly admitted to being a liar and it was fun figuring out which concoction might be true. At seventeen she was the youngest GTO, but I guess she could have been thirty.
Our first collaboration concerned all of our experiences in Phys, Ed. in high school, and we entitled this groundbreaking masterpiece “Who’s Jim Sox?”:
How embarrassing it is at only 13
To have to take showers
In front of a dyke gym teacher
Who drools at the sight
Of your pectoral muscles flexing
Smelling of four laps around the track
50 push-ups multiplied by 200 girls
The cracks of backs hitting cement floors
As we strained our bodies into womanhood
Room 323
Stagnant Sox
Sweaty girls
Broken locks
Two by two to the opposite gym
Our nylons rolled under our sox
Today is the day of heavy socializing
Heavy socializing, heavy socializing
Finally getting to The BTO’s!!
Not one of us had written a song before, and our songwriting sessions were more like slumber parties, lasting all night and into the next day. It was a great excuse to talk our brains out, reveal our budding concepts, and divulge fantastic occurrences that had made us what we were at that precise moment. It was group therapy with an eight-week deadline, and we were grinding out the lyrics. Rodney Bingenheimer inspired us to compose a tribute to his historical significance in the music industry. We were amazed with his staying power and the collection of photos of himself with every conceivable rock and roll figure pasted on every square inch of his apartment. It was great to have to take a pee in Rodney’s bathroom and peruse his ever-expanding peepot portfolio.
We have a friend named Rodney Bingenheimer
He has a dutchboy hair-cut and he’s five feet three
He lives down the street from The Hullabalooo
And he doubles for Davy Jones
(He got beaten up by Brian Jones)
He’s so amazing you should see his walls
It just screams “Get in there with the pop-stars!”
“Let me in, let me in, I’m with one of the Vanilla Fudge
I know Sonny and Cher
I meditated with George Harrison
The Hollies are my best friends
And I ate lunch with Grace Slick yesterday.”
We see you at Music City and down at The Ranch Market
Waiting for pop stars to casually stroll by
Oh, Rodney, if you introduce me to Mick Jagger
I’ll let you meet my little sister
And she’s only twelve years old!
Sparky and I had many encounters with black guys on the Strip and we called them cones. It wasn’t meant in a derogatory way; we truly admired them for their insistent persistence and the poetic way they had with words. Sometimes Sparky would take her enormous tape recorder to capture this eloquence for eternity:
Wouldn’t it be sad if there were no cones?
No, not ice-cream cones
Cones are soul brothers with processed points
At the tips of their foreheads
Some wear lime-green phosphorescent
Imitation leather jackets and pants
Others are fairly normal formal excepting
Those flood ankles on their bright orange slacks
“That’s a flashy outfit mini-mama
Hey now, Hey now, Hey now, I could kiss your thigh”
They stand in front of The Wiggy A Go Go
Slapping their chins
We really respect them for their confidence
It’s too bad everybody can’t be as confident as a cone
(They’re great losers)
Do the skate, shing-a-ling, Boog-a-loo
“Come with me, darlin’ an’ we’ll spin some fine platters”
Oh, cones, you send us with your fantastic lines!
“What’s your favorite form of recreation, darlin’?
Hey now, Hey now, Hey now, I could kiss your thigh
Say, Snow White, can I give you a ride in my
outa-site metal flake Bonneville?
Hey, darlin, come with me, woman
to my righteous pad in L.A. and we can booze it up
And have some fiiiiine lovin
Hey now, Hey now, Hey now, I could kiss your thigh.”
Bart Baker, the gorgeous little eleven-year-old boy, came to visit us in the basement and we thought he was perfect inspiration for a song about:
LOVE ON AN ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD LEVEL
What does his mother say when we kiss on the doorstep?
(He has to be home by ten)
I wait around til’ three o’clock when he gets out of school
He flirts with all the ten year olds
And I’m so jealous I could die
(He just screams Brian Jones!)
Brian Jones! Do you realize this eleven year old kid
looks like Brian Jones?
A kiss on the cheek would be enough
But when he does more . . . wah! wah!
He has captured my heart . . . Bart
I’m ready to settle down
Do you think your parents would let you quit school at 16?
It’s only five years. I can wait.
How could you doubt him, even when he lies?
When he says he’s out playing ball
He’s being a two-timing man
He has captured my heart . . . Bart
Oh, how he wrinkles my dress and tangles my hair!
(Get in there, Bart!)
Sneak out your window and I’ll meet you tonight
You’ll be back in time for school
When we’re together, am I eleven or are you nineteen?
He has captured my heart . . . Bart
You’re a heartbreaker, Bart Baker.
Mercy wrote a lovers’ triangle opus involving Brian Jones (she wished!), Bernardo, and herself called “I Have a Paintbrush in My Hand to Color a Triangle,” and another gem which described her personal philosophy, entitled “The Ghost Chained to the Present, Past, and Future (Shock Treatment)”:
I see all the people I want to see
I be all the people I want to be
And find all the treasures I want to find
Along with the images, they’re so unkind
Shock treatment, oh let me go-oh
Shock treatment, oh let me go-oh
To show how my wondrous days and enchanting evenings were coming along, here is a sampling of my journal in the summer of ’68:
August 4 . . . Shall I start off with “so much has happened”? Well, it has! First of all, dear journal, you are going to be in print for millions to see! The tentative title is “Groupie Papers.” We had a very successful meeting, and MZ is finally going to sign us! He has filled our heads with dreams of wonder (fame, money) I think the GTO’s can help humanity (not soul-saving or anything, but really help them to see there is another way to exist—it’s there and I’m living proof!) I saw Iron Butterfly last night and was thrilled to my underpants to see Daryl. I got the immediate urge to seduce! I watched his body and really had to hold myself back from running on stage and grabbing his lovely penis. . . . Ha, I’ve matured. I used to do just that!! Ha Ha!
August 7 . . . Lucy and I have been discussing “Wear Your Love Like Heaven” [Donovan song] and that’s what I do a lot of the time. Jesus is intimidated continuously. He is so great, but has turned into a farce, He is so much more than that. He is a complete way of life, not a five second prayer at the end of a hypocritical day. I think he gets into people’s heads to see how other people react to his words being spoken . . . to see if they are listened to or heeded . . . Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Donovan . . . make sense? “Wear Your Love Like Heaven,” “All You Need is Love” . . . “with flesh-colored christs that glow in the dark, it’s easy to see without looking too far, that not much is really sacred.” Who knows?
August 11 . . . HI HI HI! We had a business meeting last night, and The Lindy Opera House is ours to rehearse in any time we want it! I have a crush on little Bart Baker, we wrote a song about him. Mr. Tim just phoned, he is TCBing for us, he is ever so grand!! The man from Rowan and Martin called and is coming to see us at The Lindy tomorrow. Amazing! A-MAZ-ING!! August 15 . . . Where will I be in one year? So much to do and see. Time splits before I get a good look at it! Tomorrow is GTO photos, fun! Thank you, God, for my brain, my arms, my eyes, my ears!! I should be so happy to be the proud owner of an intact body (and sometimes intact brain) I wish I had someone to pour my love into. What a crime, either my love is all bottled up inside me or escaping into the air. Oh, yes, I met Gram Parsons last night and I told him I rolled for him and asked why he quit The Byrds and he said “to do my own thing.” I can’t wait to see what that is.
August 22 . . . My daddy is driving mom nuts; we’re going to have to move out of our beloved house because he hasn’t struck it rich in the gold mines yet. I feel so bad for her, she loves the house so much. Oh well, I guess my childhood is being sold with the house.”
August 31 . . . Last night Pink Floyd came over and they received The GTO’s attention instead of our songs getting worked on. We saw the films of our Whiskey show, and they made me realize we’re going to make it! Sometimes it’s a fucking struggle, though. Lucy has to be kicked in the butt to get her to work. I’m sure John Lennon had to ball out Ringo Starr a few times. (HOW presumptuous!!!)
Right in the middle of this madness, I started feeling queasy and sore all over, and a trip to the old family doc told me I had hepatitis!! I had been running on empty and was too busy to notice! Since mom and dad were broke due to fool’s gold, I was carted off to County General downtown to throw up in the hallway with those less fortunate than myself. For two weeks I forgot my name, trapped in a rebellious body attempting to rid itself of unnecessary invaders. I spent my twentieth birthday in the drafty, smelly hallway, holding the flowers I got from the Zappas in my lap. “Dear little Miss Pamela, Hurry up! We miss you in Laurel Canyon—Lots of love from all of us at the log cabin. . . . Say now darlin’.”
September 10 . . . I’m on another type of horrid diet and all I get is crap. In this room all I’m surrounded by is a FAT blubbery old asthma case, a fat stick-out haired lady who pees the floor, an old gall-bladder whiny, a hideous old BIG-mouthed repulsive hernia, and an ancient drawling white-haired lady who can never get up. All I can think of is Nicky and Noel and getting O-U-T!!
I wrote a few lyrics . . . “Dropping perfumed handkerchiefs . . . blowing kisses across the room . . . Make us swoon . . . Whispering sweet nothings . . . Into little pink ears . . . Has it passed with the years?” Out of sheer boredom, and hopes for posterity, I also made a list of the GTOs’ private lingo:
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Girls Together Outrageously |
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Occasionally |
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GS |
Get Smart |
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MZ, FZ/GZ |
Mr. Zappa, Frank Zappa/Gail Zappa |
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Chickweblis |
Us, the chicks: a name we call one another |
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Chickwebli |
All of us |
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Cones |
Colored hang-ups |
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Klondikes |
40’s gun molls |
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Bailies (Jack, Bill or Beatle) |
titties |
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JHE |
Jimi Hendrix Experience |
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Rob |
Bob Dylan |
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BCP’s |
Birth Control Pills |
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Moche |
Anything revolting |
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T.T. |
Tiny Tim |
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Blackback |
Whitefront Discount Store |
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TCB |
Take Care of Business |
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Bozo-ing |
Daydreaming |
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Melancolony |
Melancholy |
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Heidi |
a snot-nosed kid |
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O.T., O.F. |
Obvious toupee, obvious fall |
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Goddess |
Greased-up guy with fluttery eye-lashes and come-hither look |
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I knew that the Jimi Hendrix Experience was about to hit town and I was chomping at the sick bed to let Noel become number two on my list. I willed myself well, and took my clean bill of health to the palace that the Jimi Hendrix Experience was renting in the hills.
October 2 . . . I CAME! How do you like that? I phoned Noel (nervous and sweating) and he invited me over “anytime”! I dressed quickly and gala and split. We got along fantastic, but he must have thought I wanted to be platonic because after two hours I had to seduce him, and we soon wound up in his room (fire-place, red lights etc.). Lovely romance, we played around for awhile and then he made love to me. AMAZING) I was totally under his control. He put me in a hundred positions and did such stupendous things! It’s doubtful that anybody could surpass his proism. It was like being caught in a web, unable to free myself—wanting to get more tangled. What was wrong with Nicky? I don’t understand. Noel said, “That, my dear, is what you call a fuck.”
The next time I saw Noel he was wildly drunk, and after a bit of salivating down in the game room he disappeared, promising to return in fifteen minutes.
Hello. I’m here at Noel’s and was abandoned approx 40 minutes ago. It just screams espionage. I’d leave, but my purse is upstairs, besides we took a cab up here, and Benedict Canyon at night screams danger. How do I get into these predicaments? I guess I’ll just wait.
Well, he never returned, and I was forced to poke around for my purse and beat a hasty, embarrassing retreat into the dark and scary night. The hazards of loving these fools and the music they made were numerous and agonizing, and they didn’t do too much for the budding ego either. I left him a note, hoping to relieve some of the hurt: “Where did you go? It was quite obvious to me that you didn’t want me there anymore, so I went home. I can’t recall anything I said or did to bother you, but then again, you were very stoned. It seems to me that everything was a waste, a waste of thinking about you, waiting for you, just a waste of time. I just want you to know that I’ll not soon forget you, firstly because you made me temporarily forget this screwed up world we live in, but also helped me to realize that it’s all we have, and it isn’t something I can laugh my way through. I feel like I’m just one more piece of trash in this cluttered waste-basket. Miss Pamela.” (Lucky for me I always saved important correspondence!)
The time finally came when we sat in the thunderous cave of a living room, stacks of lyrics in our laps, waiting for an audience with Frank. He had seen fit to put his confidence into all of us chicks, and I was hope hope hoping we wouldn’t let him down. While the Mothers were on tour, we actually accomplished the task that Frank had put before us, but we had no idea if our scribbled prose would even qualify as songs. Along with the previous selections, Sandra had written a deep double-entendre, fraught with meaning for her idol, Bob Dylan, called “Do Me In Once and I’ll Cry, Do Me In Twice and I’ll Know Better,” Cynderella’s “The Eureka Springs Garbage Lady,” my love song to Nick St. Nicholas, “The Ooo Ooo Man,” and one that Sparky and I wrote for all the jack-offs of the world called “The Moche Monster Review”:
Yonder comes a soft car
Which probably won’t take me very far
The organ-grinder behind the wheel
Is hoping he can score a feel
His eyes are bulging at your bod
He thinks you are a free-loving mod
Moche Monster!
Christine’s contribution was a tribute to her parents:
I’m a television baby
My father’s a knob
And my mother’s a tube
When I’m sad my horizontal dips
And my vertical skips
But when I’m glad, my brightness meter
Shouts brightest!
So we sat holding hands, trying to keep calm until Mr. Z appeared. No matter how often I saw Frank, he was always mystery man to me. His opinion counted above all others, but I found him totally inscrutable. I couldn’t even bring myself to call him Frank; I devised names like “Hank” or “MZ,” but mostly I called him Mr. Zappa. I believed him to be a humanitarian of the highest order for attempting to alter the world by scaring, repulsing, reviling, and cracking up humanity. He goaded them into a response, raised their eyebrows by telling them there was a freak-out in Kansas, and he was about to read MY lyrics. I could hardly sit still, anticipating the worst and the best in continuous rotation.
He sat in front of us, barefoot and shirtless, reading our efforts: The only sound in the room was the shuffling of blue-lined notebook paper and his occasional chuckle as he perused the pages. “I’m fainting with joy! He loved them! He loved them! He beat his knee over ’Cones’ and ’Rodney B.’ He looked up after reading them and I knew he loved them; he said they were all inspiring. Can you believe it? He wants to fix us up with Newmother to help us with the melodies and then maybe we can go into the studio and RECORD them! It’s 2 good 2 be true!!”
Newmother was Lowell George. He had only been with the Mothers for a few months (ultimately he was axed because he smoked too much pot; Frank was an avid abstainer. Lowell went on to form his own group, Little Feat), and he jumped into the assignment because he wanted to show Mr. Z a few of his many talents. Lowell had the sexiest face and eyes, but I’m afraid there was a dashing prince locked up inside a greasy-haired chub-ola. He moved and danced like a thin guy, and could have been a knockout lady-killer if he lost several dozen pounds. He was big and cuddly and moon-eyed over me, so we became instant friends. (I always loved to be drooled over.) Frank also put his keyboard player, wacko Don Preston, on the case, and it didn’t take long to turn our little ditties into actual melodic songs; hum along with Girls Together Outrageously! We had serious trouble harmonizing, so we all sang together like a grade-school choir, which didn’t faze Frank—he thought of us as a living, breathing documentary. We put in a lot of work before the big day when Mr. Z sat in front of us as an audience of one, and after our stirring performance, he gave us a standing ovation.
Frank was involved in a multitude of other projects, one of which was the Plaster Casters of Chicago. He introduced me to the original Caster, Cynthia, over the phone, and since we were both wild over Noel Redding, we felt a kindred bond for each other through the two thousand miles of telephone wire. The Plaster Casters were two girls so desperate to get near their rock idols that they devised an extremely enticing approach: They would give the idol some scientific head or a handjob, plunge the erect quivering member into a bucket full of slimy white goo called alginate, yank it out the moment it got soft (instantly, I would imagine), pour a mixture of plaster into the gaping hole, and leave it there until it got hard. While the hardening went on, the idol had the opportunity to ravage the Casters, which is what usually happened. Afterward, the girls would peel away the alginate, and lo and behold, the stiff member of some famous member of some famous rock group would be captured for eternity!! It gave everyone involved such a wonderful thrill; real-live history in the making. The big drawback to this charming concept was that the girls had to get intimate with guys they weren’t wigged out over, just to further THE CAUSE. I couldn’t have done it, but I admired Cynthia’s fortitude in carrying out these daring dirty deeds. We started a correspondence and promised to meet soon. Frank wanted to put her casts on display in a major art museum. He was, once again, ahead of his time.
Right in the middle of the GTOs’ earth-shattering lyric/music sessions, my parents lost their house in Reseda, and I had to traipse around the big Valley looking for a cheapo replica. My daddy was hangdog depressed; he couldn’t believe that his worn-out pockets weren’t lined with pure gold. He had ridden around on donkeys for months, sweated rivers into the blazing Mexican sun, forged new trails deep into the mountains of Guadalajara, only to find that it would have cost more to build roads to get to the gold than the whole mine was actually worth. He sat in front of the TV, his Rhett Butler face reflecting “Come on down!” consciousness, staring blankly at a little Mason jar full of shiny gold pebbles, while Mom packed up her whole world and I scoured North Hollywood, finally finding a little dump in our price range.
October 15 . . . Here I sit in the new pad. I finally found a ghetto in North Hollywood after 92 agohies. It was hideous, I stuffed seven rooms of things into three and it looks like a 93 year old woman lives here and never threw anything away. It’s an apartment and I hear 50 footsteps upstairs, Oh well, it’s onward and upward with The GTO’s. Christine and I went to see Mr. Tim and he was in the lobby with a mud pack on. So charming. He wanted to play ice-hockey again, but Christine wanted to visit her new fave-rave, Alice Cooper, at The Landmark.
The Landmark Motel was in the throbbing heart of Hollyweird on Fountain Avenue, very close to where Jim Morrison threw away the quart bottle of Trimar. Burgeoning rock celebs always stayed there; in fact, Janis Joplin was about to poke holes in her veins for the last time within its seedy walls. Christine was aflutter over Alice, a skinny, caved-in guy from Arizona whose real name was Vince. I had never seen her so perfectly put together—her new outfit of one-half pants leg and one-half skirt was pressed to a stiff sheen; her clown eye makeup was nearing Emmett Kelly status; and she plucked imaginary lint from her lapels, expounding nonstop about the virtues of Alice Cooper. He was virtuous indeed; their blossoming romance was right out of a twenties movie, all innocence and flushed cheeks. They held hands and gazed at each other sideways, this tall, skinny girl we called the Dr. Seuss character of the group, and Vince/Alice, soon-to-become idol of millions. I don’t know if they ever had sex, but they were clearly in love and made for each other at that precise moment in time. She gave him an outrageous makeup job and threw some of his clothes together into an outfit that defies description, enhancing his scrawny rib cage immensely. I met the rest of his group and took a shine to the drummer, Neal, and we sipped sodas by the pool while Alice effused over Christine and his new record deal on Frank’s Bizarre label.
Alice had his very own autobiography, called Me, Alice, because he became so royally famous. He described us very sweetly:
I met The GTO’s at Canter’s for the first time. The GTO’s were the first organized groupies, and GTO stood for many things: Girls Together Outrageously, Girls Together Only, Girls Together Occasionally and Girls Together Often. The five or six of them, Miss Christine, Miss Pamela, Miss Mercy and Miss Lucy, had started a rock band, but they were more of a mixed-media event than musicians. People just got off on them. They were a trip to be with. . . . Miss Pamela was a smiling open-faced girl who looked like Ginger Rogers. I met Miss Christine, the GTO I was to fall madly in love with, across a bowl of shared matzoh ball soup. She was one of the skinniest girls I ever met; she made me look muscular. When she teased out her frizzy mouse-brown hair, she looked like a used Q-tip. The GTO’s were close with Frank Zappa. In 1969, Frank was still a teen hero, he was my teen hero at least, and Zappa really just about supported The GTO’s. There wasn’t a zanier entourage in existence.
In November 1968, Frank was definately MY hero, and he supported the GTO’s in style by giving us thirty-five dollars a week, EACH! I was so professional that I bought a briefcase to carry around my lyrics and journals, so I could peruse professionally at any given moment. I decorated it with ribbons and sticky silver stars, and painted “Miss Pamela’s property” with alternating shades of hot-pink nail polish just in case someone might wonder who the exciting blond executive with the briefcase was.
Frank signed a complete lunatic street-personality named Wild Man Fischer to his label, to round out the madness. Wild Man sang retarded songs on the street to anyone who walked by, sometimes following them for blocks to complete his repertoire. His unwashed matted hair, filthy feet, spinning pupils, and putrescent gooey teeth sent me across the street many times, and I was secretly appalled to have any kind of link with a human of his caliber. I tried to be nice to Wild Man, and if I had a few of the girls with me, I would stop briefly and applaud his wackiness as he bobbed up and down singing, “Merry go merry go merry go round boop boop boop!! You and I go merry go round!!!” Once he grabbed and pinched me with his grungy, slimy hands, and I let out a shriek, flinging off the lacy garment he had tarnished as he cackled greedily like the Wicked Witch of the West. I was about to be linked with him in yet another way; Frank wanted to show off his ridiculous entourage in its entirety, so he booked us all into the Shrine Auditorium on December 5, a Christmas show starring Wild Man Fischer, Alice Cooper, the GTOs, and, of course, the Mothers of Invention.
The girls and I plunged into action, sharing rehearsal space at the Lindy Opera House with Alice Cooper. (Wild Man had perfected his show already.) We worked up daffy deliveries of our silly ditties, including a bit with Rodney Bingenheimer playing Santa. We would all take turns climbing up on Rodney’s lap to tell him three things we wanted for Christmas, and my first wish was to sleep with Mick Jagger. My second wish coincided with the co-creation of country rock: “I want to fly with the Burrito Brothers!”
My precious Chris Hillman had a new band called the Flying Burrito Brothers with the notorious Gram Parsons from Waycross, Georgia. Gram was totally countrified in a slinky bedroom-eyed way, and Chris had played mandolin with a bluegrass group called the Hillmen, way before the Byrds. Gram did one album with the Byrds called Sweetheart of the Rodeo, and then took off with Chris to start the world’s first country-rock group, waywayway before the Eagles laid their golden egg. Miss Mercy won a writing contest in a local newspaper with a little piece on Gram:
The first glimpse I got of Gram was at the premiere of “Yellow Submarine,” a gala event, and then I went comatose and I was captured and spellbound from here to eternity because he was so real he was unreal. I was with my group, The GTO’s, and precious Miss Pamela had grabbed my arm and pointed my eyes to the left aisle, the lights had dimmed, as a tall, lean cat in a sparkling Nudie suit drifted by. He was true glitter-glamour rock. The rhine-stone suit sparkled like diamonds, it was submarines all over the suit outlined in rhinestones, and the color was scarlet red. His Nudie belt hung on his hips like a gunslinger. Pamela always raved on about Gram, and I’m the only GTO that listened. She was always in contact with the special earth angels. During a recording session of Permanent Damage, she called Gram and he invited us over to see him. We drove to the outskirts of the San Fernando Valley, to a modern cowboy ranch with wagon wheels paving the drive-way. At this point in his life Gram had swiped Chris Hillman and Mike Clarke after he played with the Byrds on “Sweetheart of The Rodeo.” We entered the house and shy Chris Hillman and the cat in the Nudie suit greeted us with a grocery bag full of grass, and Gram was so down-home dazzling with sensuous Southern hospitality, it just slayed me. These are the first words I recall him speaking to me: As he leaned over his pile of records, and put on an old George Jones album, a tear fell from his eye, and he spoke, “This is George Jones, the king of broken hearts.” Imagine crying over a hillbilly with a crew-cut. Gram was on a battlefield to cross country over to rock and vice-versa, unfortunately “Okie From Muskogee” ruled the Palamino juke-box, and although Gram was rich through a tragic inheritance, he never bought his attempt at success. Gram had long hair so the audience called him a faggot and would attend his Pal dates to ridicule him. I don’t think they ever listened to “Hickory Wind.”
Mercy was the only GTO who would attend Burrito shows with me; the other girls turned up their powdered noses at country music, and Miss Lucy laughed right in my face. Anything Chris did was OK with me. I was front and center at every show, reverting to my former baby, blushing, innocent, goo-goo-girl self whenever “Mr. Hillman” settled his penetrating gaze upon me. I was hoping I had grown up enough for him to take me seriously, but he was still married to his second wife, a British girl, Anya, so I had to settle for penetrating gazes and occasional perfunctory platitudes. Still, I never missed a show, and Burrito music pulsed through my veins. George Jones and Waylon Jennings appeared out of nowhere, and Merle Haggard popped to life like an inflated balloon with cowboy boots on. A whole new redneck world opened up in front of me; songs about trains and bars and jails became my new Top 10, and all I wanted to do was impress Chris with some country knowledge. If I could drop the title of Loretta Lynn’s latest effort in one of our piddling conversations between sets, I felt a silent humble victory. I wore less and less makeup and took to frequenting Nudie’s, a country-western clothing store, looking for the odd cowboy trinket to countrify my outfit. I asked my mom for her best fried-chicken recipe, just in case Anya dropped into the ocean and Chris realized I was about to become a woman. My mom was agog at my brand-new calico consciousness. She moved through each phase with me, but I think the Burrito phase was an acceptable one. At least outward appearances would suggest that I had normalled-out a little bit.
Gram Parsons befriended me, much to my constant thrill. I considered him to be a heavily misunderstood genius, a gentle, soft-spoken, well-mannered country boy who drowned his and the world’s sorrows in little vials of powder and reams of reefer. When he sang about the agonies of love, his heart breaking, tears rolled down his cheeks without his knowledge. The Whiskey a Go Go was unfamiliar with sobbing men in Nudie suits, but I wallowed in his tortured Southern soul, swaying back and forth on the dance floor like a weeping-willow tree.
Rehearsals for the Shrine show went on and on despite traumas within the GTO camp. Christine was torturing Alice Cooper by dropping perfumed handkerchiefs in the pathway of Arthur Brown, who happened to be rehearsing His Crazy World right next door. Miss Lucy and Mercy bickered over Bernardo, so Sparky and Lucy became a twosome, gazing out at the rest of us like invading intruders. They worried about becoming too commercial, while I wanted to be on the cover of any and all available magazines. Sandra moaned over Calvin as her hand-painted tummy grew to enormous proportions, and Cynderella started a liaison with Russ Tamblyn, the leader of the Jets in West Side Story, and her heart was in Topanga Canyon. It was HARDHARDHARD work to get us all in the rehearsal room at the same time, and Frank had assigned his veddy British secretary, Pauline, to this insanely arduous task. She was prim and proper and fussed over her flock every second, carrying lyric sheets and schedules, looking up to the spackled ceiling for assistance from above. Mercy, Cynderella, and Christine developed a major chemical dependency and were often late, so our delirious rehearsals lasted deep into the night while poor Pauline sat in a metal folding chair counting out the steps to “The Captain’s Fat Theresa Shoes.”
When Frank came to see our final rehearsal, he was so impressed he gave us the big news that we could start our album after the Shrine show, and even though we were having internal squabbles, this fabulous news brought us together again. We went out that night, holding hands, and conquered Canter’s: Phil Spector bought us burgers and we performed every song for him in between bites.
The night of the show, I was petrified; not only had my mom decided to come, but Chris Hillman and Gram Parsons showed up in our dressing room to wish us good luck. CHRIS HILLMAN in MY dressing room!!! He kissed me on the cheek and I didn’t know how to react, it was all tootootoo wonderful. I took deep slugs of air and paced back and forth while Alice Cooper screeched loud, plaintive love-angst for Christine, his painted face peering through an empty window frame. We waited out Wild Man Fischer’s insane song called “The Circle”; in between each verse he ran around the stage, he circled the inside of the Shrine, and then he went outside and ran around the entire Shrine Auditorium!! The wait was endless. It was finally our turn to take the stage, and on my way down the stairs I saw Nick St. Nicholas, and he smiled his loony smile at me in the dark. I died ten thousand deaths because the third song was called “The Ooo Ooo Man”; I was about to get down on my knees and sing to a fake snowman while two Mothers dropped fake snow from above. It was an obvious love song for Nick St. Nicholas, a tribute to his serene madness, and I hoped his seventeen-year-old fiancee would understand. When it was my turn to climb on Rodney’s lap to tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas, I announced, “I want to sleep with Mick Jagger, fly with the Burrito Brothers, and become world famous.” Two out of three ain’t bad.
A week later, the Jeff Beck Group played the Shrine and all of us girls got divinely dolled up and cheered them on. I played Truth, Jeff Beck’s current album, so much that the grooves were merging together. After the concert, which left me panting, we went directly backstage and announced to anyone who would listen that the GTO’s, Frank Zappa’s all-girl group, were in the building and wanted to meet the Jeff Beck Group. We knew no shame and were ready to let our newfound almost-fame do the talking for us. It worked, of course, and we realized that being in our own group would bring numerous extracurricular rewards. The British boys always wanted to meet Mr. Zappa, and Jeff was no exception, so we took him and his keyboard player, Nicky Hopkins, back to the cabin where we all had a fantastic gab-fest. We blabbed about our album and recited some of our lyrics for Nicky and Jeff, and they were rolling on the floor within thirty seconds! When Frank asked if they would like to put some of their virtuosity on our record, Jeff asked, “When do we start?”
We were all in the dimly lit little studio, humming along with Mercy as she belted out “Shock Treatment” optimistically off-key, when the entire Jeff Beck Group sauntered in to add some amazing-ness to the proceedings. I was very pleased to see that Jeff brought Rod Stewart, whom we all became instantly chummy with, calling him Rodney Rooster because of his choppy stick-up hairdo. Frank put Jeff and Nicky right to work, and they bombarded our meager efforts with brilliant bravura. We sat watching, enthralled and captured, while Rod the Mod hunched forlornly, then paced round and round in circles, then finally left the building. After Jeffs solo on “The Eureka Springs Garbage Lady,” we went out to the suburbs of Glendale calling “Rodneeeee, Rodneeeee!” until we found him sitting on the steps of a grade school, peevish and petulant, feeling left out. We ooh’d and ahh’d over him and dragged him back to the studio, where he enhanced “Shock Treatment” with his raspy sandpaper shouting. We all stood around in a circle with headphones on, following Rod Stewart’s lead: “Shock Treatment, oh let me go-oo, shock treatment, oh let me go-oo.” I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears. Frank was smiling away with his baton, the girls were caterwauling as best they could, Rod had his eyes closed and was sweaty and wailing, Nicky and Jeff were rocking out to the music, and I was in the middle of my own recording session!
I wanted to bring in the sexy new year of 1969 with my new unmet friend, Cynthia Plaster Caster of Chicago, Illinois. I had no idea how fucking cold it was in Chicago, so I took a lot of feathers and see-through frocks, sexy spiked heels, and delicate lacy items to impress this yet-to-be-met doll-woman. I don’t know what I expected; someone wilder than myself, certainly a hot dish with tons more sexual experiences, and tons more finesse and “hands on” moments than I could even imagine. I was hoping to get a massive shocking earful of information on how to handle myself in certain sensual situations.
The first shock I received upon arriving was a big splat of snow in my face, and then the major surprise of the year, the Caster Queen, Cynthia herself. She had a sweet, precious face, completely hidden by long, thin black hair, and a chubby huddled body cowering into itself, covered with layers of sweaters and coats, scarves and boots. She grinned up at me with pure sweetness, and underneath the streaming hair and woolen sock hats, her pale white cheeks pinked up at the sight of my skimpy dress and skimpy body. Despite our differences, which were profuse, we got to know each other over those two weeks, and eventually wound up giggling on her canopied bed like two Sandra Dees.
She was painfully shy and I couldn’t imagine her with the alginate and plaster, buried in Eric Burdon’s crotch area, but I saw the casts for myself, and was wowed by the artistry involved. For Cynthia it was a science, her true calling in life, the thing she was born to do, and Frank was her mentor, just like he was mine. She was a little reluctant to discuss the casting, so I perused her diary: “It molded superbly, we applied some baby-oil to his hair and he only got stuck for five minutes. I had been counting aloud before we thrust Noel into the mold, and when I announced the crucial moment, he became panicky and began to get soft, thus instead of diving mightily straight in, we had to shove it and pound it in, and it twisted like a worm.”
She took me to a local club where we saw Fleetwood Mac, and laughed ourselves loony because Mick Fleetwood had a hole in his pants and his balls were popping out. We laid on her frilly bed while it snowed mountains outside, listening to the Jeff Beck Group and dribbling over Rodney Rooster’s scratchy bedroom voice. I told her all about the week the GTO’s hung out with the Beck Group at the Sunset Marquis, watching soccer on the TV while listening to Rod glorify Britain and commiserating with “Wanky” Waller about his lack of sexual exploits. Cynthia ached to preserve Jeff Beck’s member for posterity. Her crack-brained profession belied the fact that her sensitive adamant soul belonged to Noel Redding, however, and she bit her lip with jealousy, hating me a little bit for having slept with him. She had cast the entire Hendrix Experience, and Noel’s wormy cast sat next to her night light, in a place of honor. There was a poster on her wall of a group I had yet to hear of—four gorgeous Englishmen called Led Zeppelin. I listened, enraptured, as she described Jimmy Page, who was once in the Yardbirds, as being the most exquisite man alive on planet earth. He already had an evil reputation among the women of the world as being a heartbreaking, gut-wrenching lady-killer, wielding a whip and handcuffs, a concept that appeared to be in total contradiction to his perfectly poetic, angelic face.
I left Cynthia, with a new respect for her profession, promising to write faithfully and avoid Noel Redding like the plague. (A promise I wouldn’t be able to keep, unfortunately.)
It was time to move out of Mommy and Daddy’s house in the Valley and become a grown-up. I was getting my own salary, making my very own record, and ready to take the big dive into the Hollywood pool of frantic fools. One memorable night at the Palamino Club, Gram Parsons introduced me to a friend of his, Andee Cohen, a West Hollywood trendsetter and photographer elite. The first time I went to have tea with her in her upstairs apartment off Santa Monica Boulevard, I had to tell Marlon Brando she would return his call when she got out of the loo—that’s how hip she was. I was in awe of her hipness, of course, but hoped I was ready to enter her lofty ivory-towered league, so when she told me she was looking for a roommate, I was staggered by the prospects and the timing.
While I packed up multitudes of stuff, my mom sat on the couch with her head in her hands; her only baby bird was ditching the nest for digs of her own. I knew she would cry for an hour when I closed the front door for the final final time, and I’m sure a funeral dirge resounded in her heart when I drove off in the pouring rain to sleep under another roof.
Miss Andee was waiting for me with open arms and a hot pot of tea, but had to rush into the night to meet one of her incredibly happening boyfriends. She had made up my little bed in the living room, since it was a one-bedroom apartment, and I was surrounded by her Moroccan wall hangings and exotic pillows. It was magic; I was alone in my very own place, it was raining outside, and Chris Hillman had asked for my new phone number. It happened the night before at the Whiskey; he came up behind me, put his arms around me, and said, “Moving to Hollywood, eh?” He and Anya were separated and she had gone back to England; he and Gram were living in Nichol’s Canyon in a bachelor pad that I was aching to enter. So, I sat in my cute kitchen, sipping Constant Comment, waiting for the phone to ring. After three cups, Chris called to welcome me to my new home, and after putting the phone down I slid onto the floor in a delirious heap of mush, with giggling grandiose dreams of the days to come.
January 10, 1969 . . . Here I am, elated because the lovely Mr. Hillman called ME, Called ME!! Dream upon dream upon dream come true. I truly believe in myself and my ability to dream . . . they sometimes come true (if I dream long and hard enough). I’m listening to Byrd songs of yesteryear and “We’ll meet again . . .” sigh.
While all of us girls waited for Frank to make time to do the GTOs’ album, Mercy came up with the perfect title, since it described her increasingly addled brain: Permanent Damage. In fact, I was worried that Frank might hear about all the needles floating around the Landmark Motel, where Christine, Cynderella, and Mercy had taken up residence. I watched them shoot heroin only once, and went running back to my car, shuddering. Mercy never seemed to have any money, so after Christine and Cynderella were finished with the needles and cotton, Mercy would try to get every last drop out of the remnants. She wound up giving herself a blood test, over and over again, kind of a sleazy bloodbath in a comedy of horrors. I loved the girls anyway, even though they thought I was goody-goody gumdrop. I just didn’t want one of them to die, or Frank to find out!
Miss Andee took the photo for our album cover (I was holding a country fiddle and wearing a long white dress to impress Chris), but Frank wanted something special for his wacky girls; our album would open up, and on the inside would be solo shots of each of us and a paragraph about what being a GTO meant to us:
The GTO’s to me, dear friends, are a way of life. I’m so in love with everything I see, hear or feel, because I think everything is joyful. There are low points of joy, perhaps dark blue, and high points—pure white. The GTO’s are all different shades. Everything is a color, isn’t it? Tra La Tra La Tra La, I love people and their smiles. The GTO’s smile at people and they stick their tongues out at us. It’s OK though, I’m used to it. I love you everyone, I love you! Hugs and kisses, kisses and hugs, Miss Pamela.
The GTO’s, a color with five schizophrenic hues, a complete personality clash. A travelling caravan of players, masqueraders. 630 pounds that came together last year by way of The Log Cabin, now taking different forms, waiting for their big debut (as usual) wondering where it will be this time. Miss Sandra.
The GTO’s are a menace to American maidenhood. Watch out that your teenage daughters don’t get their hands on any of the GTOs’ literature promoting gayety, kinkyness and flamboyancy. The GTO’s are out to corrupt your children. Watch out! There may be one lurking in your neighborhood! Miss Cynderella.
The GTO’s are to me a combination of the world’s beauty and ugliness, we are supreme, yet the gutter, that’s all except there is no forever. Forever, Miss Mercy.
One of my sweetest moments occurred right after the photo session for these solo shots. Just being in the middle of a huge roll of black paper, in the center of an empty room, in front of a blazing spotlight, dressed in my frothiest fifty-cent garment, beaming a smile for my would-be public as a semifamous Hollywood photog snapped away would have been enough; but when it was all over, on the way out of the double swinging doors, I met my first Beatle. We were squawking about each other’s brilliance in front of the camera when Cynderella plowed right into George Harrison! (And we didn’t call her “Pumpkin Butt” for nothing!) I was palpitating all over, instant sweaty armpits and gasping for breath, while still trying to appear cool in front of one quarter of half my life. He was soooo charming; he said he had heard of the GTO’s and was looking forward to our album. I could have passed out right there on the A & M blacktop and become one with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.
Rolling Stone was doing an entire issue on the groupie phenomenon, and wanted the GTO’s to star in the centerfold!! We lounged on the couch like casually reclining celebrities, spouting important opinions to our (har-de-har) adoring public:
The GTO’s are a sociological creation of Frank Zappa’s. He didn’t “create” The GTO’s, he merely made them a “group” . . . and is now presenting them in concert as well as recording them. The GTO’s are not lesbians, they’re girls who happen to like other girls’ company. The GTO’s in all their freaky splendor are . . . outasite. Each has a personality all her own, and together they are not to be believed—chattering, laughing, telling stories, leaping about. The visceral reaction is full freak, but once you get into it, you don’t even notice. “Girls don’t show their emotions like they should,” one of the girls said. “When I say: ‘Sandra, you have the most beautiful breasts in the whole world,’ that’s not homosexual, it’s just what I feel. You know how it is when you don’t have a boyfriend and there’s a girl to hold your hand, to kiss you, to say nice things to you, it’s so important.” Sparky says: “We don’t ignore each other at all.” Cynderella says: “We compliment each other. There are closer relationships between girls than boys.” Mercy says: “We love boys to death, but you shouldn’t be pushed into things. Some people think we’re dykes and they’re disappointed when they find out we’re not.” Miss Christine says: “This is Hollywood . . . but in Ohio, maybe they’re not ready for this. We’re trying to spread our philosophy.”
Cynderella and I joining forces in London
Radiant Zappa summer
My precious Moon Zappa
The GTOs’ first publicity shot
Mr. Zappa with his Girls Together Outrageously
The GTO’s at the mixing board
Coming back to life with Micky and a couple of monkeys after Marty broke my heart
Rod Stewart and Ron Wood doing a step
Me and Marty, dedicated follower of Granny’s
There was always somebody to pose with on Portobello Road. He came in handy
It was a lonnng article, and each of us got to tell our story, with lots of pictures. I carried the issue around in my briefcase along with my lyrics and journals and Flying Burrito Brothers photos.
Gram had a lady-love who lived in Santa Barbara with their baby daughter, Polly Parsons. Once in a while he felt the urge to subject them to his Hollywood life-style, and they would arrive at Burrito Manor with bundles of diapers and baby bottles for a brief stay before being shuttled back off to the Santa Barbara solitude. I was evening-dreaming about Chris when the phone rang, and Gram asked me to come up and meet Nancy and baby Polly. It was a joyous occasion, and I flew up to Nichol’s Canyon with a one-way ticket to Burritoville in the pocket of my suede fringe jacket. Nancy was a stunning brunette with the biggest green eyes I had ever seen, and so in love with Gram that I could smell it on her skin. She called him her “old boy,” and I was a little in awe of her as I was with all wives and nearly wives. Polly was a perfect doll-baby, with Nancy’s green eyes and Gram’s frighteningly long fingers, and she liked me!! I hadn’t been around many babies, but this was one baby I wanted to get to know!
January 17 . . . Polly and I got along so well that Nancy asked me to baby sit while she went out with Gram, and I said “of course!” She went to get dressed and I sat in the living room with Polly while Gram, Chris and Brandon de Wilde (new friend!) sat talking in the dining room and I realized a lovely thing. When a man’s head is with his friends—or somewhere that he’s fond—he doesn’t know you’re there, but it’s not because of you or that he doesn’t care! He’s just elsewhere momentarily. Also Chris and Gram’s idea of a woman, a wife, and what she’s supposed to do . . . Chris, especially has such good down-home ideas of wifery, but I see that I’m not nearly ready for marriage. (Hal I should be so lucky!!) Gram told Nancy he thinks I am a star! I felt truly at home, like one of the Burrito family. When they all left, Brandon stayed with me for hours, he never left! We talked all about him and me and liked each other very much. People I truly love stand out and glow in a crowd. A thousand people could be in a crowd and if someone I love is among them, they shine like the sun. For instance, Gram and sweet Chris at The Palamino. I couldn’t take my eyes from them. Oh my Chris, someday I’ll tell you the story of my love for you. Once upon a time there was a golden-haired girl with blue eyes who was entranced by a golden-haired boy with blue eyes . . . what a story.
Gram invited Mercy, Andee, and me to come sing on the chorus of “Hippie Boy,” the final song on the Burrito’s first album, The Gilded Palace of Sin. Captured on vinyl with Chris Hillman!! The glory of it all!! When we arrived at A & M, a big blond girl in glasses stood up and announced, “I am the original Burrito fan.” I’m sure I begged to differ, but she was so convinced that I kept it to myself. Her name was Michele Myer and she was a Chris Hillman devotee, but she liked me anyway, and we discussed the Byrds at great length. After we all screeched out, “There will be peace in the valley for him now we pray-aaay,” Gram took Andee and me into a little room with a piano to play his new ballad for “his two favorite girls.” Before he sat down, he looked down at his longest of long fingers with a confused look on his face and said, “Sometimes I wonder where these hands came from, I keep expecting to see stitches around my wrists.” I don’t think he knew where he came from, or what he was doing here. He cried while he sang a sorrowful song for Nancy: “You may be sweet and nice, but that won’t keep you warm at night, I’m the one who let you in, I was right beside you then . . .” I figured they were having trouble that I didn’t know about. I was right.
I again took care of Polly the next night and Chris asked me out on a date. The pounding in my heart was heard all over the world. After everyone left and the house was quiet, I sat in front of the fire with Polly sleeping next to me and the pouring pouring rain spattering on the windows, and I wept with thankful womanly joy.
January 19 . . . I fell asleep last night by the fire and Chris came home and covered me with his bedspread, he brought a girl named Lizzie home, but fell asleep beside me in the living room. I watched his lovely face in peaceful sleep and . . . there are no words . . . My feeling for him is so true, boundless love.
I mooned around my new house, twinkly-eyed and trembling. My heart was doing a new dance, skipping beats, in the throes of something scary. I wanted to DO things for him, I wanted to sew and cook fried chicken and vacuum his rug. I did GTO interviews,. went to meet the Rowan and Martin people, did a cover for a magazine, all in a love-daze, waiting, waiting, waiting.
Dear Father,
I want to thank you
for the golden-haired boy
with blue eyes that
finally see me
Blue eyes that smile at me
with me
Years passed and I prayed
each night for his joy
Now I am a part of it
A few days out of thousands
To be remembered until . . .
I want to thank you
for each tiny second that passes
with him near me
Words that sweetened within me
throughout the years
can chime now like bells
around his ears
How can I thank You enough
for his words that dance around me?
January 23 . . . He came to me and held my face and kissed me everywhere. I knew from the touch that all had changed. He wanted to go for a ride and he told everyone we were going to park up on Mullholland. Ha! We held each other and talked of everything, everything. Oh, I shall remember this forever and thank God nightly that it happened. I know I will cry, cry, but the tears of sadness will never be as strong as the pure happiness of being together and looking at each other, seeing the same thing in our eyes. I tucked him into bed and held onto him until I couldn’t. I felt so much like a woman, powerful maleness overwhelming me. Oh, how I knew years ago!
