I climbed my Snow White wallpaper waiting for a long-distance call from my demented prince across the sea, and my baby-blue phone sat mute and mocking, only ringing when local yokels felt like saying hi or if some poor fool wanted to order one of my cowboy creations. I really wanted to avoid sleeping with someone new, to prove to Jimmy that I was dead serious about sleeping with him, but this pent-up passion didn’t keep me from looking, gazing, staring, dribbling, and contemplating. Michele and I went to the Palamino and sat right in front of Waylon Jennings—the sexy country-stud he-man with the dirty look in his eye. He played a hand-tooled leather guitar with “Waylon” carved into the strap, and he had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he promised to take sweet mental revenge on the unlucky lady who had dared to break his heart. I sat with my legs slightly spread apart, staring hard at him, sweating over his black-leather wristbands and greasy pompadour, and he couldn’t help but notice me licking my lips. He growled and sounded threatening, a big, tall grown man with a serious chest and big cowboy boots, picking on his guitar with an incredible lip-curling suave. I believed he was out of my element, but I desired him immensely, and passed a note to Michele, just like in junior high: “What a hunk! He’s staring at me, can you tell? I could be tempted.”
After his set, we sidled up to the bar to tell him just how really great he really was, and he called me “angel” with a very unangelic look in his eye. I’m sure he was surprised to see two freaky little hippie girls panting in his presence, and he kept hiking up his belt and squinting out from under his black cowboy hat ringed with silver conchos, saying “I’ll tell you what,” before every sentence. “I’ll tell you what, it sure was great havin’ you girls up front tonight. . . . I’ll tell you what, I could hardly get through my set with those panties staring me in the face. . . .” Sweat was trickling down my side, so I poked Michele and we sat down to wait for his second set.
I thought about Mr. Page in between gadding about Hollywood, attending any event I could get myself invited to. The most bizarre party I ever went through was for Frank Sinatra, Jr. He was so desperate to be talented, it broke my heart. An entire crowd of major celebrities was forced to endure an hour-long screening of a TV special that featured Mr. Junior and his special guest, a pair of boots that were made for walking. I like being in a room full of movie stars; Robert Culp and Sammy Davis, Jr., were chatting away like two normal people, and I was awestruck by Rod Serling. I couldn’t help but notice how many something-on-the-rocks he was putting away, and I worried about his liver. Toward the end of the screening, I sat in the back of the room as Danny Thomas blathered on to Jack Haley and George Burns: “Just think, Jack, imagine George, from our loins, from our loins . . . your kid, Frank’s kid. . . .” I wondered which genius involved in the show sprang from the loins of Danny Thomas. Rod Serling walked me to my car in a very intoxicated state and requested that I make him a cowboy shirt. When the phone rang the next morning, I thought I must still be asleep, or maybe I had entered the Twilight Zone at last. “This is Rod Serling . . .”
I got a letter from that swankpot Rod Stewart, along with a photo of him and his best friend, Ron Wood, asking if they could please crash on my floor:
Dearest Miss Pamela, A picture of me and the lovely Ron Wood, doing a step. Thank you very much for letters and such. We will be in L.A. in October if all goes well. My dear Pamela, could I ask you a small favor if I may? Could Ron and I sleep at your place? The floor would do. My solo album comes out around September 22. Could you please send me one, along with your own long-playing effort? Hope and trust you’re being good. . . . See you soon, Rod.
I had previously entertained the idea of sharing more than my floor with Mr. Stewart, but he was now a temptation I had to do without. I was determined to walk the straight and narrow, hoping against hope that Jimmy would make an honest woman of me. Noel Redding also wrote to me, announcing the date of his arrival and asking me to please make myself available to him. Old times’ sake wouldn’t work this time. It was with this attitude, and with chastity belt attached to my 1930s pink-satin tap panties, that I found myself face to face, body to body, with Mick Jagger.
October 22 . . . 6 AM . . . I did something, or shall I say, I didn’t do something, and I’m wondering why not. I think I’ll wonder about it for a long time. Mercy and I went to see the Burritos at the Corral in Topanga Canyon, twirling and spinning together. Jagger, Richards, Watts and Wyman came walking in and the roof lifted off the dilapidated old dump. We carried on like nothing astounding was going on, and kept dancing to The Burritos. Luckily I had on a long black velvet dress, cut real low, and lots of chi-chi rhinestones. I could feel his eyes upon me, and I rocked out even more. Gram noticed what was going on from the stage, and said into the microphone, “Watch out for Miss Pamela, she’s a beauty, but she’s tender-hearted.” My sweet Gram was so thrilled that his new best friend, Keith, was there to see him play. Mick came up to Mercy in between sets and said, “Introduce me to your beautiful lady-friend,” and then he kissed my hand and bowed. Those lips!
Mick invited Mercy and me back to the huge house the Stones were renting in Laurel Canyon, and number one on my farfetched fuck list was literally within my grasp. Mick, Keith, and I sat around the fireplace, listening to Mercy predict profundities through her beaten-up tarot cards. She carried her cards everywhere, hoping to bump into the likes of Keith Richards, spread them out on the rug in a triangle, explain the Tower and the Hanged Man, and create answers for unasked questions. After the reading, which went on for half an hour, Keith picked up a guitar and Mick sang, “I followed her to the stay-shun . . . a SUITcase in my haa-and.” I entered rock and roll heaven and was hanging out on cloud nine; my heart was beating below my waist, just like it did at the Long Beach Arena. Mick and I danced around the living room to the Stones’ unreleased album, Beggar’s Banquet, and when he asked for my opinion I was tongue-tied, but smiled like I had written a rave review. Within seconds he was right in front of me, holding my arms down at my sides, kissing me so hard that I knew I would have swollen lips for a week.
6 AM, continued . . . After he kissed me, he began to caress my face with his lovely hands. He came on and on and on to me; delicious huge kisses from that amazing mouth, caresses everywhere, I was melting, but holding back. Terribly shy, I was. “You’re shy!” He couldn’t believe it. I went to the pool to put my toes in the water and look at the full moon, Mr. Jagger followed, kissing me and kissing me and tangling my hair.
“I’m going to bed, Miss Pamela,” (sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.)
“Have a nice sleep.”
“Do you want to come to bed?”
“I don’t know.”
“You want a week to think it over?”
“Yes.”
(silence)
“Well, do you want to come to bed?”
“No.”
AMAZING!! So amazing that I had to write it word for word. And where was Jimmy when I told Mick Jagger “NO”? Probably fucking some CUNTI
I was trying to be true to my pink-velvet prince who was probably tying girls to bedposts all over America. Led Zeppelin had once again hit the U.S., but I lingered around my telephone to no avail. On October 28, Jimmy finally wakened me with some sort of vague greeting, sweetly announcing that he would see me in two weeks. It was a depressing conversation and I wept for forty-five minutes. Why didn’t he fly me to the Midwest, throw me on top of the flowered bedspread, and make me yelp with delight? Absence obviously didn’t make his heart grow fonder, and I could only hope that the sight of me would make him salivate. I would wait out the two weeks, and if Jimmy didn’t show me he truly cared, I would find Mick Jagger and flagrantly fling myself upon him. Before the two weeks were up, however, I saw Mick two more times, and it was hot and heavy.
October 30 . . . Wonders never cease . . . I just left Mick, still saying “no.” This time he begged me, he even said “Promise me you’ll stay . . . just once” over and over again. Sigh. Kisses and caresses, more gentle this time. I even overheard him ask Mercy how he could convince me to stay with him. When other people are asked to leave by big roadies, we’re asked to stay on, and I feel so privileged. MJ was supposed to sleep with this chick, but he was with me every second; they finally had a conversation and she split. I guess he was convinced he could get me to stay. He said, “You’re pretty, so pretty, the prettiest girl I’ve met here, I really mean it.” Mercy told him that Jimmy was my boyfriend, and I’m sure he snickered. He probably knows what Jimmy gets up to, and thinks I’m being a prude. Oh well.
I was being downright masochistic by not sleeping with Mick, but I really was worried that Jimmy might find out and think I was just like all the girls he left whip imprints on. I wanted to prove to myself and to Jimmy that I could keep my urges from usurping the pure love in my heart. But still I needed to be near Mr. Jagger. I made him a black crepe shirt and took it to PJ’s, where I knew the Stones would be in the front row for Ike and Tina Turner. I had to entrust one of Mick’s roadies with it because he was home with the flu, but as I was leaving, the roadie winked and said, “Mick told me if I ran into Miss Pamela, to tell her to drop by tomorrow.”
November 3 . . . MJ tried his best to seduce me last night, and somehow I held on to my sanity throughout his thrilling caresses. AAACH!! My body was hurting, aching for him; “Miss Pamela, don’t leave now, we should be together, I really dig you, you know. We’re acting so silly, like a couple of kids, we both know we’ll enjoy each other.” Still, I didn’t relent and at first he was pissed off, but he returned, saying, “You’re really too good, aren’t you? What do you think Jimmy is doing right this minute? You’re a GTO, remember? Not some school girl from Oklahoma.
I had a real short dress on and he slobbered all over my thighs, chewing me up real good. I was breathing in heaving gasps and he inched higher up my thigh, leaving a sticky trail like a snail had been crawling into my panties. Devouring my legs like they were edible, he left one massive swollen bruise on my right inner thigh and I excused myself and fled wildly into the night. I hoped hard that I wouldn’t be classified as a prick-tease, and I prayed the hickey would heal before Jimmy got a load of it.
I needn’t have worried. Jimmy called me from San Francisco, the final spot on the tour, promising me he would fly down to L.A. on his only day off to see me.
November 7 . . . My beloved never arrived. I don’t know how much of this stuff I can put up with. He keeps pouring it on to me; you’d think I’d be saturated by now. He woke me at 5:30 with his tenderest voice and every excuse you could imagine. I wept and sobbed. So now he says he’ll be here this afternoon. I’ll believe it when I see him. Bitter, bitter, bitter . . .
2:45 PM . . . I have no feelings of his arrival. Still, my anxiety knows no bounds. I am still, the world around me is still and quiet; yet within me is this turmoil, it feels as if my blood is bubbling. I shall have to fly out alone tonight to see him and the thought appalls me . . . but I must. Jimmy, how much of this will you give me? How much can I take?
I flew out alone, a pathetic beaten puppy, my perfect glossed-up smile painted on with a lipstick brush, my cracking heart palpitating on my ruffled sleeve; I had to see him, no matter what.
Jimmy made a big display of being overjoyed to see me, but the “something” that everyone sings about was not in the room with us. I took achingly deep breaths trying to recapture the sweet sleaze that developed between the starched white sheets at the Continental Riot House, but he smiled his most enigmatic smile and fluffed his curls. We wandered around Sausalito, hand in hand, loitering in art galleries where he bought a bunch of Escher etchings for five hundred bucks apiece. His timing was perfect. Escher died a couple of months later, and when I read about it in the papers, I was transported back to ritzy hippieland, standing on the cobblestones, watching Jimmy’s profile through the rustic window as he perused lizards crawling into each other, two hands drawing each other, and black-and-white ducks turning into each other. We carried the rolled-up Eschers around the breezy waterfront, and I gazed up into his face, searching for a sign of devotion. He bought me a book of Sulamith Wülfing’s ethereal paintings and I clutched it to my chest, trying to contain the flood that was forming in my tear ducts. I loved him so much, and he was slipping quietly away from me. The sorrow I felt was so sincere, so lonely, I knew I was finally a grown-up.
Jimmy flew off to England, and he didn’t offer me the seat next to him on the plane. Instead he told me at the airport, “P., you’re such a lovely little girl. I don’t deserve you, I’m such a bastard, you know.” I felt like I had just been handed a one-way ticket to Pa-lookaville. Alone at the airport, I knew what it was like to be crippled. I could hardly walk, and sort of slid along the wall until I reached the exit. People were staring at me. and I was glad to share some of my wretchedness with the shocked strangers.
It just so happened the Rolling Stones were playing Oakland Stadium that night, and I decided to drown my sorrow among the multitudes. My friend Michele Overman was also in San Francisco, and having just sent Robert Plant back to his wife, Maureen, she was raring for some diversion herself, so we hitched to Oakland Stadium to see if we could scam our way in. None of the hippies at the gates believed I knew Mick Jagger, some of them even guffawed in my face, which made me more determined to get in. Most groups stayed at the Edgewater Inn, so we stuck out our thumbs and found ourselves pacing the hotel hallways, listening for music. We heard a guitar being tuned and bravely pounded on the door. The beauteous Terry Reid, the Stones’ opening act, opened the door and graciously admitted us entrance. We listened to him practice for a while and I casually asked if the Stones were also in the hotel, and he answered in his sweet high falsetto, “They’re right down the hall.” I excused myself, and just as I opened the door, Mr. Jagger happened to be passing by.
November 10 . . . MJ spotted me and came after me; “Miss Pamela is here!” Hugs and kisses and all that. He put me into a limousine and I was taken to the concert . . . unbelievable! We sat together in the dressing room and I massaged his neck. I got a little paranoid, feeling like I didn’t belong in that high and mighty scene, but then I remembered the quote from Mick that I have on my wall: “Don’t worry about what others think of you, or you’ll never get it together yourself.” He held onto my hand, and the dirty looks I imagined I was getting from everybody in the room faded away. They rehearsed for awhile, and they’re all SO amazing; brilliant personalities. MJ is magical, truly spiritually evolved. He awes me. I was put ON STAGE for the concert, and I got to see the audience FREAK OUT from The Stones’ perspective. Everyone came together; surging like a sea to the stage, thousands of eyes never leaving MJ’s magical being. Such power with a capital P. How would it feel to have thousands of kids “under your thumb,” ha! He was wearing a long red scarf, and got down on his knees to whip the stage with it during “Midnight Rambler,” and it was the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen. He asked me to fly back to L.A. with him for the night, but I promised Michele I would stay here at her sister’s for a few days. Oh well, he’ll be back in L.A. soon, I’ll see him then. I want MJ, why not? About James . . . I AM going to accept it the way it is and groove. That’s all. I’ll do as I PLEASE while he does as he pleases. If I felt love from him, I would wait the three months until he returns, but WHY SHOULD I?? I couldn’t be promiscuous anyway, and there is no one I truly desire except the tangy MJ.
Why I didn’t fly back to L.A. with Mick that night still remains a mystery to me. I guess I still had Jimmy’s scent all over me, and wanted to hold on to it for as long as possible. He smelled so fucking sweet.
November 18 . . . I dig musicians, I feel they have the most to offer me mentally and emotionally because they think basically along the same lines that I do; extremely creative people. Music is Life. As Captain Beefheart once said, “God is a perfect musical note.” It’s a shame there’s a whole competitive scene surrounding most musicians. I want to see MJ because he’s a groovy exceptional person. Ah, well . . . life goes on.
Groovy?
The GTO’s album finally came out to mixed-up reviews, and I dedicated it to Jimmy Page, the Flying Burrito Brothers, and Jesus (not necessarily in that order). Nobody knew what the record was all about. Besides our revelatory songs, there were a lot of suggestive, whispery conversations, giggling, and panting going on; also a phone call between me and Cynthia Plaster Caster over the telephone, discussing the merits of Noel Redding: “I was a virgin last time he was in town . . .” Frank threw in a lot of perfectly timed sound effects, and snippets of intimacies we didn’t even know had been put on tape. The review in Rolling Stone was a big, long nonsensical story that had nothing to do with the record. Once again our painted-up faces were plastered across teen magazines. A paperback called Groupies and Other Girls by Jerry Hopkins came out at the same time, which reestablished us as pillars of our community:
Groupies in Los Angeles are crass, supercilious, pretentious, beautiful beyond description or reason, freakish, cultish, aggressive, mad and young. Groupies in Los Angeles are extreme. The GTO’s epitomize an international groupie type, The Freak. It is fitting that these five young women record for a record company called “Bizarre,” for that is what they really are, bizarre. They travel in a pack looking much like that section of The Goodwill store where clothing is sold by weight; worn cowboy boots, rotting thirty-year-old blouses and acres-large skirts and dresses, limp boas, pink tights, 75 cent army belts, and on top of everything sartorial is an amazing display of the cosmetic arts—mascara and rouge looking as if it were applied from a toy sand bucket with a small shovel. Zappa’s publicist says: “Because of their many close relationships with rock stars, the girls are constantly accused of being groupies, which they deny vociferously.” “We don’t just sleep with them, we go beyond the physical level with all of them and they respect us for that. Musicians are really very intelligent people, and that’s the way we treat them; not like studs. That dehumanizes both us and them. The GTO’s seem to offer comment on society, serving as social critics, serving as a peculiar Rorschach test, forcing the public to react. What the GTO’s have going for them is, really, a dream come true! Now they’re a group! Now they’re making records! Now they’re appearing in public! Now they’re being interviewed and photographed! It’s as if they’ve become the stars they have so long worshiped.”
Mick Jagger was really a very intelligent person, but I wanted to treat him like a stud, and maybe even get into a little dehumanizing.
My new friend, Ray Davies, was playing with his group, the Kinks, at the Whiskey, and I dressed up like a cream-puff coquette, heady for conquest. I knew the Stones were leaving town the next day and would most likely be luxuriating in the red plastic booths, swigging down the overpriced cognac, leering and bleary-eyed, cheering on the British. I was right. Leering the least, however, was the highly dignified Mr. Jagger, who was wearing a two-tone velvet suit from Granny Takes A Trip, the trendola trippy hip shop on the Kings Road in London. I passed right in front of them, pretending I had no interest in whoever might be occupying booth number one (it was always someone very interesting), and what I was hoping would happen did. “Why, if it isn’t Miss Pamela, looking just lovely . . .” I was invited to squeeze into the booth next to Mick, and no bomb threat, no terrorist action, no fervid groupie maneuverings, no desperate urge to pee, could have convinced me to remove myself from his presence. He ordered me two Harvey Wallbangers at a time, and my hands developed a mind of their own. Under the table I got a hold of the inspiration for the abstract oil painting that got me an A in my Cleveland High School art class. I slunk down in the seat, transcendental with desire, glancing up at Mick, who was all dimples, and I knew I would finally see his trousers down around his ankles. In my teen dreams they had always been corduroy, but velvet would do just fine.
He gave new meaning to giving head, which did not surprise me in the slightest; those lips!!! Please!! But looking down and seeing Mick Jagger between my legs kept me from surrendering with the wild-animal abandon I had anticipated. We made love for hours, but I kept flashing back to squatting in front of my hi-fi, touching myself for the first time while Mick groaned about being a Kingbee coming inside, and here he was, right on top of me, doing just that. It was all too much. I was dizzy with the reality of that very instant. I was dying for him to say “Let me put it in, it feels all right,” but it probably would have left me comatose.
November 25 . . . I am extremely happy. I left with dear Mr. Jagger last night, and we got along so well; honesty, freedom and joy. Genuine. I helped him pack his seven suitcases, and he gave me some lovely clothes. One is a black velvet beauty that was made for me. The sexual experience was quite a joy. The most luscious “plating” and kisses. “You’re warm, Miss Pamela . . . I really like you, you’re a sweet, kind lady. I wish you had decided to stay with me weeks ago. Think of all the time we’ve wasted.” All I really care about is the fact that he LIKES me, genuinely. He told me about the craziness of the road . . . Detroit tonight. There was a mad rush for the plane, Gram took Keith to Nudie’s on his motorcycle, and they came back late. Keith scares me, he’s like a foreign object, and my sweet Gram is becoming his clone. Such a beautiful, wonderful time I’ve had, but I wish I had someone to cuddle with every night. If only I could settle for some normal groovy guy. Good Heavens, he’ll have to be some super-human person because right now, the only people I could see myself being with are (get this . . .) Mick (how absurd), Jimmy (useless), or Chris (totally unthinkable). What a pathetic case. Why can’t I meet a nice engineer or CPA? It’s too late now.
“You can’t always get what you want . . .
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometime, you just might find . . .
You get what you need . . .”
Oh yeah.
The Stones decided to do a free concert at Altamont Speedway near San Francisco to thank their many fans for being alive. It was supposed to be a HUGE giveaway for as many lucky humans as could fit on the premises. I debated with myself about attending for days, and finally decided to hitch a ride up north with a friend of Rodney Bingenheimer’s who had a colossal crush on me.
December 6 . . . As a matter of extreme principle, I left Altamont an hour before the Stones came on. Scrunge and filth unlimited! I have come to the conclusion that I am spoiled. I just wasn’t satisfied to sit in the dirt with half a million smelly, grubby people and wait for The Stones. I really thought that people would be united and brought together in a lovely way . . . but NO body cared about each other. I lasted until The Burritos were over (they were wonderful) and the SLIMY FUCKED-UP Hell’s Angels started throwing beer on me and no one around me cared! I started crying and cursing and we split. I don’t have to go through that crap to see MJ. In the first place, after seeing him so many times, I can close my eyes and see him ANY TIME I PLEASE. The reason I didn’t go to the hotel is because I’m still so nervous around the rest of The Stones. I am formally spoiled. I hate concerts unless I go with the group. They’re on right now, but I’m going to call the hotel a little later and see what happens. PS . . . Would you believe The GTO’s played ONE YEAR AGO tonight. What has happened to us? I’m supposed to be world famous by now!”
I called the hotel and Mick asked me to come straight over. I was thrilled, but since he sounded flipped-out, I asked him what was wrong, and he said, “Don’t you know what happened?” A guy had been knifed, and died right in front of the Stones as they played free for the masses. He also told me someone shot at him, and he was a nervous wreck, “Please come right away.” I told my diary later, “Poor angel, trying to sing for 500,000 people who didn’t deserve his abundant gift . . .” I arrived and sat around with the group as they rehashed the sequence of events that led up to this odd death right in front of their eyes. Mick kept saying he felt like it was his fault, and maybe he would quit rock and roll forever. Everyone was extremely high. I felt like some inadequate female fly on the wall, stuck in the middle of No Laughing Matter. Gram was there, leaning against the wall wearing black leather and eye makeup, nodding out. Keith was wearing cowboy clothes. It looked like they were turning into each other. Mick held my hand and seemed slightly reassured that I was there, but other than that, I was feeling stuck in awesome flypaper. I wanted to say something insightful, something so meaningful that it would lift his heart. I was conjuring up this enlightening tidbit when Michelle Phillips from the Mamas and the Papas walked in, and it seemed that Mr. Jagger wanted a three-way to take the load off his weary mind. He sent Michelle to his room, and gently eased me down the hall a few minutes later, tantalizing me with his tongue down my throat, telling me what a good time I was going to have. I don’t even know if Miss Phillips was aware of his illicit intentions, but I had to escape because I didn’t want to share him, and I didn’t want to share her either.
No matter how many shirts I made, my needs weren’t met and my ends wouldn’t meet, so I took a day job at a simple little sleazy bar called the Moon Pad Inn. I was serving beer to hardworking sad-eyed hard hats who taught me to play pool and get a good head of foam on many glass of Bud draft, but I was bored sappy and not making enough money. Hitching home from work one evening, I climbed into a plush emerald Mercedes and said hello to the manager of Danceland. Kurt was a middle-aged, curly-haired, sun-tanned German who convinced me that the answer to all my problems was on the corner of Pico and Figueroa in downtown L.A. He pulled an application out of his hip pocket and I was hired on the spot to “dance and converse with interesting men for eight cents a minute.” Eight cents a minute! After reverting quickly to B-3 math, I calculated that I could make $4.80 an hour if I danced constantly. It sounded ideal, except for the fact that six nights out of seven would be spent with lonely old farts (I imagined) who felt they weren’t worth the price of a candy bar, so they had to pay fifteen cents a minute for the privilege of a dance partner. If I danced five nights a week, I would only make seven cents a minute, so my social life would have to be curtailed immensely for the almighty dollar. I wanted to save up and go to England, meet the elusive British Someone, and have loads of pink-cheeked children.
As I ascended the dismal, dingy, droopy staircase, I became sorely depressed. Tattered crepe paper from some long-ago saggy celebration hung ragged and fading against a peeling backdrop of once-serene scenery. At the top of the stairs was a podium that looked as though a minister should have been standing behind it, saving souls; instead, a rotund, rubber-faced, bleached-out B-broad of about fifty-five was peeling tickets off a huge roll and handing them to the gentlemen customers. Each ticket represented five minutes with the lady of their choice, all of whom appeared to be relaxing on an orange plastic couch, the looks on their faces ranging from extremely eager to dance to wishing they were dead. I put my “personal belongings” into a locker and found an empty spot on the Naugahyde next to a tatty-teased nail-biter who would only scooch over about half an inch to make way for the newcomer. My butt barely grazed the seat before I met the first of my many, many patients. It didn’t take me long to realize that most of these bungled souls were there for conversation and companionship, and before the week was out I was Dr. Pamela Miller, a highly underpaid psychiatrist, listening to guys pour out their aching, cheating hearts for eight dollars an hour. Most of the “beautiful dance hostesses” were having a hard life themselves—single moms, or wives of out-of-work down-and-outers. If you didn’t try to think about something else while these guys spilled their sorry guts, you got involved in their problems, and felt for them. I could tell by the glazed looks on the dance floor that most of the hostesses weren’t listening. I tried, I really did. Frank Sinatra played over and over while the men dreamed on and on . . . “Love was just a dance away, a warm embracing glance away . . .” A lot of men from far-off foreign lands came to Danceland to meet the American girl of their dreams, and even after they realized it would never happen, they kept climbing those seedy stairs. I knew they were pretending they were on real dates, and it killed me.
“Regulars” were an imperative part of the dance hall, and I had quite a few. Jackson was a young Filipino who came to see me twice a week for an hour. He wanted to spend more time with me, but he was saving his money to bring his mom out from the Philippines. He rarely wanted to dance, and he held my hand and told me his life story in hour-long segments until I had heard it all. One evening, as I sat pondering Jimmy Page, Jackson arrived, all spiffed up. After buying his hour’s worth of tickets, he presented me with a little box, his face expectant and gleaming. Inside was an engagement ring, complete with itsy-bitsy diamond. He had called his mom long distance to tell her he was proposing marriage that night, and I was sitting in a cross-legged trance because Jimmy had called from Pang-bourne on my way out the door. Now I had the absurd chore of telling a total stranger that I could never be his bride. Jackson attempted dignity as he clutched his velveteen box, turned on his heel, and hurried down those unremarkable stairs. It was pitiful.
Jimmy called and asked me to find him some Aleister Crowley paraphernalia that might have wound up in some old Hollywood bookstore, and I took this as a sign of love. The reality was, of course, that he knew I would go dig up this horrible stuff and send it straight to England. I didn’t know it, but he was in the process of buying Mr. Crowley’s estate in Scotland. He also got a hold of his cloak somehow, and I could picture his white skin draped in grandiose darkness and I worried that he might be getting obsessed with the black vibe. I scoured Hollywood Boulevard and found a killer-diller item: a typed manuscript with notes in the margins written by Al himself. Jimmy wired me seventeen hundred dollars and I sent this treasure across the ocean, wishing I could go with it. On December 22, I received a package unmistakably from Great Britain, written in HIS hand. I stared at it for a long time before gently removing the tape and ribbons that HE touched, and beheld a more meaningful little box than the one poor Jackson had presented to me. “For my dear P. With all my love at Christmas, Jimmy. XXXXXXX” Inside was a necklace like I had never seen. Gasping at the sight of the antique turquoise phoenix, wings open wide, holding a big stunning pearl, I bellowed and blubbered with pain and delight. I wanted Jimmy SO BAD. Hope surged anew within me, adrenaline was pumping hard and fast, and despite my horrid job, it was going to be a wonderful Christmas.
December 22 . . . Ah, so much thinking about Jimmy, and so warmly. The sun shines sweetly within me once again when someone speaks his name. . . . Noel Redding called, he’s had a nervous breakdown, poor little man, always miserable on his holy birthday. Sad, but it’s good that I’m not going to be with him. I don’t want to be with anyone until I can touch my beautiful James. . . . Think of me sweetly, Jimmy, your black hair wild on your white pillow of sleep.
December 25 . . . ‘Twas a lovely day with my beloved parents. I had Dad pick me up at “Danceland” early last night. Money is money, but enough is enough! I look down at Jimmy’s phoenix constantly, and hope he gets through to me on this day of days so I can hear his soft sweetness. Michele and I went to John Phillip’s for “frozen noses,” beautiful people and weird-ness. Whole pigs (poor things) were being eaten. Sleep is coming . . . Love and joyous Christmas thoughts and wishes . . . Thank my dear Jesus for being. XXXXXXX Pamela.
I slogged away on the dance floor, meeting one complete weirdo after another. The men never spoke to each other because they were all embarrassed to be there, so each evening I eyeballed a different silent squad of goons, wondering which one would make my night. The spitting image of Wally Cox wandered in several nights in a row and stared hungrily at my feet, and I knew something strange was about to happen. Somehow they always chose me, those guys with eyes like the laughing demento in the old werewolf movies. The eyes of Mr. Cox were magnified fifty times by his three-inch specs, and there was no doubt about it, he was looking right at my feet. It was a slow night, so I accepted when he weaseled over to request the pleasure of my company. He dug his pointy chin into my shoulder, and Mr. Peepers and I glided goofily across the floor for a brief clumsy spin, and then he wanted to have a little chat. “Out of all the girls in this place, your feet have the most appeal,” he said, with such sincerity that I was forced to look right into those grossly huge eyes and see that he truly meant it. What do you say to that? I thanked him a lot and waited for the punch line. He wanted to “caress and massage” my feet, and offered fifty dollars to do the honors. He told me he drove out from Michigan in his trusty Corvair because he figured women were freer in Los Angeles and might understand his feeling for feet. He had dedicated his life to the specialness of feet: “They support the entire body!” We sat in the back of the room where it was dark, and it wasn’t bad at all. It actually felt pretty good, and he was ga-ga with ecstasy. I didn’t take his fifty bucks, I just couldn’t do it. I took twenty, and felt guilty for a week.
January 4 . . . I got the foot fetishist tonight, I mean, he’s REALLY nuts. What happened to him along the way? Oh well, I was chosen to have my feet tickled by this great gentleman. Can you imagine? Left work early ’cause I was feeling so crummy.
I wrote a love song for Jimmy with a Burrito twang . . .
Feelin’ so low
There’s no place to go
To keep you off
Of my mind
Nothin’ is gained
By feelin this pain
’cause in the end
I’ll just be left behind
There’s no time for laughin
No time for cryin
I just keep prayin’ that
People are lyin’
Feelin’ so blue
’cause they say I’m losin’ you
And the ocean is
So deep and wide
I’ll keep on waitin’
While you keep on datin’
And I’ll be here
When the glory has died
There’s a sign’on my door
That you overlooked before
Come in from the storm . . .
Come Inside
January 9 . . . I often wonder how I get so carried away, to the extent where I forget what is important, what matters. It took Danny, a Chinese boy in cancer research who danced with me in “Danceland” tonight, to show me where it’s at. We got to talking about people; Mick Jagger is made of the same stuff that he is, I’m made out of the exact same stuff as Liz Taylor and Lady Bird Johnson, EVERYone is grand, they’re just taking different pathways to ultimately the same goal (even if some aren’t aware of it). In the creator’s eyes, Jimmy Page is no better than a skid row bum. NOW we come to my preference; tho’ they are NO BETTER than lawyers, doctors, engineers, mechanics . . . I dig musicians. There are girls who dig sailors, you could call them “sailories,” chicks who dig doctors, “doctories.” So, go ahead, call me a “groupie.” It’s Jimmy’s 27th birthday today . . .
Close to me now
On this day of birth
Your day of dawning
Jimmy met a girl named Charlotte on his birthday, and fell over backward with love. Word of this scalding news filtered across the sea and hit me in the face like a pot of boiling Earl Grey.
Miss Christine wrote to me from London, where she was hanging out with Todd Rundgren, enclosing a shot of Jimmy from Melody Maker in which he was wearing the most beautiful shirt I had ever made. It was a pink-and-white velvet creation with fringe that hung down to his knees. His hands were clasped and he was looking heavenward, his ringlets black as night against the soft pale velvet. Her letter told me of “Lady Charlotte,” and my heart clenched like a fist.
January 20 . . . Oh, my sweet blonde head is forever in fluffy pink clouds of make-believe. God help me as I go through another empty month of trying too hard to forget his beautiful black-as-night hair and his incomparable loveliness created in God’s finest hand. Who is there for me? Every relationship ends in utter emptiness: Nick St. Nicholas, Mr. Hillman and James. I should marry a C.P.A. or a ditch-digger in Iowa. [Many tear-stains blurring this entry.]
Before the empty month was out, Waylon Jennings came back to town to thrill the cowpokes at the Palamino, and I was front and center to thrill Waylon Jennings. It was a big step for me to choose this particular gentleman as my next conquest, because he was entirely out of any element that I had ever been in. I had been listening to his albums since Chris and Gram played them for me, and I thought he was incredibly sexy, but he was a MAN, with hair on his chest. I had only slept with a handful of people, but none of them had much hair on his chest, except for Mr. Hillman, and I don’t think he ever dreamed of owning black-leather wristbands. Brazen and daring, I sat in front of him while he sang, teasing him flagrantly by peeling off several pieces of clothing, one by one. He was totally disarmed and astonished, because by the time his set was over, all I had on was a skimpy satin chemise, “come hither” written all over my face. When he didn’t arrive by my side at the end of the night, I wasn’t dissuaded. I met a friend of his in the audience who invited me to Waylon’s session right after the show, and I planted myself on the couch, staring through the glass as he swaggered around, working up a hot version of “Honky Tonk Women.” I couldn’t believe he wasn’t taking advantage of my obvious wicked lust for him, and by three A.M., I was tired of oozing desire with very little response. I said good-night to the good old boys I had been hanging out with, and left the session. As I got to the exit, I saw that Waylon was right behind me with that squinty, indecipherable look in his eye. “What’s your phone number, baby?” I gave it to him, and he said he’d call me in an hour.
January 28, 3:30 A.M . . . If Waylon “comes” (ha) tonight (I still have my serious doubts), it will be my first one night stand, and my first “older man.” Also, it will really test my ability to get along with a person not in my surrounding element. Well, sweet adieu, if the big country man makes an appearance, won’t it be grand?
9 A.M . . . I made love to Waylon. It certainly was one of the oddest nights in my life. Waylon Jennings in my bed. We were honestly crude and crudely honest with each other, and learned a lot from each others’ worlds. Two worlds combining (colliding?) for sure. He would apologize for being so steamed up, and kiss me on the forehead, calling me a “sweet angel,” and would get up to leave, then come back with a vengeance saying, “I’ll tell you what, you really know how to please a man, baby.” Such a huge hunk of man.
As he finally got dressed to leave, he roamed around my little room, littered with pictures of Mick, Jimmy, and Noel, lit a cigarette, picked up his black cowboy hat, and said, “Do you really like all this long ha’r and everthang?” I assured him it was sexy and fashionable; he shook his head like he couldn’t figure it, smoothed his pompadour, kissed me on the forehead, and put on his ten-gallon tipping it gallantly. With a squint and a smile, he was gone. I sat up in bed for a long time after Waylon left, pondering a new fact of life, the one-night stand. I didn’t feel guilt-stained, even though I didn’t know if I would ever see Waylon again, but I did feel like a grown woman. My roommate, Michele, heard all the noise coming from the dining room, and had to climb out her bedroom window to go to work. When she came home that evening, she suggested I find another place to live.
A girl named Mickey, whom I had grown to know and love while Zeppelin were in town, was also looking for a pad, so we linked up and found a beautiful old garden apartment on Fountain Avenue. She was hanging on to John Paul Jones while I was with my darling Jimmy, so we already had a poignant past. I showed her the ropes at Danceland, and she was rapidly accumulating regulars. We grinned over puny shoulders and peeked around sad flabby middles, helping each other through many fraudulent, fruitless nights. I collapsed one horrible evening, making Mickey think twice about her new job. I was lost in a sweet, thick memory about Mr. Perfect, Jimmy Page, when I realized that the small Chinese man I was doing the two-step with was inhaling me deeply, sniffling and snurfling to his heart’s content. He smelled like rancid cigars, so I could see his point, but when I demanded that the sniffing cease, he couldn’t even hear me, he was so far gone in my Shalimar. The more I protested, the harder he inhaled, and when I tried to pull away, I found he was clamped onto me like a petrified crab. I let out a screech and became a bundle of lace and nylon on the floor. It happened to be “Nighty Nite,” and all the hostesses were wearing nighties. Thursday night was “Hawaiian Night” and we all had to wear bathing suits and collapsing worn-out leis. The rest of the world went around and around, but Danceland just sat there, smelling up the universe. As I was being escorted from the floor, an old guy who was being jacked off in the corner craned his neck to see what the wailing was all about. I never jacked anyone off, but I danced and chatted constantly. I was making seedy money and saving every tarnished cent.
February 6 . . . I am sweet, delicious, and a juicy 211 Somebody claim mell
I was adrift in a big world with no boyfriend, so I dug up old flames and trysted again like I did last summer.
February 12 . . . Very happy, spent a lovely afternoon with The Burritos. Chris was so sweet, we got high as helium balloons, and talked of many things. He and Gram said they would come in to Danceland, and then Chris said, “You and I will have our own private Danceland someday.” I feel so good with MY Burritos. Gram took me in the studio and said, “Look at this luscious little thing I found all alone in the parking lot.” I was with Mr. Hillman all afternoon, and it was very smoooooth.
February 19 . . . I saw Brandon’s joyful face today. He moves in 78, while everyone else moves in 33 1/3. 92 memories got side-tracked on my mainline. When he opened the door, energy and joy poured out. He is so incredibly ALIVE; draining at times. He came over for ten hours, we necked and stared and cooed and goo-gooed, seeing him again was like someone turned a lightbulb on in my brain. I’m a “thrill, a joy and a delight” to him right now.
February 22 . . . Here I sit, full of Tuinal, stuffed with coke (a quarter oz. to my left, and a joint of ice-bag in my hand). Never having purchased coke, I can’t believe this tiny bottle is worth $250.00. We just got back from the movies, and now Brandon is out playing music somewhere. We got so coked up in the theatre, nobody gets me higher than he does, in every way actually. We really get along superbly, such a good friend to have. Being with him comes so natural, I just love him. You can’t imagine what happened after “Butch Cassidy”; some guy grabbed me on the street so Brandon yelled out, “Fuck off, you wetneck pachuko,” and the guy pulled a gun on us! I ran down the street, trying to stop cars while deWilde tried to talk them out of shooting us. He’s a real sweet talker. All very interesting. Tra La.
February 24 . . . Here I am, on an airplane, involved in another odd one; Noel (dear thing) called this morning and sent me a round trip ticket to New York. It should be interesting. I love planes. Ah, me, James and Charlotte . . . the rumors hot and heavy that he is residing with her in France. Anyway, dear friend Noel is lonesome over there, and I’m gonna go have fun with him! I Oh, won’t everyone be talking about this one? It’s incredible how fast news travels in this pop-star circle.
February 27, NYC . . . here in strict nudity, in the potty, writing, so Noel can’t see. He went through another number last night about Brian Jones and how he should join him in death (Brian was his idol). He called his mother and almost cried. God, what a split personality, he’s in there right now, laughing his head off over nothing.
March 2 . . . I had a grasshopper for breakfast (3 pm) after an extremely lovely fuck, and I’m still zonked. Noel said I was one of his “loved ones,” “And I don’t have many.”
March 4 . . . Only home for one day, and guess what? I was just with Nick St. Nicholas. Mercy and I went to The Whiskey, and I flipped, really, to see his face. He came over and we talked of Randy Jo at length, they’re having lots of problems. Too bad. We got high and listened to Judy Collins, and he gave me such a beautiful kiss. Good heavens, I’m trembling, it’s absurd. God knows I can’t get the least bit involved in this one.
I saw them take their vows, and the married man was a no-no in my little red book.
The GTOs’ album didn’t make it onto the Billboard charts, but the très, très avant-garde FM stations were playing it, and it was about to be released in Europe, so the girls got together and worked up a new act to show Mr. Zappa. He was heartily enthused, but no plans were made and I was aching to redebut. Miss Christine was going steady with Todd Rundgren and he suggested we tour Europe with his group, Runt, but it wouldn’t be until the summer and I didn’t know if I could wait. We weren’t really getting along, and it was becoming what Sparky and Lucy had predicted, a business venture. Christine and Cynderella thought I was a phony-baloney fickle sweetie-pie, Sandra was Miss Mom, and Mercy had started inhaling angel dust in startling amounts. One night as I held her hand, she demanded that many dead rock stars appear before her. On her knees she beseeched Sam Cooke and Otis Redding to make an appearance; she then attempted to conjure up her idol, Brian Jones, pleading with the vapors. At this precise instant, some blond stranger walked into the room and found Miss Mercy wrapped around his legs, her rainbow-afro wig askew, her eye makeup smudged beyond compute, laughing and sobbing, gazing into his eyes as though he were the second coming. I’m sure he never forgot it.
March 6 . . .
The scene is ending
Images fading into the walls
Cloth roses tossed
Into trashcans full
Of tiny pieces of empty dreams
Never fulfilled to the fullest
Stepping from an invisible vision
Shedding garments
Rose colored taffeta
Musty and rustling
Looking into the dark
And sticky smelling past
I leave each of them to themselves
And each other
The whole thing
Has matted my hair
I feel so many things for so many people, I really do, and it IS true and honest. Does it seem phony? Obviously it does. SHIT, I’m not phony, and I’m not going to ever let it bother me. It’s me, I’m a willow and I admit I do bend with the winds, wherever I’m taken . . . I love it. I feel like I’ll never be depressed or bored anymore. Although I have no particular love now, maybe I’m not supposed to—I love so many. It makes sense to me. How can I be fickle when there is no one to be true to?
The fact was, I desperately wanted someone to be true to. I needed a rock and roll rock to lean on; a foundation, some gorgeous hunk to wake up with in the steamy afternoons. I cried dreary tears, waiting for someone to tell me he loved me, and while languishing on my bed of thorns, I inhaled, imbibed, and swallowed several foreign substances. I tuned in, tuned on, and dropped out one too many times. As I cruised the strip with King Dale (I was the Queen of the Hips and Rocks, remember?) one glistening afternoon, the hash I swallowed turned into a living creature in my heaving chest cavity, attacking me from the inside out. Sunset and Fairfax became a war zone with unidentified hurtling objects whizzing through the air and spilling squishy sludge onto my feather boa, which, of course, grew a head and began to eat itself. I clutched the bucket seat to keep from toppling into the trenches, so consumed with fear that I started gagging and sputtering, begging Dale to pull over, pull over, where am I, pull over!!??! I can still see Dale’s dry mouth opening and closing like Shari Lewis had her hand inside his hippie head. “You’re losing it, you’re blowing it . . .” Just what I needed to hear. He finally steered his miserable vehicle to my front door, and I crept into bed, missing several appointments, while my entire life played in my tortured head like a rerun of Leave It to Beaver.
March 10 . . . I left yesterday for some far-off land on Dale’s hash. I ate so much of it that I went bizarre. I truly thought I was dying. I saw myself as a little baby, then as a tiny child, all the kids I knew and things I did. Then I realized I was seeing my life flash before me in seconds, just like right before you die. I kept trying to take control of myself; such a fine line between sanity and insanity . . . I was walking that line on a circus tightrope. I slept for fourteen hours straight in all my clothes and lace-up boots.
“She blew her mind out in a car.”
Cynderella had a pen pal in England, Gene Krell, who co-ran Granny Takes a Trip on the Kings Road. She was having a pen-and-paper romance, and suggested that I write to Gene’s partner, Marty, a boy from Brooklyn who was making good in swinging London. I would have preferred to receive mail from an Englishman, but Marty was a trendsetter, and dressed Robert Plant and Mick Jagger, so I condescended to dash out a few pages a week. He sent chic chic T-shirts that nobody in all of America had ever seen before, so Mickey Mouse and James Dean smiled and glowered from my bosom, all covered in rhinestones. He also sent photos of himself, which weren’t too bad; he had a thick mop of hair that was blatantly frosted and blown dry to perfection, he wore immaculately hip garments that hung from his slim frame, and he had a sunny, seductive smile underneath the biggest hooter that I, personally, had ever made contact with. His letters were real funny and he signed his name backward, so when he announced he was coming to L.A. to scout for a new location for Granny’s, I began anticipating his arrival.
March 20 . . . Very strange about Marty, I was so shy with him and bashful. It’s the oddest to meet someone you’ve been writing to. He was tired from the flight and fell asleep in my lap, I played with his pretty hair and he kissed me real sweetly. Right before he left, we really looked at each other and liked what we saw; the realization was lovely.
I was ripe for the plucking.
March 26 . . . Michele slept on the couch and Marty and I went to bed . . . very nice, though I still don’t know how I feel about him. He said he wanted to take me to England when he goes back. My feelings are very different; no freak-out-ness like with Jimmy and Chris, but it’s not like a rosebud blooming either. I guess I’m just trying to explain it because I plucked him. I should just stop trying to figure everything out.
Who plucked whom?
March 28 . . . Well, Marty is in love with me, or so he continually says. Lots of “You’re my baby,” “You’re my beautiful girl,” etc etc etc. . . . It’s so nice that he says those lovely love things when we make love, it makes it so much better. Just off to Danceland (yucchy!), Marty is taking me to Disneyland tomorrow. Oh, what different lands I romp in.
Waylon Jennings the ningh I nabbed him
Me and Theodore Bikel’s big slacks on 200 Motels
Please, Mr. Zappa, give me some direction
Tony Sales, teen dream
Within the same four walls as Ringo Starr. Howard Kaylan is napping on my shoulder.
Donnie Wayne Johnson! Pamels Ann Miller
Donnie is wearing one of my handmade fall-aparts
Cudding
All, is calm, all is hot
Duet with a madman
Keith Moon and I with Pete Townsend. I get excitement at your feet.
Keith and I in the middle of an improv
Keith in drag—Miss Moon and Miss Pamela
Sandy and I before I stamped on his heart
I quickly learned that Marty loved to fuck, he needed the conquest constantly, and I wasn’t enough. Unfortunately, by the time I realized this (he fucked my neighbor, and she told me all about it) I was hooked on him.
April 5 . . . I had no idea I could ever get so mad! I WAS RAGING! I I went through the ragies, the weepies, and then the sulkies. Man, I just can’t understand whores, and that’s what he is. I’ll have to put up with it tho’; it’s him. There are fuckers and there are nice ones. He’s a fucker. I must bear in mind that he “loves me so much” . . .
He called me “Dollin” and grabbed my titties in the market, he was brash, outspoken, and loud, throwing his New Yawk accent all over Hollywood. He was proud of his hot temper, his sexual prowess, and the way he could string curse words together until he was out of breath. He ran the hippest clothing store in the hippest city in the world which catered to the hippest people on earth, but he wasn’t quite satisfied. He wanted to BE one of his own clientele. He grabbed hold of little me, the concubine elite, and kissed my ass until I was convinced I could love him.
When Led Zeppelin came to town for two nights, I paced back and forth, pretending to be composing new GTO material. Marty watched for a while, looking amused, and said, “Why don’t you just call Jimmy, Dollin’?” I couldn’t figure why Jimmy didn’t call me! By this time I believed he had fallen in love with the girl named Charlotte, but felt I deserved to hear the facts from his very own rosebud lips. The last time I heard from Jimmy was when he sent me the phoenix, and even though I fell for Marty, I needed to clear Mr. Page out of my system.
April 10 . . . Jimmy is in town and hasn’t called. I DO NOT understand. I smile at dear Marty while inside I’m freaking out. Oh, Lord knows, why why why why! II? My Jesus, what anguish; the oddest bruising pain in my heart that beat only for him for so long . . . pink velvet pants, angel-faced precious Jimmy, why oh why don’t you be so kind as to call and say “hello” to the broken-hearted girl you left behind?
April 11 . . . God is truly with me, Marty and I went to The Whiskey, and there was Jimmy’s sweet face. I sat with him and he told me he would always be my friend and that I was the only person that he cared for in this country, but we really couldn’t talk there, so he took my number (that’s why he didn’t call!) and wants to see me on Friday. He told me he was happy and in love, and hoped I was too. He invited me to the show, but I don’t think I could bear it.
April 13 . . . Robert Plant called and insisted I come to the show, he left cab money for me at the gate, so I’m on my way now. He said they wouldn’t go on until I got there. Marty got angry at first, but then he said, “Do what you have to do, Dollin’.” He’s so incredible at times, but I’m sure he’ll go out tonight and pluck someone.
April 14 . . . Well, James was tremendous to me at the concert, tho’ I have seen them better. Robert had a headache, and John was on smack, of all things. I went back to the hotel with Jimmy and we talked until 5 AM about happinesses, sadnesses, truths, untruths, Charlotte and Marty. He showed me pictures of her which I could barely look at, and he told me he was “being good,” which for him is a miracle. When I left, we hugged tightly, “Are we still friends?” “For sure.” “We’re still friends?” “For sure.” “Be a good girl, P.”
I walked slowly down the dismal Hyatt House hall, but before I reached the elevator, I did one of my collapsing acts, sliding down the wall into the customary heap position until I could pull myself barely together, get into a cab, get into my bed, and rock myself to sleep.
Marty had indeed plucked some available tart, and it took me awhile to convince him that I didn’t sleep with Jimmy. (But oh, how I wanted to.) Marty pretended cool, but the double standard lurked beneath his bushy eyebrows. He was the first “regular” boyfriend I had had since Bobby Martine, and even though our sex life was thrilling and constant, my feelings for him fluctuated every day. He couldn’t find a store hip enough, so six weeks after he blasted through my door, I was weeping at the airport as he flew off to London. We were both going to save our money, and I was going to wing my way back into his arms as soon as possible.
Miss Christine was still in the midst of a lasting relationship with Todd Rundgren, and he still wanted us to go on tour with Runt, starting in New York in one month. I worked seven nights a week at Danceland, still saving every grubby cent, and bought a cheapo ticket to London to surprise Marty.
April 27 . . . Well, friends and neighbors, two weeks from tomorrow, I leave for London. I’m going to stay two weeks before I have to meet the rest of the girls in New York for the tour. There. That’s what’s happening. $150 a week and expenses for three months, and then . . . God knows what.
Before I left, I had the urge to see beautiful Beverly. We spoke on the phone once in a while, but she was always sorry to be alive, so I rarely saw her. I was thrilled to be alive, and we got on each other’s nerves. She was living in a tiny hovel on Honey Lane in Laurel Canyon, and it took her a long time to crawl to the door to let me in. I sat with her while she sorted out piles of dark-colored velvet rags. She had been sitting there all day, moving the rags around and shooting heroin. Her boyfriend had been busted, and she wasn’t in a very good mood. She wasn’t in any mood at all; just a vague semblance of life, cowering, sniffling, and crippled among her collection of dusty frogs. Her windows were blacked out and I begged her to let in a little light, a little air; she said the candles were enough, and offered me some heroin. I shied away from that doomy stuff, but I wanted to get near her, so I sniffed a little. She didn’t seem to notice that I had done anything out of the ordinary, so after the nodding and nausea went away, I did too.
I called Chris and Gram to say good-bye, and found that Gram had been in a motorcycle accident. I rushed off to the hospital, not ready for the pathetic sight that greeted me.
May 3 . . . Went to see GP with Mercy and Carlos, took flowers and all. He’s so beaten up, such a mess. It was hard not to scream, his face was blown up like a purple and blue balloon. God bless him and keep him through this, maybe it’ll help somehow, he’s been SO high all the time. I’ve been calling him Gram Richards. He hasn’t heard from Keith, so I sent him a telegram. I hope he gets it.
I said all my good-byes, sent back my rented piano, packed up all my many items, and put them in my parents’ garage.
I took a trip to Ensenada with my daddy for a night, just to hang with him before I left. He was always driving down to Mexico because his best friend and partner in the gold mine lived there. We had a pleasant, uneventful time, but my dad brought a bottle with him to swig on the trip back to L.A. He was already pretty tipsy, having knocked a few back with Ruben, but no matter how I begged to drive, he held on to the wheel. He was telling me all about the bad old days in Pond Creek, going about fifteen miles an hour, when we heard a siren. At least I heard the siren; he was whooping and hollering, dredging up some long-lost long-ago event that cracked him up as he weaved all over the freeway. The policeman took Daddy to jail in San Diego and told me to come back in the morning. I sat in an all-night movie until some wack-job started beating off next to me. I ate pie in a coffee shop next to a poor guy with only one thumb on one of his hands and no arm at all on the other side. I thought I had problems. I prayed right on the spot, thanking God for all my limbs. I sat in the big Caddy sled until the sun came up, and then went and retrieved O. C. Miller from the clink. When I left Mom to go to the airport the next day, she was happy I was going to see the world, but very sad she would have to be without her baby daughter for so long. She wasn’t sure about Marty, but she never inflicted her misgivings on me.
May 12 . . . Lovely talking to Mom, I love my folks so much. My stability in this crazy world I live in. I’m listening to Linda Ron-stadt’s new album. She dedicated a song to me at The Whiskey last night while I was dancing. So sweet. God knows what this beautiful life holds. If only I could realize how full it is all the time, and never ever get bored. Boredom is a COP-OUT! A terrible excuse for not living every second and drinking God’s air (no matter how polluted) into your lungs! Ah, breathe deeply of this life! I’m so fortunate to be blessed with the freedom I have; travel is at my doorstep, new places, new people, new adventures constantly. I want to reach out and learn from every person I meet; take their stories and intertwine them with my own so I can live MORE than my allotted years on this earth. I’ve been thanking God for my comfort lately. How incredible to feel continually pleasant. I feel like I might lift off the ground at any moment! I Hey, I will be lifting off the ground any moment! I England, watch out! I Here I come!!!
