Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up

by Des Barres, Pamela

  So grand! A lovely time spent with Ray—equality—which means personal growth. I was still in awe but fully able to do my job. We reminisced sweetly. “Remember that time you came to my hotel room door with two cheap bottles of fruit-flavored wine and we drank it all down?”

  La-di-da, la-di-da.

  After the flawless meeting with Ray, tea and scones, an hysterical come-clean interview, I arrived home to the horrendous news that Annie had been fired! How could she have been fired from her own magazine? It turned out she had put half the ownership and all her trust in the wrong soulless giant-shots. Annie had stapled together the very first copy of Details, and there ought to be some kind of law protecting creative individual rights. You can bet your nine lives that it will all come out in the cosmic wash. Don’t even worry about it.

  III

  Speaking of the celestial laundromat, I had another awesome, cleansing session with Ariana:

  March 26—I went way down/out/in—got warm all over, realized I was underwater, in a flowing Greek-type garment, on my way to complete an important task for my “teacher.” I was one of twenty people trained to go into this large city, reach the powerful leaders, and alter their consciousness for the better. Sounds simple, eh? I got into this massive hall—a long table full of men in political power having an all-important meeting—by posing as a servant girl. As I poured their wine from a stone pitcher, I caught their eye and zapped them. It was supposed to snap their consciousness gradually to include more universal ideas, make them more accepting, not so set in their selfish, rigid ways, opening them up to a whole new way of thinking, slowly changing the world as it was. On my way back to my teacher, a powerful sense of peace came over me. It was my mission, and I accomplished it just by sticking my soul into their eyes.

  As I came out of this creamy, turquoise trance state, I could see Ariana grinning like mad, she was so excited for me, her face was glowing. “Do you see how powerful you were in that lifetime? You can access that power any time you want to. It’s yours. Remember that.” Powerful. Not a word I used about myself too often. And why not? The power of God is right in the center of all of us, smack dab in the middle.

  I needed all my Godly power to deal with the authorities at the “special” school. It’s true that math, science, and English were taking a backseat to the so-called emotional counseling Nick was supposed to be receiving, but Nick was bringing home the same stupid printed-page homework assignment eight or ten times and, of course, refusing to do it over and over again, then getting in trouble for not handing it in. I was concerned that when he got back into “regular” school he would be way behind academically, which was a sin because he’s sooooo damn bright. The teachers kept leaving—endless substitutes brought in only to be run ragged by the mutinous boys. When a teacher came in that Nick finally related to, promising to stay the entire school year, things got a little better then got hellishly worse when the guy couldn’t handle it either and left with no notice. Nick rebelled riotously, with good reason, and wound up in their damn time-out isolation room one too many times. “It smells bad, Mom. Kids pee in there,” Nick told me, and I stormed into the school, demanding to see the punishment chamber for myself. I was told that the proper authorities had to be consulted first. Fierce, fangs-bared, mama-lion madness erupted from inside me. I had to find out what was going on.

  I had always had a very hard time with Nick’s therapist, Adolf, who refused to put any credence in Nick’s spiritual nature and saw his reliance on meditation and prayer as an escape from his problems—the same problems that nobody at the “special” school could ever seem to name or fathom. When I wanted some answers, they spoke in smart-ass psychiatric circles, such a pile of Freudian crap, I was inflamed with despair. After throwing a fit in the main office, I was finally taken down to the time-out room for a look-see. A look-smell. Nick had been so right. The closet-sized, carpeted space smelled like a urinal, smeary spots spread across the walls. This horrendous, fetid isolation even for a few minutes must have been so wretched. Such a hopeless, ensnared feeling wafted out at me. I begged silent forgiveness for unknowingly allowing Nick to spend one single second in there. After speaking my mind loudly, threatening to tell the school system about this squalid hole, I went straight to the classroom, took Nick by the hand, and removed him from the premises forever, having no idea what I was going to do next. Nick told me later that kids peed in the time-out room because they were pissed off. It made a whole lot of sense.

  Nick’s next “placement” was in “special education” at our local junior high. At first he was so quiet—almost invisible despite his ever-lengthening mop of hair—that he was pretty much left alone. But once he started speaking up, he got the usual cruel taunts about being “weird” and finally blew up one day in class. I was called in, a therapist assigned, and I felt like a hamster, caught on an endless, rusted, squeaky loop. What did Nick feel like? Since his art skills were off the map, Nick was sent to an advanced art class but immediately had a run-in with the teacher. She told the pupils to put ten things in their picture, and Nick asked why. She told him it was the rule. Nick said, “Art has no rules.” How could anyone argue with that? I had long talks with him about authority figures and how teachers should be obeyed, that’s why they’re in charge. Respect your elders, yada-yada. “But art has no rules, Mom,” he said to me. Nick told the prim, grinny-faced school psychologist that she was “plastic,” and I started looking around for yet another school setting.

  I even tried our local Catholic school, remembering what dear Shelly had told me about the high-level academic expectations and the very strict rules that had to be obeyed or else. Michael came with me, and as we sat across from the dignified nun with a severe bun, nodding quietly as we told our tale once again, I realized this wasn’t the right place either. Our Lord hung forever suffering on His cross directly behind the headmistress and in several other places throughout the school grounds, while the Holy Mother Mary bared her raw, flaming heart for the students to witness in every single hall. Nick was forming his own wide, open-minded religious beliefs, and he was having enough of a difficult time without being thrown a humongous trowel full of guilt. I thought about the time at Jesus day camp when the person in charge told Nick to cast his eyes away from the statue of Buddha, lest he be contaminated by the devil, and I thanked the bunned nun for her time. Michael and I hung our heads and held hands through the echoing Catholic halls, heading back to the real world. We were at a loss.

  IV

  Despite my increasing search for potent inner discovery and some much-needed assistance in the blindfolded mystery of parenthood, I was still having a good time on the planet. My book had come out in England, and I flew over for a two-week blast into the British public eye. The scathing Sun had crammed my life into their centerfold, complete with some rip-off hot shots from the Playboy layout, rewriting my personal history so it seemed even more salacious and hornified. Thank God I had gotten the hang of self-defense, because no one else was going to defend my blemished honor. I did a Johnny Carson—type talk show, and the other guest happened to be Dion. He and Runaround Sue hadn’t liked an article I’d written about them, but the former Mr. Slippery-Suave was sweet to me. Zach, his manager, told me he had finally reconciled it with the Lord, so I guess I was forgiven.

  Then I packed up all my cares and woes and pitched them out the window of a 747 on my way to Berlin. I spent a week in that severe, stifled, elegant, buzz-cut city where Band had just been published under the title Light My Fire. There was no such phrase as “I’m with the band” in German. What did the girls hanging off drummers’ arms say in that country? “Let me in, I’m next to the band?” Close to the band? Near the band? Under the band? The big Berlin newspaper had run a tawdry spread on the naughty, wicked girl who slept with all the bad boys of rock. They paid me many thousands, and nobody in America ever saw it. Should I care? Isn’t it the same as Woody Allen selling whiskey in Japan?

  Every street corner seeme
d haunted. I went to a radio station down in the dungeon of a former Nazi headquarters, which was cold and dismal with the highest ceilings I’ve ever seen. I wanted out of there fast. The people who published my book in Berlin were brave souls doing a daring deed. Freaks among soldiers. We went out to macabre bars until almost dawn, downing deep blue drinks and laughing loudly about things American. The oddkins in Germany stand out strong: They have to push a lot of buttons to find the one that plays the right music. I was proud to be with those people. They were undaunted, genteel, and belligerent. They appreciated Gram Parsons and Frank Zappa. I loved my spartan hotel in Berlin—the scratchy, stiff, white bedclothes. I adored the smelly food, and I found a couple pairs of very fabulous, bizarre shoes that my friends didn’t understand.

  After a short stop in Hamburg (I went to the spot where the former Cavern Club had been, where the Silver Beatles once played . . . aah, now just a squat vibeless building), I spent four days in Dublin, staying with my friend, Rona, and her three Irish flat-mates—all lovely, swinging girls with Irish eyes that cracked up constantly. I was on the front page of the Dublin paper, an old shot of me with Noel Redding, who happened to live in Cork, not too far away, with passages from my book all about our young, hot fling when he had been the bass player with the Jimi Hendrix Experience. The local trendy pub was throwing me an afternoon book bash, and Noel was coming on the train to attend the proceedings. Although we had written intermittently, I hadn’t had my eyes on Noel for almost twenty years, and when he walked into the full-house, cacophonous, ale-swilling pub crowd, everything seemed to get quiet as we looked at each other from across the crowded room. Ha! My second lover—the very first guy I had an orgasm with. There’s something to be said for that. Noel and I spent that entire day and evening together, having loads of photos taken, answering moss-grown questions like the rock-and-roll antiquities that we were. We talked about all our dead friends and counted our blessings. “Pamela, me old lovey,” Noel whispered at the end of our exhilarating reunion, “how about a night together for very old time’s sake?” I was touched—but not by dear Noel. He had a long-time ladylove, and I’d long since learned you just can’t go back.

  Back home I gave Melanie her baby shower, my house full of elite, wealthy females who brought Melanie so much incredible baby stuff it was almost embarrassing. I found an old thirties baby book at a swap meet and planned some superdumb games, the best of which was called Draw the Baby. I went around the room, blindfolding all the dames, having them scribble their rendition of a baby on a big white piece of paper. I took a photo of her mom, Tippi, her head all wrapped up in a flowered scarf, the pencil in midflight. It’s really hysterical, but I guess you’d have to see it to get the full zany benefit. The drawings were so goofy and outrageous, we all became One with laughter. Melanie was the judge, awarding the richest woman in the room (I’m talking approaching ten figures) a fabulous prize I purchased at Pic ‘N’ Save. I’ve got to hand it to her; she was gracious as pie, as if she’d received a precious jewel from Tiffany. I brought out a ball of yarn and everybody had to guess the size of Melanie’s stomach. Tatum O’Neal won. Most of the girls’ yarn strands were two or three feet too long. Melanie said, “I’m not that fat!!” And all the women went ha-ha-ha. We ate cake and drank punch. A lot of fun was had by all, and then it took Melanie almost an hour to cart all the exquisite baby loot out to her car. Even with some of the girls helping her.

  V

  Right on cosmic cue, the gigantic century cactus was putting forth a massive phallus, shooting high into the Santa Monica sky like King Kong in heat. Supposedly it’s a rare occurrence that only takes place every one hundred years, but the unfortunate thing is, the poor plant drops dead after consummating with the atmosphere. Sort of like when the female black widow puts the make on her male counterpart. Adios, arachnid. Anyway, it was a truly remarkable sight, and the least I could do was to share it with a few dozen of my closest friends by honoring it with a barbecue. Turkey dogs for everyone!

  One of the people I called to invite was Jaid Barrymore, and since we hadn’t spoken in awhile I asked all about life with daughter Drew. She told me that a miracle had taken place in their lives, their relationship was turning around, Drew was totally off abusive substances, and things were on a major upswing. All because of a program she had checked Drew into called ASAP, a live-in situation for adolescents with all types of drug/alcohol abuse and/or family problems. Since she had been so open with me, I blathered my momangst to her concerning Nick. She told me all about how lax she had been with Drew in the name of love, overly accepting about her way-too-early grown-up behavior. She admitted she had been floundering rampantly when she discovered ASAP, and told me to call my insurance company right now to see if we were covered for the program. “It’ll change your lives, baby,” Jaid assured me. She’s definitely a hep chick, and I trusted her, but the thought of sending my so-young son somewhere, anywhere, away from me could not even be considered. No siree Bob. We would work it out. I thanked her for the info, told her I would ponder it hard. “See you at the barbecue, doll.”

  I bought a poppy-strewn, sheer antique dress for the occasion, because I had recently lost that nightmarish ten pounds that creeps up on all of us while we pretend not to notice. I was tending to the baked beans as Miss Mercy regaled me once again with her spectacular Stax stories and bawdy tales of hanging out with Al Green in Memphis long before he took sides with the Lord. Mercy hasn’t changed much since the GTO days. All the drugs she ingested have left little tiny holes in her mind that the sixties poke through. Her synapses are shot, so once she gets stuck on a subject, your mind spins, your mind spins, your mind spins. The soft spot I have in my heart for her, however, has remained entirely intact. In between chopping vegetables, she punctuated her anecdotes with sharp, bellowing snatches of song.

  Nick had invited two friends to the bash, and I was keeping an eye on him while whipping up onion dip and concocting Mom’s famous coleslaw. He was agitated and lethargic all at once and seemed ready to blow at the least little slight. I cast my eyes heavenward. Keep him happy today, you guys. I’m beggin’ this time.

  As each new guest arrived, I introduced them to my magnificent century cactus and they were appropriately awestruck. Danny Sugerman arrived with his new love, Fawn Hall, which I thought was a curious combo. He told me she never attended dinners with him and Oliver Stone (he was directing The Doors, and Danny had written the definitive Jim book) because she was so dedicated to Oliver North, who thought Ollie S. was a left-wing maniac. Personally, I would love to be a bug on the wall if the two Ollies ever met up. Fawn and Danny are still very much together, so I try to never judge a romantic relationship, just let it alone. Ariana drove in from Las Vegas, Chuck Wein was there, Moon and Dweezil, who brought his hug of the moment, Winona Ryder, Hunt and Tony Sales, Patti, Sheena Easton, Gene Simmons, who brought Paul Stanley, new friend Christina Applegate and old friend Katey Sagal, who were both flying high on Married with Children, and dear Michael, who tended to the sizzling dogs all day long. Oh, all kinds of fabulous people were scattered around the century plant, oohing and aahing, eating all-American health (sort of) food and swilling gallons of sparkling water in the S.M. sunshine.

  I was feeling free, festive, and flirtatious. You know how sometimes the cloak of cool descends and nothing can get in your way? Maybe it was because I was packing ten fewer pounds and wearing that see-through dress. And a new friend, Lynn, had offered to invite some “cute boys” to the bash. Now, I have nothing against cute boys, and I never will, but having been pretty much alone since Michael and I shattered apart, I figured the one thing I didn’t need in my new, successful, grown-up life was a cute boy. What I needed was a fortyish, established but hip, well-heeled, well-rounded, well-read, spiritually elevated Mr. Somebody With His Head On Straight. Actually he would have to be beyond hip to deal with the “former-groupie” crap that would inevitably flail around his ears. Still, I considered Lynn’s proposal. She is a vide
o stylist, constantly inundated with young, newly signed rock boys. Why not have my yard dotted with them like pretty flowers? What could it hurt? Sure, Lynn, bring on the cute boys.

  By the time Lynn arrived I was a little tipsy on the delightful spiked fruit punch, and true to her word, she had dragged along some very cute boys. When she introduced me to the sweet, longhaired blond with the big lips, I was nice and polite but tried not to pay too much attention because I thought he was too young. Dusk brought us all into the house, where I propped my bare feet up on the bamboo coffee table and railed against Mark David Chapman, Dr. Nichopoulos, Donald Turnipseed, and all the various and sundry drugs that had ripped off my heroes, snatching them from the planet in their prime. Ariana said they had done what they came to do and got out when they were supposed to. Mercy said it was all one big political conspiracy. Or maybe it had something to do with Warner Bros.? I was deep into the story about how James Dean plowed into Mr. Turnipseed’s flatbed and the slimy rumor that his mechanic (who was in the car at the time and escaped injury) had been giving him head at the time of impact, when I looked up to see the beautiful blond boy watching me through his streaked hair. His eyes were this dusty, opaque hazel, kind of endless and clean. Mysterious and wild. Come-hither but shy. Uh-oh.