I’ve lost some friends. Miss Lucy died of AIDS last year, leaving behind a young son who is HIV positive and a teenager who lives in Reno. She was so full of her giant love for life, I can’t imagine her not cavorting somewhere on the planet. Miss Sandra died of cancer a few months ago, and I’m sure her four kids are full of sorrow. When she was pregnant with her first daughter, Raven, she painted a big star on her bare tummy and went out dancing—so proud of her impending earth-motherhood. That leaves four GTO’s. Sparkie is still a big exec at Disney. She and I just went to our twenty-fifth high-school reunion (so scary) where we twisted the night away with guys who wouldn’t look at us in those blasted Cleveland halls. Everyone had read my book and looked at me like I was Pamela Des Barres from another planet and not Pam Miller from Reseda, California. I finally spoke to Cynderella after many, many years and found that she is now Cynderella Sincere, having been married to a fellow named Alphonse for four years. She’s taking writing courses in college, working on a novel, and tending a vegetable garden. Thank God she’s alive. Mercy got married a few months ago to a guy named Leonard who looks just like Ike Turner. I had the wedding party at my house, and Mercy was all dolled up, gold and silver tinsel sprouting from her head in abundance, and when Jimmy told her how fetching she looked, she announced, “All the Mexicans love me.” The newlyweds fed each other cake, they accepted the congratulations and gifts, then slipped out into the night. God, I hope they’re happy.
My dear Victor had his first “aboveground” art show here in Santa Monica at the Robert Berman Gallery, and many delightful people came to pay him homage and buy his bright and mysterious “acid primitive” paintings. I have two on my wall and they mesmerize all of my visitors and change the patterns in their brains if they gaze at them for just a little too long. He recently snagged an Absolut Vodka campaign, and pretty soon the rest of the world will glom onto his way-over-on-the-other-side alternative viewpoint. Vic always chooses the scenic route over the ugly mainstream, and reminds me to do the same.
But I’m still plowing through that blasted mainstream, hoping to meet up with the movie company brave enough to take on I’m with the Band and get it on the big screen. I’ve had so many handshake almosts with hotshots verging (but not quite) on hipness. “Yeah, baby, I’ll make your movie,” then I never hear from them again. I finally got a cool manager, Eric Gardner, who manages my pal Cassandra “Elvira” Peterson, that edged-out Todd Rundgren, the Stone who stands alone, Bill Wyman, Dr. Timothy Leary, and Paul Shaffer, among other eclectic standouts. We’ll see. I’m optimistic as usual. Drew Barrymore has reached the nubile age of seventeen and wants to play me. Christina Applegate has expressed interest. We even got a few calls from the cream-crop agent of that baby-doll Oscar nominee, Juliet Lewis. I’ve always wanted Moon Zappa to play one of the GTO’s.
I am now managing Jimmy Thrill Quill’s band, Big Rig Jackknife, a hopalong, fever-pitch, country-raunch band thrashing with soul. They’ve been in the studio doing demos with Niko Bolas, a swell guy who thinks he’s just discovered an entire troop of Elvises, circa 1957. Several sniffing-around A and R guys (no gals, unfortunately) have been in and out of the studio trying to remain cool. I’ve booked gigs for the band, I rounded up a tour, I’ve called out the music biz dogs on a few occasions, and the whole thing is always fraught with sky-hopes and an any-minute overnight success story. We went down to Nashville to play a club, and when Jimmy took off his shirt, the proper ladies gasped and the string-tied industry shook to the core.
So dolls, I’m still hanging tight to the rock and roll lifeline, merging it with country-love like good old Gram Parsons tried to do many moons ago. God, I’m so happy to be alive. Jimmy’s drummer, Josh, played a one-off gig with the Rock Bottom Remainders at the gigantic book convention in the glory city of Anaheim, and guess who played guitar and sang some old fifties tunes with demented newly written lyrics? An incredibly prolific inspiration of mine, one of the people I’ve always wanted to meet—Stephen King. And I shook his hand. He even dragged his look-alike wife, Tabitha, over to meet me. He called me Pam Des Barres, but there were layers of people all around and I didn’t get the chance to correct him. Fun things continue to happen at a rapid pace. Hooray Hoorah! In fact, one of my top-ten experiences took place just the other night. I was interviewing the fabulous Helena for my first piece in Premiere magazine—we had just settled down in front of some giant bowls of Greek garlic pasta, and I was ready to click on the recorder when she said, “Oh, wasn’t that the gate?” A moment later I looked up and Marlon Brando was standing in front of me. “Who’s this, Helena, she’s very pretty.” I realized I was actually growing up when I extended my hand and said, “Nice to meet you,” pretty as you please, instead of mewling like an out-of-control nutbag. I wondered briefly if I should mention those many pleading messages I left on his machine twenty years earlier, or how he gave me that astute advice, “Look to yourself for the answers,” instead of complying with my wishes and inviting me over in the middle of the night. I decided not to. He sat down and gabbed away with us for almost an hour. I was wearing a Jack Kerouac T-shirt which led into a conversation about all types of literature. We discovered we had a mutual favorite, Toni Morrison, and raved back and forth about Beloved, one of my all-time A-1 books. Friendly, warm, whip-sharp, hysterically perceptive, and extremely curious, he made me feel relaxed and jazzed-up all at once.
So, when I say life continues to be grand, grand, GRAND, I can’t even begin to tell you what an understatement that is. Being a late bloomer isn’t so bad after all.
Now that I’m finished with this book, I’m sitting here wondering why I felt I had to dip deep down, shred and expose myself, like a gutted doe strapped across somebody’s headlights. And I recall that beautiful cosmic movie, Starman, the one in which Jeff Bridges (oh well, perhaps someday) plays that sweet, innocent soul from another planet. Remember, when he saw the dead deer strapped to a hunter’s car and, with otherwordly compassion, raised it from the dead and watched it trot back into the forest? The reborn doe, recapturing her life. That’s sort of the way I feel.
P.S.
Well, dolls and dears, I’m back in my trailer in between writing projects and feel I should give you a little update on my tumultuous lifeline. I’ve finally decided on my next project, which is a mighty topic, and a lot of studying is required. I’ve been poking around in ancient tomes and reams of modern revelatory madness to bring my main character to life. He’s somebody who’s been living inside me for eons already, so I hope to unwind the saga like a sparkling spool of thread.
I just finished working on a rock-and-roll cookbook for the National Music Foundation. (They’re creating a rest home for musicians along the lines of the Motion Picture Rest Home—it’s hard to believe that some of these ageless rockers are pushing 60!) Dick and Dee Dee (The Mountain’s High) thought the whole thing up, and had gotten stacks of recipes from the goldie oldies—(Dion’s Trail Mix, Brian Hyland’s Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Peppers and Zucchini, James Brown’s SO Good, So Good Creamed Corn) and I was brought in to round up Pearl Jam and INXS, Nirvana, Devo, Mr. Zappa, Iggy Pop, etc. (Iggy told us to put a croissant in the toaster oven and pour a cup of black coffee!) It’s been a blast, and such a good cause! I got to sing soulful oldies with Dick while we hung on the phone with various managers, publicists, wives, girlfriends, and superstars. We even got Michael Jackson, and would you believe his recipe has a pound of butter in it!
My darling son is about to come home from school, and then we’re off to see Tony the therapist. Nick has been going to Westview, his newest place of learning for a semester and a half, where he was the big award-winner a couple of months ago. Besides claiming seven trophies for being amazingly artistic, zany, and too-unique-for-words, he got a giant plaque for having the highest grade average in his entire junior high (3.9!). He never compromised for anybody and is now reaping the rewards (awards and rewards!) for his hard-won angst-lashed fortitude. At Open House, one kid came u
p to tell me that the only reason he came to school every day was to see what Nick would be wearing! He’s almost fluent in Japanese now, his favorite band is Shonen Knife, and he’s looking forward to our long-planned trip—we want to drive across this grand country of ours, hitting all the coffee shops and thrift stores from here to Bangor, Maine. (Maybe we’ll take a peek at Stephen King’s wrought-iron spider fence.) He’ll be taking Driver’s Ed next semester and it freaks me out almost as much as his overnight-new deep, rumbly voice. Nick continues to write, and was actually proud of his first “F”, gotten for an “inappropriate” story he turned in called “Li’l Potion’s Rapturous Journey.” Here’s a sample: “As the superdamaged Li’l Potion sauntered home in her newly acquired spongelike orange bustier/panty combo, she came across a large Asian woman, outfitted with a see-through pink lame suit, wielding a rusty syringe filled with a tight, long liquid. She wore three pounds of bone-white facial makeup, and her garish bursting lips were a startling shade of ochre. She looked very important.” Like mother like son? Yikes.
Jimmy Thrill Quill and I just celebrated our three-year anniversary. The Century cactus is long gone, but our love continues to grow like all the little cacti the massive mommy cactus left behind. He’s writing tons of beautiful songs and it looks like Big Rig JackKnife are going to put out an LP on Kinky Friedman’s label, “Fruit of the Tune.” He’s cut off his hair, and a couple of strangers have told him he looks like “a young Don Johnson.” Right now he’s out getting new speakers for our stereo system. Ours blew out a few nights ago when Jimmy cranked Leonard Cohen’s “The Future” up just a notch too high. It’s a warm, cozy, steamy, sweaty thing we have going on, and I’m one happy chick.
After doing a ton of TV, my charming ex, Michael, is about to leave for Germany to trudge through the Black Forest in front of the movie cameras. A spoof on the Crusades, can you imagine? He and Nick are going to Seattle this weekend to visit our over-the-top-and-then-some artist pal, Victor Hayden, who just had another extremely successful art show, this time in New York at The Time Is Always Now gallery in SoHo. I’m sure the three of them will shake Seattle to its trendy core.
My psychic healer, Ariana, has changed her name to Light, and continues to take me to unchartered realms of vast and previously impenetrable places. Last night I went back to a life I spent inside some living, breathing Mothership, one of a massive number of love/energy drops of consciousness who went looking for people in need—an egoless existence of pure giving. I felt so at peace and safe in the world. Sometimes it’s barely comprehensible, but the experience made me feel the forever-and-everness of it all. Ad infinitum. On and on, on and on, on and on.
Let’s see, what else is new? Oh yes! I had to go to court for the very first time. My dear friend Cynthia Plaster-Caster was trying to get her casts back from her ex-manager. It was so funny watching the lady judge try to keep a straight face while Cynthia described the casting process! I was a character witness. Ha ha. Even though the other side tried to intimate that Cynthia and I had been intimate in the old days, she won! She got back all her famous penises (or is it peni? I still don’t know) and is going to have a glorious art showing. I’ll be there! Jimi Hendrix’s guitar just sold for half a mil—imagine what his member might be worth!
So far this year, I’ve seen the Spin Doctors, Etta James, Van Morrison, James Intveld, Dwight Yoakam, Prince—twice—the Lemonheads, and a couple of cool new bands in Austin, Texas. (And Big Rig, of course.) My favorites still make me tremble down deep, pinching a place only the music can find. Hard. When I danced in front of the amazing blues guy, John Campbell, at the Troubador (old stomping ground for sure!), it was like ecstatic meditation and orgasmic bliss-out combined. He’s so good it hurts. Prince slayed me once again (twice again, actually), confirming his lasting number-one spot on my inner hit list. He still gets me all riled up in all kinds of ways. Jimmy and I saw the Spin Doctors at the Whisky and I felt like it was twenty-five years ago, just rocking out, too loose to worry about a thing, not a single damn care in the world. Music can really do that for me. Nothing else exists. Seventh heaven right here on earth. I did a TV talk show with the Lemonheads and, right before air-time, Evan Dando came into my dressing room with his guitar, serenading me with Gram Parsons songs. Sweet, simple swoony-tunes, sending me way, way out there. I’ve been listening to Terence Trent D’Arby’s exquisite new record, and “Wet Your Lips” is spinning ‘round and ‘round in my head.
I got some really cool letters when the second book came out, validating all that cathartic crap I uncovered and divulged: “Music gives me a place to go when I need to get away. Your books speak straight to me.”—Lisa from Mingo Jet, Ohio. “Thank you for sharing your story; it makes me feel that my hopes and dreams are not so farfetched—if I really want to, I can make them come true.”—Lorrie from Boise, Idaho. “You have made me realize that success should not be measured by societies standards, but by personal standards. You’re right, there’s no such thing as failure. Despite what others say, you have shown me that anything can happen as long as I make it possible.”—Angela from St. Joi, Michigan. Wow. Reading these letters makes me feel like I’m burying my nose in a fresh bunch of honeysuckle. Aaaahhhhh…
When I was on the road with the hardback, some girls from West Haven, Connecticut, called me at a radio station to tell me about “The Potential Pamelas”—“organized fans of bands.” I was fascinated with the concept and asked Rebekah and Julianna to send me all the pertinent info. I got a package soon after with the “Official Notice of Terms” for the Potential Pamelas—here are a few of those terms: Equipment transported by P.P.’s at band’s requisition (“In the event of a manpower/roadie shortage, bands may request this service…”); Live performances attended by one or more P.P.’s at band’s request (“Pamela’s have priority for guest lists, free admission, and/or discounted tickets…”); Sexual favors are optional and up to the discretion of the individual groupie (“P.P.’s are dedicated fans. Sex is not a determining factor in the decision to sign a band to a contract. Therefore we make no promises of it. However, should a groupie and a band member both consent, it is their own personal decision. P.P.’s are also advocates of “safe sex.” Preferred priority for guitar picks, drum sticks, and sweaty towels—these rules and regulations will be strictly enforced…”). And I inspired all this—tell me dolls, should I blush all over—or get down on my knees and pray?
Forgive me Father.
For I don’t believe in sin.
Yet Another Little Piece of My Heart
Spring 2008
Life soars by when you’re really living it, dolls, and it has been almost fifteen years since I sat for months on end tapping out the tempestuous tale you just read. My dear friend and mentoress Gail Zappa told me that time really does go faster the older you get because you have more to look back on and less (literally) to look forward to. That may be, but I am ferociously determined to make the rest of my life exceedingly memorable.
I do plan on writing the third installment of my trilogy when I’ve lived a little more, but I want to update you a bit about the players in my divine personal drama. My darling son, Nick, made his lifelong dream come true by moving to Tokyo three years ago. He is the esteemed Japanese editor of the video game-magazine Play and translates many mysterious Japanese games into very colorful English. I visited him there last year and marveled at his absolutely flawless way with that very difficult language. He trotted me all over Tokyo, sharing his favorite curries and trendy couture hotspots, and we drank lots of sweet, yummy, milky tea. I miss him madly, but he’s completely at home in his chosen land.
My beloved ex-husband Michael and I continue to become more and more like actual blood relatives. He is now twenty-eight years sober and has not once slipped back into his dastardly old habits. His wit is wickedly masterful, and he keeps me breathless with glee on our many festive outings. We are 100 percent there for each other and, in fact, are working on a TV show about The GTO’s based o
n I’m With the Band. He’s writing songs again with the hit-queen Holly Knight (they wrote “Obsession” together) and has made copious appearances on television and in films, from Seinfeld to Roseanne to his most recent tour de force as a hopeless plastic surgery addict on Nip/Tuck. (He steals the movie The Man from Elysian Fields away from Mick Jagger. Check it out.) MDB is writing a musical with the awesome Butch Walker and has a new band, Crash! Boom! Bang! It goes on and on.
My yummy relationship with Jimmy “Thrill” Quill lasted almost five years, and, as with most of my exes, we are the best of friends. I recently attended his smashing fortieth birthday soiree in Bel Air. Jimmy’s a realtor now (among other pursuits) and the fancy-pants house we reveled in was up for grabs. He also just bought a big ol’ farmhouse in Austin (one of my favorite towns) and has asked me to add my touch to the new homestead and “Pamela-ize” it for him. The handsome, charming Mr. Quill still fondly remembers the bright, vintage, chalkware fruit that covered our kitchen walls and the dreamy 1940s deco faces that silently watched us frolic in the hot pink bedroom.
Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up Page 34