Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up (48 page)

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.

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 on
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.

I’m still enmeshed in my spiritual work with my teacher, Light (she changed her name from Ariana years back), and often make the trek
to her trailer in the Arizona desert, basking in her precious, selfless, hardcore knowledge. She reminds me that the universe is unbiased and neutral, and we imprint it with our desires. Our every thought, deed, and word becomes our reality. The good Lord said “It is done unto you as you believe,” and I have discovered that to be true. I try not to judge or condemn, and even when things get difficult, I know I have the choice to mope and moan or take the high road.

My Lady D’Arbanville has been living in New York with her three youngest kids for a long time, but we are still
ascloseasthis
. She has come up with three of my four book titles, including the most recent,
Let’s Spend the Night Together
. She always gives me the truth, even when it hurts like a bitch. In fact, my adored dolls Patti, Catherine James, Gail Zappa, Miss Mercy, Michele Overman, and Cynthia Plaster Caster, close galpals all, have their own chapters in my last bawdy tome. And my childhood friend Iva Turner recalls her “plating” experience in Cynthia’s chapter as well. Iva and I have written a couple of screenplays we hope to see on the big screen one day. My girlfriends are my true soulmates, and I love them beyond reason.

I still think Sandra Bernhard is one sexy dame. She did me the favor of reading the rerelease of
I’m With the Band
along with Patti and me at a bookstore in New York and did a damn fine job. Steve Jones is many years sober and I have been on his hysterically astute radio show a couple times. My very first boyfriend, Bobby Martini, has a passel of kids and a young wife. He called just a few days ago to play me “our song”—“There’s a Place for Us” by PJ Proby. He still adores me. All these years later. Amazing. I just wrote the liner notes for Hunt and (former flame) Tony Sales’s groovy soul brother album
Hired Guns
. Tony still adores me too. I must have done something right. I’m still tight with Victor Hayden, the artistic high school chum who altered my brain cells for eternity. He lives in Seattle and at least twice a year we comb the thrift shops and antique malls, claiming treasures from another time. I became close pals with Cree McCree, the journalist who interviewed me for
US
magazine (I was LUST, remember?). She lives in New Orleans and I have enjoyed Jazz Fest with her more than once. I am still in touch with the most delightful “Legs” Larry Smith from the Bonzo Dog Band and check in with him and his twin daughters (and sweet wife) whenever I am in the UK. I am an ordained minister now and married my adored goddaughter Polly Parsons to her hubby Charlie Terrell; I’m also godmother to their daughter Harper Lee, quite a special bloodline and a special
honor. When I went through breast cancer four years ago, Don Johnson sent me to a Shinto priest for ten awesome sessions to clear out the gunk of the past (in this life and others). He really came through for me and I love him for it. Melanie recently attended a birthday bash I threw for Michael, and brought us
both
insanely divine necklaces. Her gift tag to me read, “For Miss P. Just because …”

I reread a bit of this book to recall some of the folks who played their parts so perfectly, and, sad to say, I have lost a few of them. First and foremost, my sent-from-heaven mother, Margaret Ruth Miller, who refused to stop puffing, passed away eight years ago from lung cancer. I miss my understanding mama and my big handsome daddy, O.C., and am full of gratitude to be carrying around their exceptional Southern genes. Chuck Wein, the fellow I once called “the Wizard” and a VIP in my life, introduced me to Michael during the filming of
Arizonaslim
and to Light just when Nick and I needed her. He passed away just a few days ago, and I have been reminiscing about the many ways he expanded my soul. The
Easy Street
writer I worked for, Susan Berman, was shot to death in her home in the hills, and it is still a mystery I see replayed on TV on the Tru TV channel late at night. My dear Danny Sugerman lost his long battle with cancer, and Iron Butterfly’s naughty lead singer, Daryl De Loach, had the same fate. I went to visit him at his mom’s house in San Diego and held his hand for a little while near the end.