Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up (26 page)

Music was about to save the world. After a decade of disco and metal decadence, rock gods—including Michael!—were converging at Live Aid to soothe the savage beast of world hunger. But first Power Station played Miami, where Mr. Miami Vice introduced the band then got them parts on the show. Michael was heartily annoyed because the boys didn’t appreciate what a big deal it was. I suppose Crockett and Tubbs hadn’t hit London yet, where Taylor and Taylor were the hotshots in the neighborhood. John turned up late on the set due to overindulgence the night before, so all was not a bowl of maraschinos. Still Donnie introduced Power Station on Live Aid, and Patti got to go. I didn’t—I didn’t even
ask
—and I regret it.

Nick, my mom, and I watched Michael live on TV as he winked at the two billion music lovers around the world, and I said thanks to God for all the money rock and roll was making for the starving masses and for letting my husband finally realize his dream. While I sat on Mom’s couch, slightly awestruck, watching Michael wail, little Nick ran to the screen and kissed it, just like I had done in 1964 when the Beatles were on
Ed Sullivan
.

Michael was overjoyed that I had sold my book but frustrated and temperamental when he got home, since the days going by weren’t fraught with all types of tension, thrills, and chills galore. Coming back from the road can be equated with coming down off a dose of Orange Sunshine; nothing looks the same when you get back, it’s not quite grand, colorful, dangerous, or 3-D enough. It’s just all too blankety-blank ordinary. He bounced off the walls like they were made of Silly Putty, making all kinds of plans to cap off his fortuitous stint with Power Station. Andy Taylor fell mad for the California
beach, bought a house in Malibu, and for a fingers-crossed moment it looked as if there might be another Power Station album with Michael taking Robert Palmer’s place in the studio. It was touch and go, going, gone. When that collapsed, Michael started digging around the industry for another solo record deal. He could have taken it easy because for the first time in years, we had enough money, but he was on a real-live roll. Danny Goldberg gave him a deal on his newly formed label, Gold Mountain, and he was off and flying.

Soon we were all soaring through the clouds—on Donnie’s private jet. America was two hundred and ten years old, so Don summoned some of his closest and dearest to New York to celebrate Ms. Liberty’s unveiling in absurdly grand style. Elliot Mintz herded us all together: Michael, Patti and myself, a few of Donnie’s adoring tagons, and Danny Goldberg, who had recently started managing Don’s musical career, because it was his birthday. Our first stop was somewhere in Texas to help Willie Nelson out with Farm Aid. Musicians wrestling family farms from the grip of greedy banks! When we landed, it was as if Elvis had come back from the dead to teach us all to dance. Screaming people reached for Don from all sides, he held his hands in the air—a blessing from the pastel pope. We got to schmooze with Willie on his bus as he and Don nodded their heads knowingly about the rigors of fame. “Sometimes it’s rough, man.” Yes, sirreee. I shook Willie’s calloused hand and admired his newest young wife and the unpretentious way he seemed to be living his life on the road. Dogs and children were everywhere. Don announced Willie amid farm-style hysteria, but we couldn’t stay for the performance and trundled back to the jet, headed straight for the Statue of Liberty, tomfoolery, and firecracker mania. Helicopters were called to get us to the place where we would board dingies and float out to the MTV boat, but after Don, Patti, and a couple of his aides waved adios at the dock, Michael, Danny, and I realized we wouldn’t be shooting the shit with any MTV video jocks on that particular evening. We found a cute little Italian joint and laughed about the rigors of fame while the entire city lit up with fireworks. Happy birthday, dear Danny, happy birthday to you.

I was beginning my thirty-eighth year of life, and with my book completed and soon to be published began a much-needed cycle of renewal. Michael and I had an unspoken love-truce and started having a little more fun. For my birthday he and Patti threw me a feast-fete
at Helena’s, downtown in a gone-to-seedy area behind Silverlake. The barely opened pleasure sanctum had been discovered by that chic chick, the divine Melanie G. Former unique bohemian-freak actress, Greek belly-dancer Helena Kadianiotes ran the joint, with the financial aid of her two next-door neighbors, Jack Nicholson and Marlon Brando. “Mother Teresa feeds the poor,” Helena said to me, “the rich and famous need it more.” She was the patron saint of the super-elite. Helena’s was an over-the-rainbow, beyond-belief, hipper-than-thou experience to be relished by the too, too few. My girlfriends dolled up to chomp on the goat cheese, sun-dried tomato special, and the double-heart carrot cake Melanie had so kindly provided. Michael toasted me, praising my efforts even though I had spared no mushy, horny detail about any of my
amores
. Bruce Willis was there with my friend, Sheri, and almost unknown cute actor, Robert Downey, Jr., came with his trendified manager, Loree Rodkin, and Patti snapped at least sixty Polaroids while the place clogged up with actors, musicians, producers, directors, tall, willowy model-types, and all the truly ravishing people.

Helena’s soon became our new hang-spot. That twinkly magic man Jack Nicholson was there every Friday night, lighting up the dive. He held court in the corner, allowing only certain babes to grace the seat next to him for no more than five minutes at a time. Lou Adler was usually with him, and sometimes the old charmer, Warren Beatty came by for a glass of Evian, scanning for beauty. We got to be fairly friendly, flirting like fools, and I graced Jack’s table for several five-minute slots of fun, wondering what it might be like to find myself trapped in his naughty lair for several five-hour slots of sin. Can you tell I was slowly turning into a horny beast? I guess writing about all my lovers woke up my sadly neglected libido. It’s all the more sad because even the smell of Michael, the touch of his silky skin still thrilled me. But it seemed he believed the grass was always more emerald, chartreuse, sea green, jade green, lime green, moss green, avocado, and leaf green way over on the other side.

One night when the peel-back ceiling was peeled back to reveal the splendor of the smogged-out stars, Marlon Brando made a brief appearance at Helena’s, and even the high-stepping cream of the swank set started buzzing. I was tempted to sashay over to Brando’s table to ask what he did with all those half-naked shots I sent him back in ’72 but decided to keep my cool intact. One night somebody claimed they saw Jack Nicholson and Sean Penn peeing against a wall outside, and it became a spirited topic of conversation—just to show you how really silly Hollywood-types can be. I was an observer
the night Sean bopped a guy called “Hawk” over the head with a chair for cozying up too closely to Madonna. Even Prince showed up on a fairly regular basis, sitting near the dance floor with his dad and two giants who constantly kept their eyes peeled like neon grapes, peering into the dim, creamy night light. Helena must have paid a pile of loot to make the beautiful people look and feel even more bee-yoot-i-full within her precious pinkened walls. I was feeling pretty delicious one Friday night, dancing maniacally to Prince’s “Kiss” in a skintight getup, when his majesty arrived wearing that very daring, belly-button-baring black “Kiss” ensemble and a pair of pitiless black sunglasses that screamed “I VANT to be alone,” even though he was at the world’s hippest nightspot. While I reamed the dance floor, the funniest thing happened: Just at the part in the song that goes, “You don’t have to watch
Dynasty
to turn me on,” Michael Nader, who played the sensitive yet studly hunk on
Dynasty
, walked through the door and stood grandly, in plain view of the entire place. Even Nader didn’t get the hysterical significance. I laughed so hard all by myself, hoping that at least Prince caught the retarded magnitude of the ludicrous moment. I took a peek but couldn’t tell because his shades were as dark as night and twice as impenetrable.

After just about having sex with myself on the dance floor two feet from where Prince sat, I dared to approach his table, tossing my cool and all caution out the star-roof. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” I declared, forgetting I wasn’t Pam Miller in Reseda, circa 1962. I stood there after the brazen preteen act, frozen to the spot, and all he did in response was to lower his shades a smidge so I could gaze at those rich brown beauties for a brief instant. I flew across the floor like hot-rod lightning and took a few swigs of my white wine spritzer. “What made me do that?” I wondered out loud. I told Patti about it and she spit her cappuccino across the table, getting a splotch on Rob Camelletti, Cher’s boyfriend—the poor, innocent guy the rags called “the bagel boy”—but he didn’t seem to feel a drop.

One packed Friday eve, as the stars of stage, screen, and CD bopped to the beat, a rancid odor filled the dance floor, engulfing the hipsters with skunk-stench. Scattering, they all headed for the door. Who
dared
to let off a stink bomb at Helena’s on a Friday night? Helena’s eyes spit fire as she blazed around, scanning for the perpetrator. I saw that unruly, outspoken diva-donna, Sandra Bernhard slyly sneak out of everyone’s way, like she
knew
they just might be getting ready to leave. What a daring, villainous deed.

It would be at Helena’s that December, amid tons of joviality and
Christmas cheer, that Michael would finally meet the girl of his—and my—nightmares. Where else?

Our lives appeared charmed again, but the distance between Michael and me seemed to sprout wings. It was as if glittering nights and our fun-time friends were all that held us together, whether at Helena’s dancing under and among the stars, or at home, the now famous site of
fab
-ulous dinner parties,
dar
-ling. After cooking little tidbits all day, I would sweep around the house, wearing some forties satin number, tasting my sweet-and-sour turkey balls, feeling
just
like Lauren Bacall. Ever-witty Michael was George Sanders, Eddie Begley was Jimmy Stewart, Ozzy Osbourne was Oscar Levant, Steve Jones was one of the Bowery Boys, Bruce Willis could have been Bogie, and Sheena Easton sort of resembled Judy Garland in a certain kind of candlelight. After all compliments about my vegetarian curry had dwindled, Eddie would begin charades or an equally HOLLYwood fungame that kept everyone on their toes and off their asses.

Together with a few intellectual poet friends, Michael jump-started a serious re-trend among Hollywoodites: Poetry Nights at Helena’s. I hadn’t written any poetry since my beloved hippie stint, but wanted to get in on the act, so shoveled through my ancient pages, looking for the perfect dumb poem that recalled with fervor the love-in mentality that was so lacking in the overdone eighties. After Ally Sheedy read a tale of psychological woe, and Judd Nelson wowed the pack of Kir-sipping, would-be beats, I grabbed my banged-up book and made my way to the podium to read a poem:

Restless and burning
Our souls are yearning
Still no heads are turning
And no minds are learning

Our
minds they’re destroying
And this they’re enjoying!
“Did
we
raise this generation?
They’re against segregation
They have no discrimination!”
How can we show this aching nation
To be full of love’s elation?

They’re too busy with machines
Riding around in limousines
Wanting dollars by the score
So they won’t be labeled “poor”
Or be classed with you and me
Being what we want to be
With our souls flying free
Frowned on by society

Too quick to hurt each other
Always judging one another
Making others weep
And not losing any sleep
Taking the name of God in vain
Doesn’t cause them any pain

We cannot forget about it
And there’s no way we can doubt it
While the TV tube is teasing
There are others who are freezing
And parts of this great nation
Are dying of starvation

The way of life is changing
The world needs rearranging
If all hate would cease
We would need no more police
Everyone would be respected
No one would be rejected
For the color of their skin
Or the financial shape they’re in
And if we keep believing
Ignoring the deceiving
Love can lock the doors
On any threat of wars

Certainly nobody should be neglected for the financial shape they’re in. Right?

Michael and I spent two looooong days at the theater with a bunch
of pals seeing
Nicholas Nickleby
, and I remember one particular intermission, Patti and I trailed along behind our friend Sheri and her love man Bruce Willis. We watched Bruce’s ass under a thin layer of blue silk for a few mischievous moments, then looked over at each other with the same lustful thoughts and cracked up so hard. “If Sheri only knew what was in our indecent heads,” she said, grinning at me, and we pretended to be pious for about three seconds.

Donnie’s rocketing celebrity was giving all our lives a new and glamorous sheen. Despite the glaring fact that all those rumors Patti heard about him stepping out with a young brainless model were true, they weathered the formidable front-page breakup and had called a truce because of their devotion to their son Jesse. Men.

Since D.J. and I went way back, he invited me to Miami, where he could review the chapter of my book devoted solely to him: “I Met Him on a Monday and My Heart Stood Still.” I stayed at his pastel mansionlike pad right on the water, with its pinks, pale greens, aqua, and mauve abounding; with its marble floors, gigantic featherbed couches, high glass walls letting in the constant sunshine. Wowie. Cooks, assistants, secretaries, gofers, aiders, and abettors of all kinds came and went while we discussed the past and roared with laughter about stuff that killed us back then. And the palm trees swayed. I spent hours on the set of
Miami Vice
in the super-snazzy metal-jet trailer, eating low-fat cuisine, sitting in cool-air comfort with a stack of pages and waiting for “Cut!” so we could get back to perusing our own personal history. When it came right down to it, there were only two details he wanted taken out of the chapter: the first involved a mutual enema during one of our health kicks, and I’ll have to remain silent about the other one. I was afraid I would have to fight him over certain specifics but was relieved when he realized it was all the big, fat truth, just like the diary entry in which I called his member “huge.” Little did I know I would have to discuss those two piddling words—huge cock—on national television about three dozen times.