Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up (21 page)

I certainly wasn’t getting one at home. I still held down various nutty jobs, drove Michael everywhere, took care of the finances, the household, the bills, the meals, and the pets. And despite the fact that I loved Michael madly, our sex life had gradually diminished through the years, seemingly to the point of no return. It stung me to have to admit that he might not find me desirable anymore. I hadn’t let myself go, in fact, I took such good care of myself, it bordered on an Estée Lauder nightmare. I agonized about what to do about the situation, almost deciding to accept the chilly fact that after a certain period of time the mystery and excitement in a romantic relationship turns mundane and ordinary. You get to know each other too well to dredge up the former wild lust that used to
rack your body like an orgasmic spasm at the mere thought of your beloved’s crotch area. I
almost
accepted this notion, but the fading image of an earlier me, prancing down the Sunset Strip, headed for a horny liaison, titties bouncing, wriggling all over—a sexual creature personified—kept me from accepting this atrocious, all-too-commonplace syndrome. I had fought hard for the right to my sexuality for too long to give in, give up, and get old. I had previously casually mentioned to Michael that I missed our horny closeness but was met with a noncommittal shrug, and since confrontation of any kind was nearly impossible for me, let alone a possible maelstrom of stamped-down passion, I used my straight-laced Virgo power and swept the concept under the already worn-out rug. And life, as they say, went on.

Nothing will stay under that rug forever, so I forced myself to step into the deep end one night after Michael and I turned out the lights. I so much wanted to capture that faint heartbeat of waning desire before it became extinct like the sixties flower child, but after I attempted to seduce my husband and was rebuffed like a pesky gnat, I fell into a comalike lethargy and resigned. Checked out. I lay there in the dark room, shaking all over with a mixture of female embarrassment, disgust at myself, and loathing for Michael as he slept unpeacefully on the other side of the bed-chasm, filled to the brim with his own private angst. The next morning was like a death rattle. I lumped around making coffee and heating bran muffins until Michael decided to deal bravely with the issue. He said part of the reason he wasn’t able to feel aroused was because I came to bed with cream smeared on my face and wearing an old T-shirt, and it was a turn-off. I told him the cream kept me looking young and pretty, but he swore it was the culprit. That night I dolled up in lingerie and lipstick, went to bed with rust-colored cheekbones, and we made love like hot, wicked strangers. The next glorious night he carried me up the stairs in my lace baby-doll like Rhett Butler gone mad—and then it was over. Even though I tried to entice him with two different sets of garter belts, everything went back to “normal” after those two blissful, naughty nights. I floated on air and then landed back on Wonderland Avenue with a loud, ugly thud. If we just could have grabbed that moment and gone to a sex shrink. If he could have told me the
other
part of the reason he wasn’t able to feel aroused. If I had tried to
make
him tell me. If I had gone to a blasted Al-Anon meeting. If, if, if.

Getting sober hadn’t improved Michael’s midnight moodiness
either. At one point he had to take some penicillin for an unnamed reason, and was allergic to the shot. His rear end where the needle entered bulked up like a shiny red rubber ball, then his poor penis swelled up to the size of an Oscar Meyer weeniemobile, and he was entirely miserable. I played super-nurse and listened to his blustering outrage at being chosen by those sadistic powers that be for this hideous affliction, and I understood, I really did. It
was
a grotesque situation, but there was
nothing I could do
to make him feel better. I trundled around, trying to make him more comfortable, but I was a helpless buffoon in the face of this blasphemy. To top it right off, he was feeding the cats and sliced his pinkie finger almost to the bone, and when it got infected and oozy, he was so on-fire infuriated I thought he would combust and disappear in a puff of self-induced smoke.

March 30
—
It’s been mesmerizingly crushing around here lately. Michael’s persona is so gigantic and strong
anyway
that when he’s got any kind of physical or mental problem, it’s like having ten people around with the problem. And it’s me who takes up the excess, of which there is a ton. It would be easier for me to sympathize, empathize, and be tender if he could accept the pain for what it is and not put labels all over himself. It’s been
so
hard on me. (I know how hard it’s been on him
—
he suffers harder than most, like everything he does.) But
I,
in fact, could be called the victim in this case. I
really
do my best. I have no time for myself, with most energies directed toward Michael, and of course, Nicky (who is going through some very weird changes). I really feel “put upon,” knowing, of course, through Science of Mind that I put myself right where I am. Sometimes I have trouble with that concept. How could I have anything to do with a penicillin shot Michael got? I suppose it’s my attitude about the situation. I say positive affirmations over and over again to keep going, but where is my creativity? I push out the negative thoughts, but where is the success and joy? I am happy with a large part of my life, but there is a
lack—
and I’m not even supposed to think that. Oh, Lordy, I need to get the creative me out of the shadows. I’m just not up to peak. (I’m not supposed to say that either.) I don’t allow myself to be clear and work from my center, and then I’m guilty about it. AAAaaaHHH! I miss my great big daddy
.

In that desperate diary entry I told a humongous truth: I saw myself as a
victim
. Even though I was attempting to slog through the obvious crappy situation to the best of my flailing ability, I wasn’t going to get very far by seeing myself as a stooge. It was like finally coming
across the Door, and finding no knob, latch, handle, or keyhole. By seeing myself as being victimized, I threw away any power, any strength I might have been trying to create directly onto the dung heap. Also, I seemed to think my creativity was playing hide-and-seek with me somewhere out in the murky shadows. Somewhere
out there
, somewhere outside
myself
. Somewhere over the fucking rainbow. Come out, come out, wherever you are, you peek-a-boo bitch. I’m down on my knees, begging you please, to come home.

To complicate the brewing nightmare even further, my little boy was starting to have serious problems at preschool. It was almost time for kindergarten, and anything he might have learned in ABC Land was history to him already. If the rest of the world didn’t see things his way, he just didn’t understand and either flipped his tiny lid, ranting and seething, or went into a doomy funk that lasted way too long for such a little guy. Michael and I took him back to UCLA, where we found out he was (gulp) “gifted,” and needed (oh no) “special attention.” I remember walking down a long corridor with a bespectacled serious science type. Peering over her glasses, she said, “Mrs. Des Barres, I think you should know your son is one in twenty thousand.” Interesting odds, lady. What do you say to that? What was I supposed to do about it? Nicky went into therapy once a week with a genuinely sweet graduate student named Cynthia, who tried in vain to figure out why he was so intense. He never opened up to her, preferring to stay petrified and withdrawn all by himself. He had started to say “I hate myself,” and “I wish I was dead,” when the teensiest little thing went wrong. He paid too much attention to fine details, and if they didn’t go according to his plan, all Hades broke loose. He kicked and bawled and banged his head on the floor. The drawings that had once given him so much pleasure and satisfaction now tormented him unless they were
perfect
. He shredded his artwork if it didn’t measure up and then went into a wild rage or catatonic despair. He became agonizingly shy, he began to stutter, and I fluttered around him like fifteen confused mother hens. Sometimes his adorable cherubic glory shined through and his ever-expanding vocabulary would amaze all our friends, but I knew something was severely amiss, and I could hardly bear it. He took piano lessons with our friend, Prescott Niles from the Knack, he treasured the KISS records given to him by Gene Simmons, playing
them over and over, memorizing each lick. But his little brow was always furrowed, his shoulders bent. I asked him one day what his biggest problem was, and he looked straight at me and said, “The state of the world.”

How did this happen? Miss Goody Two Shoes, Pollyanna, cutesiepoo, Snow White, Minnie Mouse, heart-lady had a stunning little blond boy with a head full of deep, dark, dangerous thoughts, and he wasn’t even five years old! Could the tragic Des Barres lineage have anything to do with Nick’s complex and unruly confusion? Could there be some genetic factor contributing to his early self-doubt and sadness? If so, what then? Michael and I were both at a loving loss to comprehend the seemingly fathomless depth of our little boy’s pain. What did his worry stem from? I had been a big worry-wort as a kid, remembering my fanatic pangs of all-consuming grief about the “Big C,” but Nick’s inner torment seemed vast and impenetrable. I tucked him in at night and his eyes said “Mommy, help me,” but I couldn’t get in.

I watched him sleep; the sweetest platinum-haired angel boy that was ever born, and prayed so hard for him to be happy. My pillow was soaked in tears, and once again I beseeched all the holy saints who had helped to make Michael sober to smile on my innocent son. I’d always had a very hard time saying no. I thought that if I kept saying, “No, you can’t do this, you can’t do that,” it would be too much negative input and might squelch his free-flying soul. And now I doted on Nicky like Abraham Lincoln had never freed the slaves, hoping that by my drenching him in attention, flooding him with love, and
doing everything for him
, he would regain his sunny, lamblike babyhood grin and enjoy life like I did. I still put on his socks and tied his shoes. I bought him whatever he wanted; anything to give him a few moments of little-kid pleasure and to see his eyes shine.

Remember that dumb line about a baby not being born with a guide book? I truly wish one had been included with the merchandise.

Consumed as I was with taking care of Michael and Nicky, about all I was doing for little old me was working out, an obsession I found I could parlay into always-needed cash. I started teaching exercise part-time with my friend Buddy, using those machines I had
first discovered with Kim Lee; the ones that helped me tighten that baby flab I had acquired along with Nicky. I also cleaned the studio in exchange for free use of the wondrous machinery. One spring evening I was hard at work, making sure Ted Danson and Marilu Henner were tightening their abs as hard as they could, when Buddy blasted through the studio door carrying a thin black puppy in his perfect pumped-up arms. “Look what I found about to get killed on Sunset Boulevard!”

The large puppy romped directly at me, wagging all over, and grinned like I was covered in Alpo. It was double love at first sight, so I surprised the entire household with a fabulous new pet! Blanche and Harry, our mother and son cats were definitely not amused, but Michael accepted her right away, and Stevie and Nick puppied her to pieces, so she was instantly spoiled. We called her Sunset Nellie Blue, and she was the first dog who ever spoke to me. I could get her to make sounds just like a whining, whimpering, happy human by rubbing her tummy in a certain spot. It was uncanny. Steve took a particular shine to Nellie, and she always sat all over him like a lapdog even though she eventually weighed thirty pounds and we found out she was mostly pit bull.

This divine canine addition to our lives forced us to leave Vista Street in a hurry. Apparently our lease said no dogs, and besides, now that Nick was way past the baby stage, Mrs. Finagle had lost her goo-goo interest in him. Once again I pored through the classifieds and cruised the streets, finally coming across a two-story winner at the top of Wonderland Avenue in Laurel Canyon. Aah! the glory of God’s golden backyard once again!

We all moved into the tree-shaded retreat a couple weeks later; Mikie, me, and Nick, Steve Jones with his girlfriend, Nina, and of course, Nellie and the cats, Harry and Blanche, who headed for the hills in ecstasy. The lease came with a warning: The house was for sale and could be bought at any minute. But the idea of living in Laurel Canyon far outweighed that looming possibility. Nicky started first grade at Wonderland Avenue School, right down the street, skipping kindergarten altogether for obvious reasons, and I became school mom, attending PTA meetings, baking cupcakes and dumb casseroles for various functions, trying really hard to
fit in
, so that he might
fit in
. Maybe we could all make a fabulous fresh new start!

Having unfamiliar cupboards and closets, different color walls and tiles in the kitchen makes you feel like something new is going on, and this time we were surrounded by layers and layers of green; Mother Nature was our neighbor on all sides. Overly optimistic (is there such a thing?) as usual, I felt the promise of a new day dawning! Good things were about to happen! The only way was
up
! Up the long and winding, scalding green hill of Wonderland Avenue.

Two things happened right about this time to confirm my heartening suspicions: I started a writing course at Everywoman’s Village, a lib-type ladies’ school in the Valley that specialized in yanking out artistic female expression, and I got a call from dear Danny Goldberg about setting up an interview with a friend of his who was writing a book on Led Zeppelin.