Somebody to Love? (25 page)

It literally made me sick.

When I went to Europe with my parents back in 1957, about every three days I remember coming down with a vomit/diarrhea combination, resulting from exposure to various water bacteria. When the Starship family-fun entourage got to Lorelei in Germany, my body started shooting out reminders of 1957. Trips to the toilet ranged in frequency from between three to five minutes, making it difficult, if not impossible, to perform even one song without having to excuse myself to fill up the latrine.

When I told the band—with a doctor in agreement—that I couldn't go on that night for obvious reasons, Paul decided they shouldn't play without me.

“Why not?” I asked him between toilet runs.

“Would The Rolling Stones play without Mick Jagger?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” I answered, “but The Rolling Stones only have
one lead singer. We have
two, and Marty can carry it off quite nicely.”

In fact, the international hits we had at that time were mostly Marty's anyway. But Paul was adamant. While arguments continued whether to play or not to play, word leaked to our audience that we were considering canceling. The timing was unfortunate. By the time Paul was about to come around, the American soldiers based around the area were so pissed off that we were considering canceling, they made the decision for us by completely trashing the stage. Now the performance
had
to be canceled. But the guys got new equipment, the camaraderie in the group was ostensibly patched together, and I was well enough to press on to the next show.

Frankfurt.

At the airport, I stopped in at one of the tourist shops and purchased a quaint, Heidi-cute, German dirndl skirt and a felt vest with puffy white sleeves—an Aryan costume that I thought would be a nice contrast to my opinion of the Germans' unbelievably stupid WWII performance. I took the outfit back to the hotel, but after imbibing some alcohol, I decided that cute was not the way to go. On went the black shirt, black pants, and the black jack boots. I'd decided to
become
the remembered enemy, with the encouragement of a well-stocked minibar.

It was time for the fingers-up-the-nose-of-the-guy-in-the-front-row trick. I know
exactly
what came over me; instead of it being an act of God where my insides were spilling out totally beyond my control, this time, I created the unpleasantness all by myself. Hammered to the tits, well into the first song, I was inexorably attracted to a pair of nostrils in the front row. They were attached to a German guy who had no idea what was about to happen when I staggered toward him with the intention of picking his nose. He didn't seem to mind too much, or at least he was so shocked, he didn't do anything.

But even as I pulled that stunt, it was clear to me that I'd developed a major attitude problem. I didn't like pandering to Nazi offspring, I didn't like the “reconstituted Airplane” situation, and I didn't like
me
for taking part in it. I wanted the Germans to see a mirror of repulsive self-loathing, I wanted the band to see an uncontrollable mutant, and I wanted to be so out of line that when I fired myself the next day
nobody
would object.

The ultimate American punk.

The truth is, I'd had it with everything and everybody except Skip and China. Since Skip had been on my side of the argument with Paul over whether or not I could actually sing and shit at the same time, he was ready to leave as well. Skip and I were both out of there the next day, and the tour continued without us, Marty singing solo lead for the group's remaining appearances.

40

TUIs

“How Can I Miss You if You Won't Go Away?”

—
TITLE OF A SONG BY
D
AN
H
ICKS

A
fter that fateful tour, Marty left the group again, Grace was already gone, and Starship began the search for a new lead singer. While they were regrouping, I'd settled (?) back home and was alternately working on a solo album titled
Dreams
and driving the highway patrol nuts.

Some drunks sit around and cry or watch infomercials, but when I was high, I just
had
to drive a car. It is a great bit of good fortune that I never hit any living beings, because an automobile is definitely a weapon in the hands of chemically altered individuals. I
was
arrested during the seventies on three separate occasions for drunk driving, but I wasn't actually in the car for any of the three arrests.

How did that work? It's called a DUI—“driving under the influence.” But in my case, it should have been called a TUI—for “talking under the influence.”

When my first arrest occurred, I'd had a couple glasses of white wine (Vanessi's restaurant in San Francisco had
enormous
glasses), Paul and I were arguing in the car on the way home, and I was driving. When he got tired of the debate, he reached over, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and heaved them out the window onto somebody's front lawn. Completely disgusted, he got out of the car and started walking home, while
I
also got out of the car and started rooting around in the grass on my hands and knees, searching for the keys. After about ten minutes of unsuccessful close-to-the-ground ferreting, I heard the delicate footsteps of someone approaching me on my right side. Turning my head to view the inquisitor, I came face to feet with a pair of black boots. Lo and behold—it was a member of the SFPD. He stood there in full regalia: navy blue outfit, badge, hands on hips, and an expression that asked, “What's going on here?”

When I heard him actually utter the words, I started laughing because I had a good idea where I was going next—the Bryant Street police station. I stood up to face him and he repeated the question, “What's going on here?” Now I
knew
where I was going next because instead of answering him, I kept on laughing. Cops don't like it when you laugh instead of answering; they get highly offended when you show them you don't give a shit. They also don't like it when you're down on all fours, rooting around in some strange person's lawn. I already had several strikes against me.

At the jail my cellmate was puking all over the place, so I started practicing karate, knowing that if they thought I might be violent, they'd give me a single-person cell. I was transferred to alternate accommodations, but unfortunately, I was accompanied by a girl, high on speed, who sang Paul McCartney's “Band on the Run”
all night long.
After three forms of gray food for breakfast, bail was posted, I was let out, and my name appeared in the newspaper for my parents and friends to enjoy with
their
breakfast.

The second TUI was a result of not checking the oil gauge in the car. At 150 mph, racing uphill on Waldo Grade in Marin County, a car without oil is bound to give the driver some strong objections to that oversight. On the way back down the hill, when my Aston Martin started belching and throwing flames out from under the hood, I pulled over to the side of the freeway and got the hell
out
of the potentially exploding car. As I waited (it was 3:00
A.M
., so there wasn't much traffic) for someone to flag down, a guy in a Volkswagen pulled over. “Do you want me to call the highway patrol for you?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said.

In about five minutes, the black-and-white pulled up. I was ready to do the female in distress thing, but the officer, six feet, four inches, with thumbs hooked in his belt under a beer gut, said, “Okay, what's going on here?” His mistake. My problem.

“I'm having a goddamned party at three
A.M
. all by myself on the fucking freeway,” I heard myself answer. “That's what's going on here.”

We took an instant dislike to each other: I didn't like his helpful tone of voice and he didn't like my snappy rejoinder. I was booked for a DUI masquerading as a TUI and spent the night at the Frank Lloyd Wright Marin County Jail.

The last TUI happened when I played Omar Khayyam in a black pickup truck. I thought it would be romantic to take a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and a book of poetry, and go out among the woodsy back roads of Mill Valley. I was already out of the truck, sitting against a tree trunk, reading, eating, and drinking, when, in sharp contrast to the lovely green foliage, the old black-and-white swung around a curve in the road. The uniformed driver got out, stood there, and watched me for a moment. I was clearly enjoying myself, but he decided to inquire about why I happened to be there. The fatal sentence escaped his mouth.

“What's going on here?” he asked. (Don't they know any other words?)

“Is it really any of your fucking business?” I answered.

That was the wrong answer. I could have been pleasant and said, “Just having a peaceful meal in the woods,” but badges, liquor, and those four little words turn me into a smaller version of Roseanne at best, or a larger version of a wolverine at worst.

So Officer Krupke says, “I'm arresting you for being drunk in public!”

“Public!? You call pine trees, squirrels, and you PUBLIC?!!”

Back to lovely Marin Civic and my old room in the female lockup for the evening. Skip and a lawyer friend rescued me in the morning.

My glib recounting of these events comes off like I didn't give a shit about anything or anybody. But really, I've always felt a kind of contrition when I cause pain to people who've done nothing to deserve it. Lawyers get paid to post bail or show up in court, it's their
job.
But I
do
care about my friends whose days are interrupted by calls informing them that “the nut is at it again, trying to bad-mouth the police” or “we need to get Grace out of the slammer again.” I know these unfortunates all have better things to do than come to the aid of Yours Truly. Unfortunately, there's this hard-to-squelch part of me that comes off like some ninety-year-old Ozark ruffian determined to guard her illegal gin mills to the death.

Is it genetics? Environment? Or just plain irresponsibility? Probably all of the above, and too much pepper in the bouillabaisse. But I don't blame the Master Chef in the sky; there's a slippery rascal down here spicing her own soup.

“Gun Mouth Grace” (Grace Slick)

41

Immoderation

T
he CHP finally got tired of seeing my face at the registration desk. When I was informed that unless I went to six months of AA meetings I'd lose my driver's license, I was confused. I didn't want to lose my freedom to drive, but I imagined that AA was one of those sermon-and-a-free-meal Christian deals where they try to convert the penniless.

I told the judge, “You don't understand, I can pay for my dinner. How about community service?”

“No,
you
don't understand,” she said. “Alcoholics Anonymous isn't a charity. It's an organization of people who help each other stay sober.”

Oh.

I began attending daily AA meetings, and to my surprise, I immediately loved the concept. There were no overseers with funny outfits, no cultural, racial, or gender exclusions, no Bible, Talmud, or Koran thumping, and no “You're going to hell unless you …” threats. It was just a simple premise based on spiritual progress. While I went to the meetings and stayed “sober” for as long as it took to quiet the authorities and placate my family, I learned to listen and appreciate the affecting personal stories of people from dissimilar backgrounds. I also learned to burn “this too shall pass” into my repertoire of clichés. And I made new friends.

But the idea of never again using chemicals didn't register as a lifelong pursuit. Since I was fascinated by collective self-examination and the power of group energy, I continued to go to meetings long after the CHP had lost interest in my behavior or my whereabouts. But as far as drugging was concerned, I made up my own rules. I figured it was a good idea to stay out of the driver's seat while chemicals were still altering my motor skills, but for me, that didn't necessarily mean sobriety.

In the meantime, there was some turmoil erupting between Skip and me. With my preference for liquor and Skip's affinity for opiates, we'd begun to exist on different planets of altered lack of consciousness. But because my loaded behavior was usually acted out publicly, while Skip's was private,
I
was the one who obviously needed restraining. People like my father and Skip, who spent most of their time quietly ripped, managed to enjoy their excesses without bringing down the wrath of the community.

It was decided that I should go to Duffy's, a rehab unit that was located smack in the middle of California's wine country.

Ironic.

Someone dragged me, the offending drunk, up to the facility in the middle of the night, and I woke up in heaven—nothing but grapes bulging with potential every-where I looked. Some of the other guests apparently had convulsions and died before they could appreciate the satire, but the humor of the situation and the location of this particular “Fidget Farm” were not lost on Gene Duffy, the sarcastic bullhorn of a man who owned the place. The first words I ever heard him say were, “Good morning, assholes!” With that opening comment, I liked him right away. He was correct, of course. No one got to Duffy's by exemplary conduct.