Free Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up by Pamela Des Barres, Michael Des Barres Page B

rock-and-roll man and a burgeoning acting career, I started a bad slide into semi-normalcy. I wanted to be a creative force, let my talent pour forth, but I was living half of Michael’s life for him, which left only half for me. Since the wild boy never learned to drive in England, I did all the driving in L.A., taking him to meetings, rehearsals, gigs. I took care of our checking account and paid the bills. I cleaned the house, bought the food and cooked it—even lamb chops with mint sauce, though I didn’t believe in eating babies and hadn’t had a bite of meat in five years. (When I was a little girl, I always asked my mom if what was on my plate was a baby or a grown-up. But now I was a devoted wife-to-be, so I blessed the little baa-baas and plopped them in the pan.) I was in love and felt no resentments whatsoever. It just seemed natural—my obligation as a female to do,
do
, DO it all for my man.
    It was strange and impossible for the women of my generation to figure out our place within the confines of a romantic relationship. My mom gave up any creative aspirations she had to take care of my daddy because she believed she had no other choice. (She did work before they were married, however.) It was the way of the world, the American Way. In the sixties the feminist movement shoved choice down our delicate throats, and a girl with any brains at all was forced to ponder the many frightening new potential options. I had scary visions of defiant, liberated women marching en masse down the street, while I watched my sweet mom pressing Daddy’s Budweiser work shirts, little drops of sweat forming on her furrowed brow. To give her credit, as soon as polyester hit the market, Margaret Ruth Hayes Miller threw away the ironing board in a liberating act of protest, which forced Daddy to get into leisure suits in a big way.
    I just kept doing what I thought was expected of me. My much desired role of good little wifey included waving good-bye on nights when Michael went out to rip up the town. With the TV spewing, I lay in bed affirming that his addiction would cease, but it was desperation affirmation, out of control, adverse hope in vain. Not calm, cool, and collected prayer but an emotional, jagged fear of his habit and my own cold-sweat response. Staying home was a form of masochism because I knew he would take a ton of drugs when Iwasn’t around, but subconsciously I couldn’t bear to see him squash and squelch himself due to my peering, peeking oppressive presence. Very kinky, indeed. Most peculiar, mama.
    I wrote sporadically in my journal, attempting to sort it all out:
April 8 —
Michael is asleep next to me, having spent until noon with Rod Stewart. We went out to a Todd Rundgren party, and I see why I don’t miss going out. Yuck! Everyone except Todd around was snorting coke . . . SO fashionable, not my idea of a good time. I came home by myself
.
April 15 —
Just finished painting my nails, all alone. Michael is out seeing Iggy Pop. Went to see Dolly Parton at the Roxy last night and met David Bowie. So what. I still can’t get into being out and about. Very odd considering that’s just about all I used to do. I’m more comfortable with my cats. I’m an old woman, I guess
.
June 4 —
New York. Do I have reason to worry or what? I think I’m being paranoid, and then I get here to see Detective play and it’s just as crazed as I imagined. I really asked for this one
—
I pleaded with the Gods for a pop star, and here I am, knee-deep at almost thirty. Everyone is so stoned, and the scene is as small as a pinhead, but I have to realize it’s Michael’s career. He loves the nightlife and clubs, always seeks a reaction, thriving on feedback. God, he’s as insecure as I am
.
    I spent so many nights alone in our unrumpled bed that I came to expect lots of long, sad, stretched-out days while Michael recovered from his mystery dawn-busters. I started writing sobby songs about the sorrows of solitude. In