The Tom Jones Limo Chase – Part 1
September 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
First, let me say that if I were young girl today, I would not chase a pop star in a limo, nor recommend it to anyone. I am talking about a different time and place, the mid-70s in the 20th century, when there was nothing really like the massive numbers of paparazzi or citizens stalking celebrities like there are today. Infamous photographer Ron Galella was just beginning what we now know was his relentless pursuit of Jackie O. There were not dozens of photographers lurking around bushes and chasing after celebrities such as Britney Spears or Kim Kardashian. TMZ didn’t exist and Harvey Levin was just an unknown student prepping for the bar exam with the dream of being a lawyer.
It also wouldn’t be wise to chase a limo today because of the pure and simple logistics of traffic in Los Angeles. I used to love LA as much as Randy Newman, but honestly, the traffic is so bad now that recently, we figured it would take a half hour to get to Trader Joe’s from Brentwood, and a half hour to return; that’s one whole hour of drive-time just to get some fresh fruits and veggies. I also wouldn’t recommend chasing anyone in a limo in this day and age, because it is a different time and place in the world. It feels more dangerous than “the good old days.”
When I was in my early twenties, however, when it came to Tom Jones, I always heard the good angel on my right shoulder saying, “No, no, no”; but the little devil on my other shoulder was singing, “Wild thing/ You make my heart sing/ You make everything groovy/ Wild thing.” (“Wild Thing” lyrics by Chip Taylor. Pop culture note: Chip Taylor is the stage name for James Wesley Voight, brother of actor Jon Voight and uncle of Angelina Jolie.)
As I matured through the university I discovered I was more intelligent than I thought. It had never occurred to me that I could actually survive a difficult course load that required considerable critical thinking and writing skills. Success in college helped with a modicum of confidence, and eventually, after I graduated I got my first real job as a part-time proofreader; that led to becoming an editor in an educational publishing company. It was a good job for someone like me. I could hide behind a desk and the written word, rarely having to interact with the large number of employees. I often felt like I was “pretending” to be an adult, because I was constantly struggling with my personal issues. Trying to resolve them through my limited knowledge, using prayer on one hand, and beginning to utilize biographies and self-help books and on the other.
It became time to take flight, so-to-speak, and one of the most difficult parts in leaving home was negotiating with my mother regarding Duchess, our sweet silver-tipped Persian cat. Duchess had been my best friend for nearly a decade and I didn’t know if I had the courage to actually move out and live on my own without her. Duchess and I had slept together every night since she was twelve-weeks-old; she was my buddy and confidante; she had been with me through the tears, the fears, the good, the bad, and the ugly, and was the keeper of every secret I had. She knew all about my Tom Jones mantras, and I was grateful when Mommio was willing to let go of Duchess in order to get rid of me. I say that with tongue-in-cheek, although being an anxiety-prone, agoraphobic late-bloomer, I was long overdue in leaving the safety of the nest.
My secret Tom Jones mantras enabled me to push through my failure to launch, as I told myself, “If I am going to make Tom Jones fall in love with me, I have to leave home,” and “If I am going to make Tom Jones fall in love with me, I have to become independent,” and “If I am going to make Tom Jones fall in love with me, I have to grow up and face my fears.” Yikes. The motivation for my maturity was linked to this entertainer whose voice, the Voice, comforted me, energized me, made me feel strong, made me feel womanly, and enabled me feel whatever I needed to feel. I was slowly beginning to develop a sense of self through my own, private, singer-saved-me therapy. I was even beginning to walk with a beat in my step.
When I finally flew the coop of my parent’s home, I moved to the same street as my mother’s best friend, and began to get close to her daughter, Rose, who was living with her for a while. Rose and I had known and skirted around each other’s families for years, but now, as adults, we were beginning to click. To be truthful, I think some of her family and all of my family thought she was, for lack of a better word, a “mercy” friend; a person who is loving and caring to the extreme of befriending a poor soul like me at that point in my life. (Remember, most people knew me as that tall, skinny girl who hid at home.)
Rose and I clicked on many levels – humor, common interests such as love of the entertainment world, love of pop/rock music, love of home, issues of the spirit, politics, etc. We shared thoughts and feelings, saw the best in each other, talked about our own foibles and failings, supported each other through the good times, and loved each other through the most difficult times. Rose had a free spirit and independence that I so admired and desired. She had studied acting, traveled the world, lived and worked in foreign countries, and taken the helm on a large sailing yacht in the Caribbean. She liked to go sailing with my dad and me, and most importantly, Rose liked Tom Jones.
Mommio no longer attended TJ shows due to chronic ill health, so Rose was the perfect addition to Tom Jonesville. On one occasion, when Tom was back at the Greek Theatre, and I had already seen him on and off stage, Rose and I were driving out of the parking lot after a show. Out of the blue, a limousine pulled out of the parking lot near the theatre where we were parked. We were pretty sure it was Jones. Who else would it be? We looked at each other, looked at the dark limo, looked at each other again, and simply followed it out of the driveway. We didn’t plan it. It presented itself to us and it was just too tempting. Too tempting!
Like the Pied Piper calling to us, the limo wound its way out of the Griffith Park area as we followed Jones in our little stick shift Porsche 912. We were travelling at an even pace and there really was no chase at this point. We just assumed we’d be going on the freeway when we left, because that was the way we came. Because I always panicked when it came to driving freeways, Rose was the designated driver and I became the lookout during the chase. I would carefully watch the limo and double-check the safety of our movement, saying things like, “Okay, Rose, hang back, not too close,” and “They’re turning right on Los Feliz. Put on your right-turn signal, and we are good to go.”
The further away from the Greek Theatre we got, the more the traffic opened up and the speed picked up. Oh yeah, baby, the speed picked up. We sped up North Western Avenue with our little Porsche easily able to keep up with the behemoth limo like the flippin’ tail of the whale. We surmised that we were heading into the heart of the “action.” Were we headed to a private club (private disco/dance clubs were very popular during the 70s, with Rose being a card-carrying club member in an LA dance club), or a restaurant like La Scala, a favorite of Tom’s, in Beverly Hills? Or, perhaps we were headed to his home in Bel Air, or the nearby Hotel Bel Air, a frequent hangout of Jones and many other celebrities (and a favorite place for my own family celebrations throughout the years).
At this point, the driver had to know we were following them. Are they used to this? It was such an impulsive act and we were so intent on being safe during the Tom Jones limo chase that we hadn’t even discussed what we would do once we got to a location. And then it happened. As soon as I saw the sign, “Sunset Boulevard,” I knew. “Rosie,” I shouted, “We’re goin’ to Bel Air! We are going to Bel Air!”
Our powerful engine revved up and down, depending on the speed at which we followed the smooth, long, ride that carried the superstar. We continued to flirt with the leviathan limo with blackened windows that could have swallowed up our little, orange Porsche like krill. We didn’t know exactly where in Bel Air we were going yet, and we certainly didn’t know what we would do when we got there, but we were impetuously and inappropriately chasing… the singer who saved me.