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.
June 12, 2011 § Leave a comment
I got myself by an obsession
It’s on another dimension
Don’t need a whole lot protection
‘Cause it gave me all I’ve been getting
It gave me life, hope, dreams, golds [for me, substitute “goals”]
“Give a Little Love” (Song by Tom Jones, Kara Dio Guardi, Iyiola Babtunde Babalola, and Darren Emilio Lew)
I have to admit, my TJ life, hopes, dreams, and goals helped lift me out of my lonely existence. My Tom Jones motivating mantras were working for me (post “The Motivating Mantra of My Younger Years”). I was beginning to branch out and build superficial social relationships by becoming a little more engaged with my fellow collegians while at school. I even met a student who had the same type of passion and quest for a personal relationship with a superstar.
In her case, it was Neil Diamond. We were both shocked that we discovered each other in an English Literature class. And she invited me over to her home so we could share pictures and stories. This was miraculous for me, because I rarely went anywhere. We discussed the difference between fans and groupies in between studying; in our youthful wisdom we agreed that fans were permanent fixtures and groupies were gone in 60 seconds. It also validated that I wasn’t as wacky and alone in my semi-secret, wild pursuit. There were actually others like me… big sigh of relief.
In 1973, Jones performed at the Universal Amphitheatre (now called the Gibson Amphitheatre at Universal City Walk). He was performing there for multiple days and my mother and sisters were going to attend the shows with me. Although my mother and I still searched high and low for pants long enough to cover the skinny legs, I still had to sew them myself because of that darn 36-inch inseam. I sewed my fingers off, all the while hoping that my long pants and skirts wouldn’t look like loving hands at home.
I had written and rewritten my script for Mr. G. He was staying at the Hotel Bel Air, as usual. No matter how many times I spoke to him over the phone, I always needed my prepared script to calm my nerves and ease the way into the most important human thing on my mind (versus the most important spiritual things I had on my mind, which, believe it or not, I did focus on religious, metaphysical, philosophical, and esoteric issues when not perseverating over TJ). But the goal was always, WHEN AND WHERE AM I GOING TO MEET TOM JONES? This time it was just the head of the fan club and me. I tried to use my most adult, sophisticated voice, and Mr. G. was as friendly and upbeat as usual. Bada-bing, bada-boom! We had a date, a time, and a place.
Knowing that I was going to get backstage put rose-colored glasses on all of the shows. If I had been a critic, I would have had to recuse myself, because I was on a Tom Jones high. Every show was fantastic. Every song superb. Even as I write, I can picture the stage, the star, and The Voice, with everything and everyone else fading in the background. The only thing that slightly marred the experience was that Mother was frequently ill and missed the performances. With me being me, I had no one to take her place. How sad was that? Still, no best friend to share my most important youthful moments with. We always bought a ticket for Mommio, but it eventually turned out that my oldest sister began bringing her friends to take Mom’s place at our TJ concerts – they were game and appreciated the fun and mystery of how in the world this shy, skinny kid got into Tom Jonesville.
The fascinating thing about the Universal Amphitheatre in ‘73 was that there was no backstage. Literally. There was the stage, curtained side stages, an area behind the stage, and no real backstage. Mr. G. hadn’t prepared me by telling me that he would put us into a car and we would be driven to see Tom. He surely didn’t prepare me for a limousine ride to see him.
It was quite exciting to show up at stage left, and then be escorted into a big ol’ limo! I must admit, with a lot of fans, groupies, and hangers-on lurking around looking for Tom, I felt a little like a starlet climbing into that long, black car with tinted windows. It wasn’t the quintessentially 70s white limo that Jones was known to own with Gordon Mills and Engelbert Humperdink that carried the license plate “GET,” standing for Gordon, Engelbert, Tom. It was my first and only ride in a limo, even though famous OC Housewives drive in limos to get their nails painted, and famous New Jersey Housewives rent limos to drive their preteens to birthday parties to get their nails and toes done.
We had no idea where we were going, and the drive seemed dark and longer than expected on the Universal property. Suddenly, we were at the discreet destination. It was a portable building; sort of like a mobile home without wheels. The driver opened the limo door and escorted us up to the door. The party had definitely started without us, as there was an open bar, and drinks were flowing. It appeared that everyone in Jones’ entourage was there, including Mr. G., bodyguard Dave Perry, The Getter, as well as some key musicians, including Big Jim Sullivan. It was a male-dominated group.
I was not surprised to be offered an alcoholic drink, because even though I was under-age, I didn’t look it. However, I didn’t, and still don’t drink, so I asked for a Perrier with lime (hoping I would appear to be a sophisticate). We sat at the bar with our drinks and tried to make small talk with the “cool people.” I’m not so sure how “cool” I was, but I did my best to carry an air of coolness that wasn’t cold, and warmth that wasn’t overtly I’m-crazy-ga-ga-over-Tom-Jones giddy like I think I was the first time I met him. And we waited… and waited… and while I told myself to never forget this moment, these people, this place, this time, Mr. Jones slipped into the room.
There he was. No stage. No microphone. Just Jones. And again, everything and everyone just faded away. This time was a little different than the first. I was a little more mature. A little more composed. I found myself on the couch with Tom. That is part of his charm and his accessibility. As much as I wanted to believe I was special, I know that we are all special to him. Talent, drive, and charisma need people, a conjoined, supportive public. But, I digress. Perfect photo opportunity. You learn when a photo is appropriate, and when one isn’t.
After a little small talk – yes, I could finally participate in a little small talk with Tom Jones – I wanted to ask him a burning question. With a big, silent gulp, I said, “You’ve called me Long Tall Sally, which I get. But, you’ve called me Snow White a few times. (Another big, silent gulp.) I’m kind of curious. Where did Snow White come from?”
And sitting close to me, Tom Jones, with his arm around me, looked at me with his hazel eyes and said, in his deep, thick Welsh accent, “Because you make me feel like a dwarf, luv.”
Oh, no. His words hit so hard they knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t speak. My heart jumped to my throat and then sank into my stomach. I think I might have blushed bright red underneath my dark, summer tanned face. For a moment, my heart started pounding and my hands started to feel numb and then tingle. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Panic attack coming on.
Tom Jones, my Superstar hero, The Voice who comforted me, who gave me life, hope, dreams, and goals, told me he feels like a dwarf. And his voice, The Voice, placed an emphasis on the word dwarf. I will never forget the sound of that word spoken with his Welsh accent. It made all of the birdies that chirp and dance around my head when I am with him dissipate into thin air. It made the song “Someday My Prince Will Come” that dances around my brain when I see him come to a shrill, screeching halt.
A Tom Jones reality check for Snow White on the sofa! Grumpy, Bashful, Happy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, and Doc might as well have carried me out on a stretcher. All my youthful fears were again realized in that one moment by that one comment. I instantly felt like that awkward, unattractive, tall, skinny girl I was working so hard to leave behind. Is it be possible that I made the most self-confident, poised, and self-assured, sexy man I had ever met feel… uncomfortable? The sensitive Amazon Anomaly was crushed, and in the beginning stage of a mega meltdown in the arm of an unsuspecting superstar.
I think he must have realized that his comment caught me off-guard and left me utterly breathless. Because, Tom Jones, being Tom Jones, a man who has a way with the ladies, leaned over, spoke in my ear, and said something that breathed fresh air into my deflated sense of self. Something that made me feel like I wasn’t the ghastly Jolly Green Giant. Something that made me feel attractive and special. Something that allowed me to believe that I had value in singer Tom Jones’ eyes. At twenty-years-old, it was that something for which I had been searching. Yes, the object of my affection, the object of my transformation, leaned over and said… oh no, hold on. I’ve got to save something between me… and the singer who saved me.