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The convertible didn’t suit her, I could tell right away out of the corner of my eye, but I had to drive on. Her hands were in her hair for almost the entire ride from Del Mar into Hollywood, protecting those delicate curls, until she broke out a scarf from a small handbag and tied it on tightly once we reached Long Beach. The ride was otherwise uneventful. Liza was occupied, on purpose, after all I was only beefcake boy. That’s how she referred to me in the brief time that we initially spoke.
“Hey, beefcake boy, nice ride,” she said sarcastically when I picked her up.
My ride was an immaculate 1967 Pontiac GTO with the top down, and it was a nice ride unless one was used to limousines with a full bar in the back seat. We didn’t speak at all once I fired up the goat and took off, the wind (oh that wonderful Pacific Ocean smell!) prevented conversation. We parked in a pay lot a block away from the Whisky A Go-Go. She then took off her scarf and broke out a mirror and did herself up.
“You know I was born here, beefcake? Right here in Hollywood.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She stopped and looked at me, her eyes full of rage. “You call me ‘ma’am’ again, and I’ll kick you in the balls. You may call me Ms. Minnelli.”
“Yes, Ms. Minnelli,” I said.
She sighed. “Liza. Just call me Liza, okay? I’m sorry, but I’m having a bad day. I dropped three grand on the horses and the Goddamned track waters down the gin, and now I have to go to this, this… thing. This isn’t what I wanted to do tonight.”
“I understand,” I told her. I offered her my arm but she refused. We walked east on Hollywood Boulevard underneath the giant billboards, with people staring at her and no one daring to approach. At the door of the Whiskey, we were greeted warmly. They knew. Others couldn’t be so sure.
“Terry’s backstage,” an employee informed her. “They’ll be on next, Ms. Minnelli. We have a table for you and your escort…”
That’s when Liza looked into my eyes. I instantly dismissed two hours of thinking her to be a bitch, those eyes held something vastly different than our arranged commute had seemed to promise. She smiled. I couldn’t not smile back. She turned to the employee of the Whiskey.
“I think that David and me are fine right here,” she said.
She grabbed my arm and hung on. The Penetrators opened with a loud and rather annoying set. She pretended to be interested. I admired that. The Penetrators were horrible that evening, really bad. But Liza knew my name. That was one hell of a start.
The connection was nothing short of bizarre. From my relationship with Delaney Bramlett (the man who discovered Eric Clapton, according to the text books), passed down to Terry Bozzio (of Frank Zappa and then Missing Persons fame), to a stint he had recording with Herbie Hancock, down to Herbie’s wife Gigi. Gigi called me, thick German accent and all. We met previously in San Francisco. I was shocked that she remembered me.
“David, I don’t want to make you put out,” she began.
Typical Gigi, mixing it up, but she was difficult to deny; she had a way with people. Pick up Liza Minnelli? At Del Mar? Drive her to Los Angeles? I had to. The Terry Bozzio connection? His wife, Dale. Gigi didn’t explain that part very well. Hell, she didn’t explain anything very well. But, you couldn’t say no to Gigi. She was a princess.
The problem now, was with Liza. I was so charmed. She excused herself and went to the bathroom and I waited, wondering if she would reappear. The Penetrators, thankfully, were winding down. The Whiskey, small stage intimately inviting all of us closer, began to pack in. After a couple of minutes, I worried about Liza, until she reappeared and grabbed my arm and held on hard.
“You wouldn’t believe what I just saw in that bathroom!” she said, horrified, as though we were all in big trouble. The only thing that crossed my mind is that it couldn't have been any worse than the Penetrators were that evening. I gave her time to collect her thoughts.
(To be continued…)
The convertible didn’t suit her, I could tell right away out of the corner of my eye, but I had to drive on. Her hands were in her hair for almost the entire ride from Del Mar into Hollywood, protecting those delicate curls, until she broke out a scarf from a small handbag and tied it on tightly once we reached Long Beach. The ride was otherwise uneventful. Liza was occupied, on purpose, after all I was only beefcake boy. That’s how she referred to me in the brief time that we initially spoke.
“Hey, beefcake boy, nice ride,” she said sarcastically when I picked her up.
My ride was an immaculate 1967 Pontiac GTO with the top down, and it was a nice ride unless one was used to limousines with a full bar in the back seat. We didn’t speak at all once I fired up the goat and took off, the wind (oh that wonderful Pacific Ocean smell!) prevented conversation. We parked in a pay lot a block away from the Whisky A Go-Go. She then took off her scarf and broke out a mirror and did herself up.
“You know I was born here, beefcake? Right here in Hollywood.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She stopped and looked at me, her eyes full of rage. “You call me ‘ma’am’ again, and I’ll kick you in the balls. You may call me Ms. Minnelli.”
“Yes, Ms. Minnelli,” I said.
She sighed. “Liza. Just call me Liza, okay? I’m sorry, but I’m having a bad day. I dropped three grand on the horses and the Goddamned track waters down the gin, and now I have to go to this, this… thing. This isn’t what I wanted to do tonight.”
“I understand,” I told her. I offered her my arm but she refused. We walked east on Hollywood Boulevard underneath the giant billboards, with people staring at her and no one daring to approach. At the door of the Whiskey, we were greeted warmly. They knew. Others couldn’t be so sure.
“Terry’s backstage,” an employee informed her. “They’ll be on next, Ms. Minnelli. We have a table for you and your escort…”
That’s when Liza looked into my eyes. I instantly dismissed two hours of thinking her to be a bitch, those eyes held something vastly different than our arranged commute had seemed to promise. She smiled. I couldn’t not smile back. She turned to the employee of the Whiskey.
“I think that David and me are fine right here,” she said.
She grabbed my arm and hung on. The Penetrators opened with a loud and rather annoying set. She pretended to be interested. I admired that. The Penetrators were horrible that evening, really bad. But Liza knew my name. That was one hell of a start.
The connection was nothing short of bizarre. From my relationship with Delaney Bramlett (the man who discovered Eric Clapton, according to the text books), passed down to Terry Bozzio (of Frank Zappa and then Missing Persons fame), to a stint he had recording with Herbie Hancock, down to Herbie’s wife Gigi. Gigi called me, thick German accent and all. We met previously in San Francisco. I was shocked that she remembered me.
“David, I don’t want to make you put out,” she began.
Typical Gigi, mixing it up, but she was difficult to deny; she had a way with people. Pick up Liza Minnelli? At Del Mar? Drive her to Los Angeles? I had to. The Terry Bozzio connection? His wife, Dale. Gigi didn’t explain that part very well. Hell, she didn’t explain anything very well. But, you couldn’t say no to Gigi. She was a princess.
The problem now, was with Liza. I was so charmed. She excused herself and went to the bathroom and I waited, wondering if she would reappear. The Penetrators, thankfully, were winding down. The Whiskey, small stage intimately inviting all of us closer, began to pack in. After a couple of minutes, I worried about Liza, until she reappeared and grabbed my arm and held on hard.
“You wouldn’t believe what I just saw in that bathroom!” she said, horrified, as though we were all in big trouble. The only thing that crossed my mind is that it couldn't have been any worse than the Penetrators were that evening. I gave her time to collect her thoughts.
(To be continued…)