Last night I took my dear Miss Mercy GTO to Gene Simmons’ 60th birthday bash at Lucky Strike Lanes in Hollywood. I have known Gene since my ex-hubby Michael played with them at the Academy of music in 1974. I do believe that KISS opened for Michael’s raunchy madcap glitter band, Silverhead that night. We were filming a very low budget movie and cameras were rolling back stage as MDB posed wickedly in his faux leopard skin jacket, tangled blonde locks sprayed silver. Cameras were rolling last night as well, I’m sure for Gene’s Family Jewels TV smasheroo. Cameras were everywhere, following ravishing Shannon and the Simmons’ gangly offspring as they merrily celebrated Gene’s Coming of Age. (Actually, Shannon told me she couldn’t wait to get back into her jeans! Ha ha.) . . .
Michael took my hand and presented me to Gene like a prize and he wriggled around, opening his arms for me to tumble into. Right away he insisted that I feel his mighty bicep, and I have to admit, it was pretty bleeping rock hard, dolls! Then I had to rub my hands up and down his slimming waist line and openly marvel, mouth agape. His gift from me was a book of Rimbaud’s poetry and Michael
reminded me that Gene only reads comic books. Oh, of course, how could I have forgotten?! When I handed him the wrapped present (vintage paper and card of course), he asked, “Do you remember a long time ago when I told you that comic books were the future!” I’ve always said that Gene has dollar signs in his eyes instead of pupils. He was the one who suggested I write a rock version of ‘Hollywood Babylon,’ which became my third tome, ‘Rock Bottom.’ He also gave me the astute advice to use the word ‘Confessions’ instead of ‘memoir’ for my ‘I’m With the Band,’ subtitle – ‘Confessions of a Groupie.’ A very sly and smart fellow, the painted sober monster with the incredibly long tongue . . .
After Gene’s bash I went out to Joe’s in Burbank for Jimmy Intveld’s second set where I twirled and whirled in my high heels and crinolines, merging with his dark Elvisy voice, and twanging guitar, feeling like a kid again . . .
