Let's Spend the Night Together: Backstage Secrets of Rock Muses and Supergroupies by Pamela Des Barres

door, this guy came around the corner. It was Bob Dylan and I knew it was Bob Dylan. I thought he was so beautiful. I mean, he was just exquisite, as we all were back then. The dilemma was, `Do I just stop in my tracks and let him pass?' because, you know, it's Bob Dylan. But I just kept on walking and we looked at each other in that moment and he said, `Hello: I can't even describe this perfect Southern California evening-there you are and there he is. Bob Dylan says hello to you and then you just walk on. .

    've always been drawn to imaginative, uncommonly bright women. As far back as I can recall, I've counted on them to encourage and embolden me to be creatively fearless. From my dear mama to Mary Magdalen to Gail Zappa, the feisty dolls I admire have blessed me with their unique perspective and tilted take on life. So, not surprisingly, all three of my best girlfriends are brimming with inspiration and have been writing their own books. Iva Turner has written an extremely funny and erotic novel entitled Sex Season, with salacious sequels to follow. The beauteous Catherine James has recently completed her memoir, and Patti D'Arbanville is hard at work on her outrageous tellsome autobiography.
    Years before I met my wild Gemini pals, Patti and Catherine, they had frolicked together on the Greenwich Village streets in their early teens. Catherine left a nightmare behind in Hollywood and traveled three thousand miles following a dream. Patti was a frisky little piece of work, pretty much unsupervised by her bohemian parents, and already familiar with trouble.
    I stand in awe of Patti D'Arbanville's cheeky audacity, always hoping to glean a few pointers. Here's an event that reveals her nature perfectly: she had picked me up from my plastic surgeon's office in Westwood, where I had undergone a horrific chemical peel, hoping to erase some of the teen-angst acne scars that had bothered me since high school. I was a drowsy, lolling goofpot, heavily swaddled, with raw pink spots gleaming between my Vaselined bandages. We were stopped at a red light when a couple of creepy dudes in the car next to us started pointing at me and blatantly snickering, close to guffawing, actually, at my obvious medical ordeal. Even in my blotto condition, I was aware of Patti's instant response to their rudeness. Enraged, she burst out of the car, marched over to them, her blonde ponytail flying, and began pounding on their windshield, shouting the consummate obscenities required to put the insensitive schlubs in their place. They quickly rolled up their windows, eyes popping with terror. Patti is definitely somebody you want on your side. She'll always go the extra few thousand miles.

    I had heard tales about Patti for a couple of decades before we met. One of the best flower-child albums from the 1970s was Cat Stevens's poetic, genteel Mona Bone Jakon, featuring the mournful love song "Lady D'Arbanville." It was all about a lass with lips that felt like winter and a heart that seemed oh so silent to the troubled troubadour. I figured she must have broken Cat's heart to pieces, which of course intrigued me no end.

    It was the summer of 1984 when Melanie Griffith called to invite me to a big beachy birthday bash for her then-hubby, Steven Bauer. I was especially curious, because my once-adored boyfriend and Melanie's first husband, Don Johnson, was bringing the girl who had tamed him enough to turn him into the daddy of a baby boy-the beguiling Patti D'Arbanville.
    Here's a snippet about our first meeting from my second book, Take Another Little Piece of My Heart:
There they were, D.J. and My Lady D'Arbanville looking way too good with her yards and yards of wavy blonde hair. Thumpy-hearted, I started through the crowd, and when Donnie spotted me, he grandly stood up and, laughing, opened his arms for me to run into. He told me how gorgeous I looked and introduced me to Patti, who sort of snarled at me like a taunted, ticked-off cat. Oops. After