The following exchange between Pamela Anderson and me takes place in the back of a moving vehicle about 30 miles north of San Diego. Since our conversation thus far has had its tense moments, I come up with a suggestion: a long, quiet “time out.” Then, a few days hence, when tempers have cooled, we can get on the phone for a follow-up.
Pam: [Shocked at the very suggestion.] No! I’m not doing any more. This is the longest interview I’ve ever had. No! No! No! No! But I like that it’s a little rough. I like it rough. It’s not a smooth hippy-dippy interview. It’s got challenge. You know?
Me: [Brightly.] It was going pretty well about three miles ago!
Pam: I know. I can relax when we’re all talking about something interesting. [Beat.] I really can’t wait to do the pictures. That’s what I’m excited about. Terry Richardson is someone I’ve always wanted to work with. He’s wanted to work with me, too. [Eyeing me.] And nobody can be at the shoot.
Me: [Spiraling back into hurt.] I’m not coming.
Pam: Okay, good. I thought you were going to come.
Me: [Broadly, masking the wounds.] You’ll never see me again.
Pam: [Conciliatory.] No, I don’t want that. It’s just that at photo shoots, I can only do one thing at a time.
Me: [Desperately, irrationally.] Do you want some candy? I have some candy in my bag.
It’s a two-hour drive down to Camp Pendleton—plenty of time to discuss: Tommy, Kid Rock, hepatitis C. And maybe, time permitting, some gossip about a few of the skanks on her ex-boyfriend Bret Michaels’ VH1 show. In and out. EasyHow did we get to this place, she and I, feeling like a pair of house cats tossed into a Hefty bag together? Granted, it was never going to be a long lunch at the Polo Club followed by a leisurely outing along Mulholland, capped off with side-by-side green-tea facials at the Beverly Wilshire spa. No, it was just going to be a drive with Pamela Anderson from her house in Malibu to a USO appearance. The backseat of a limo wouldn’t be the best environment for a heart-to-heart, but at least there’d be plenty of time to get acquainted; if the 405’s clear (which it never is), it’s a two-hour drive down to Camp Pendleton—plenty of time to discuss: Tommy. Kid Rock. Her two sons. Hef. The health of her liver after her lengthy bout with hepatitis C. Those years during which her breast implants made a seemingly regular commute into and out of her body. Turning the big four-oh. Her tireless work as a PETA Honorary Committee member, and how KFC is the Abu Ghraib of deep-fried poultry. And maybe, time permitting, some gossip about a few of the skanks on her ex-boyfriend Bret Michaels‘ VH1 show. In and out. Easy.
Alas, the limo that should be parked in front of her place in the gated Malibu Colony is actually a big passenger van. And we aren’t the only passengers. Up front, directly behind Mickey the driver, sits Karen Stephens, Pam’s makeup artist and hairstylist whom she befriended backstage last year during her six-month Vegas gig as assistant to Hans Klok, the flamboyant Dutch illusionist. Pam-watchers will recall that it was during the run of that show that she married Rick Salomon (between sets), director and costar of a low-budget indie film called 1 Night in Paris. After two months, they sought an annulment.
Behind and to the right of Stephens is Peter Asher, Pamela’s next-door neighbor in Malibu and her manager of just four weeks. It’s all a little hazy just exactly how Asher, a posh, sprightly Brit, ended up in this van in his elegantly snug bespoke spring suit and alligator loafers. In 1964, his group, Peter & Gordon, had turned “A World Without Love,” written by his sister’s then-beau Paul McCartney, into a number-one hit. (Back then, he had both the glasses and teeth of Austin Powers, and some think Mike Myers based the character’s look on him.) Asher went on to produce and manage James Taylor and Linda Ronstadt, earning a couple Grammys and landing on the cover of Rolling Stone as 1977’s producer of the year. Now, here he is, managing Pamela Anderson, who doesn’t sing, dance, or, by her own reckoning, have any real gift for acting or desire to do it ever again.
What Anderson does have, however, is a reality show—sorry, an “observational documentary series”—which explains the other passenger in this van, turned backward in the middle seat, aiming a video camera at my face. Nigel Dick, a soft-spoken British transplant to L.A., is perhaps the most prolific music video director of all time, credited with Britney Spears‘ first five videos, Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle,” and about 300 others. Dick is the show’s co-executive producer.
