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work. They let me off when I have a gig or have to rehearse. I like these people. The girls are beautiful. They’re all my age or younger. But models being interested in me? No way. They have a lot more going on than me.”
    It was a good summer. I was living with Dean in Highland Park, a funky part of L.A. It was a summer of barbecues and beer, a summer in a kicked-back Mexican neighborhood, a summer of possibilities. That same summer we learned that Mighty Joe Young was the name of a blues singer who was still working. His management asked us to drop the handle. Blues ethos required that we respect our fellow musician, so we began searching for another name.
    It was also the summer of my shrine, a makeshift holy spot lit by candles and surrounded by tchotchkes. It was a summer of waiting for the muse to bless us with songs. In the center of the shrine I placed a can of STP oil treatment. It was there for comfort. As a kid, I had STP stickers on my bike. I loved the brand. I loved the way Richard Petty, a fantastic character, was rock-and-roll hell on wheels. He wore the STP logo. Those letters represented it all—rebelliousness, chance victory, going for broke. I saw it as serendipitous. I loved the clarity and directness of the label. Maybe it could work for us. If it was good enough for Richard Petty—who, after all, was the Keith Richards of car racing—then hell, it was good enough for us.
    But what would it stand for?
    Shirley Temple’s Pussy. The name was thrown around just for humor’s sake. We worried, though, that the all-American macho males who were consuming this new brand of alt rock might not get the sarcasm. So the long process of searching for a name continued.

    The shrine I built to keep evil out.
I think it brought the evil in.
    Meanwhile, models had to be driven. One day I was told to drive a girl called Mary. She was sixteen. She lived with a Vietnamese gay man, an agent with her agency. Mary was stunning, a San Diego surfer girl aglow with the light of a cloudless sky. Long flowing natural golden brown hair with streaks bleached by the California sun. Her beauty was otherworldly, almost painful. She carried a pain I couldn’t name. She was painfully shy, said hardly a word. Our pain collided, but silently. Pain wasn’t expressed, only sensed.
    Mary and I worked for Nicole Bordeaux, owner of the modeling agency, a woman who reminded me of Cruella De Vil from 101 Dalmatians , except she wasn’t cruel. She was fabulous and flamboyant and protective of her girls. Her husband, David Bordeaux, had taken her name, a fact I found amusing. The modeling business moved on frenetic energy, the kind fueled by coke. It was all about free champagne and go-for-broke nightclubs. Nicole regarded me as just another would-be rocker in some unknown band. You could find thousands of us on every block of Hollywood or in the pages of LA Weekly . Yet Nicole was careful to select me as Mary’s driver.
    “She isn’t one of my skyscraper models,” she said, referring to Mary. “She’s a young, delicate creature. She doesn’t have a driver’s license yet. Handle her with care. She’s our Kate Moss.”
    When Mary walked in wearing a backpack, her appearance belied her beauty. She wore no makeup, simple jeans, a white T-shirt. Her lips were large and sensuous, her sculpted cheekbones high, her eyes a deep, rich brown. She was no taller than five foot eight. When Nicole introduced her to me, I thought I caught the shadow of a smile. I couldn’t be sure.
    As she walked toward me, she didn’t say anything. As I drove her to her gig, the silence held steady. I wondered if she was shy or simply had little to say. I tried some easy conversation. She answered monosyllabically. I stopped trying.
    “Wanna listen to the Beastie Boys or Nirvana?” I asked.
    “Sure,” she said.
    Paul’s Boutique sounded good, even on my shitty car stereo.
    When I picked up Mary after her modeling session, she seemed glad to see me but