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didn’t say so. I slipped in a cassette of Nirvana’s Nevermind . This was 1991, and the record had started a tidal wave of things to come. The wave was glorious, but the tide brought destruction.
    “Please make that louder,” she said.
    I gladly complied. Mary was feeling what I was feeling—at least I thought so. We started getting closer. She was just getting out of a relationship, and I was in one with Jannina. I loved Jannina, but, having met Mary, realized that I was never in love with Jannina. What’s the difference? I could answer with a single word—obsession. I see love, like art, as an obsession. Maybe that’s an overly romantic view of human existence, but I’m an overly romantic human being. If love, like rock and roll, doesn’t consume me 24-7, it’s not love. It can be respect, appreciation, admiration, wonderment, it can be a world of glory and a lifetime of peace, but I can’t call it love. Love burns me and confuses me. Love’s a light that can’t be extinguished.

    Mary had this light in her eyes; her eyes were filled with love. She also had darkness. She kept a book of her modeling photographs that I took home and studied. I placed it in a drawer. Jannina found the book and asked me about it. I fumbled and fidgeted. “It was in the car,” I said. “I brought it inside by mistake.” My lie was apparent. I was raised not to lie, so I’m not good at it. But love’s obsession broke down my moral code. Love’s obsession had me dreaming of Mary.
    When I came to pick her up one morning, the front door to her apartment was open. “Come in,” she said. Fresh from a shower, she had a towel wrapped around her body. I sat on the bed, embarrassed. I wanted to kiss her, but didn’t.
    Mary’s moods. Mary’s expressions. Mary saying to me, “Would you mind if I asked you to put on my makeup? I’m not too good at that.”
    The long, hot summer passed and we still didn’t kiss. It was all looks and gestures, nothing but sensuous silence.
    Putting on her makeup was the most sensuous moment I had ever experienced with her yet. Tenderly moving ruby red lipstick across her lips. Powdering her cheeks. Slowly applying eyeliner.
    Wanting to kiss her.
    Wanting to hold her.
    Wanting to say something—and instead saying nothing.
    Later I learned that Mary also wanted to say something. Later she said that she too wanted to kiss me and hold me. She said she was waiting for me to make my move. But no move was made that summer.

    Me, just before STP was signed

W E FELL IN LOVE WITH THE STP LOGO and just needed a name to go with it. Stone Temple Pilots seemed to fit the bill. It sounded adventuresome; it sounded strange; it sounded like us. It was a blazing summer of beer and pot parties. Our band was beginning to catch the wave of alternative energy sweeping over the music business. Within a few months, STP, Tool, and Rage Against the Machine all got deals with major labels. Our deal came as a result of three shows. The first had us opening for Body Count, Ice T’s band, at the Palladium. The second saw us opening for the Rollins Band at the Whiskey. That was the gig where we had a few girls dress up in semi-bondage gear and blow bubbles. Mary was one of those girls. Our relationship, though, remained chaste.
    The third gig was the most important—the Shamrock, a dive in Silver Lake. It was there the offer was made. Tom Carolan, an A&R exec at Atlantic, said, “You guys are great! How would you like to make a record for us?” We acted as though we had managers and advisors to contact. But of course we were going to make a record for Atlantic. We were shocked into a state of manic bliss. Atlantic was the ideal label. Founded by Ahmet Ertegun, it had started out as an indie and wound up signing Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and Led Zeppelin, not to mention the Rolling Stones.
    We pinched ourselves, realizing it was a combination of blind ambition and musical talent that put us on the treadmill to big-time