Remembering Marilyn Chambers

There were few tears shed at the public memorial service of Marilyn Chambers on Wednesday — and that was a good thing. The mood was ebullient, even joyous at times; though her sudden death must be sad for family and friends, those that gathered were there to celebrate her life.

Under cloudy skies at Zuma, near tower 9: Beautiful pictures of her were set up under an arch decorated with lavender balloons, her favorite color. A spray of all white flowers was standing to the side. Someone had made a sand sculpture portrait of Chambers and the Ivory Snow box cover was there, of course. People were dressed for a cold day at the beach; only a handful were from the adult industry. Several toddlers and small children played in the sand, oblivious and laughing. Someone had brought Chambers’ chihuahua. She loved animals very much.

When the news of her death broke early last Monday morning, the day after Easter, it was a shock. All that was known was that her daughter had found her dead in her mobile home — it turns out she’d suffered a massive stroke. I immediately called Bill Margold after hearing the news because I knew he would be reeling in his own patriarchal sort of way. I was the fourth phone call he had already received that morning.

“Well, kid. It’s just devastating. First (director Ron) Sullivan, then (“Deep Throat” director Gerard) Damiano, and Buck (Adams; performer and Amber Lynn’s brother)… But with Chambers, it’s devastating,” Margold sighed heavily, giving the roll call of the recently dead. He didn’t have to say much for me to know that he was terrified at the thought of having to watch friends and peers passing away, even if they were passing into history. A controversial figure himself; you can love or hate Margold, but if you work in or have ever worked in the adult industry, you’re family to him (whether he loves or hates you in return).

As a first generation performer and in his self-imposed role as a “triple-X historian,” Margold knew he would be called for quotes as soon as the mainstream press picked up the story. When we went to dinner that night, he said he’d gotten more calls from saddened fans, than from the media. That comforted him.

I scanned the Internet all day. Industry trade publication AVN had the scoop. It took a couple of hours for the news to show up, first on MediaBistro.com, then the LA Times, then Reuters, then the L.A. Daily News , CNN, until it had spread internationally. I was interested in what the threads on the articles would say, wanted to gauge the response; because when you’re famous for taking your clothes off and having sex onscreen, you can never tell how people will react toward that.

But that’s not really what Marilyn Chambers was famous for — it goes beyond that. She was more than that and she was famous; like legendary famous.

Chambers was a sex radical and iconoclast, and that’s why people who have never seen her movies know her name. She was the original “girl next door,” blonde, wholesome, beautiful. Like a lot of the performers from the first generation of adult, she had mainstream movie and theater aspirations. If she never quite made it on the mainstream side, it’s not because she was untalented or unintelligent. It’s because mainstream society wouldn’t accept her status as a hardcore queen.

Still, in retrospect, I think it would have been impossible to be in her position and not get turned on by the scandal and controversy of the early days. It was a revolutionary time; the whole world was changing. As a trailblazer, it might have been difficult for her to anticipate the stigma that would be attached to being a porn star; she was one of the first. People were breaking the rules back then and making up new ones as they went along.

Red-headed Jane Hamilton (Veronica Hart), a legendary star of the early 80s, might have said it best as she spoke at the service, recalling how the first time she met Chambers was on a set. Already a big star, Chambers was worldly and sophisticated, said Hamilton, and “so kind. What a time to be so beautiful, so young, so famous to so many.”

When “Behind the Green Door” came out in 1972, a lot of people still considered it racy for a woman to wear pants to work, or even have a job. I was only eight years old at the time, but I remember my own mother making disparaging remarks about “women’s libbers” running around with no bras on, acting like sluts. With her Catholic mindset and deeply conflicted ideas around her role as a wife and mother, my mom bitched constantly about not being “allowed” to work, but then also openly resented women that dared to break the rules — she embodied the confusion around women's roles in those days. My dad, a civil servant with the Navy, would trundle off to his job every morning and then return home every night. After dinner, he and my mother smoked Pall Malls until the dining room had a fine haze of smoke hovering near the ceiling. They would talk about bills and everyday problems, and I would be watching the black and white TV in my room, tuned into the “Sonny and Cher Show” and singing along to the Enjoli perfume commercial and wondering if someday, I’d bring home the bacon.

It’s kind of a miracle that between the ‘70s feminist rhetoric and my mother’s hopeless denial of her own power, I grew up to believe that a real feminist, a real woman, should be free to make her own choices — no matter what those choices turn out to be. Marilyn exemplified that in the extreme; pushing it beyond society’s rules, beyond feminist standards for “liberated” or what they now called “empowered,” probably beyond what she could’ve imagine, or maybe even wanted.

We lived in the East Bay in the ‘70s. Across the bay, in San Francisco, Marilyn was already bigger than life, starring at the O’Farrell Theater, naked and 15-feet tall on theater screens in the role of a wide-eyed innocent heiress, having sex with a black man on camera. The audience was mesmerized, I think, because they had never seen anyone like her before.

The Mitchell Bros., who owned the O’Farrell and produced “Green Door,” made a fortune off the movie. According to a letter read by Margold at the service, sent from another classic star Serena; she and Chambers would feature dance at the O’Farrell and, after the show, Chambers would sometimes stick around and play poker with Artie and Jim. Serena described Chambers as “enthusiastic,” a word that came up several times during the day, as friends and family remembered her. Chambers also was a wife, mother, good friend and neighbor.

At the service, a girl with short, blonde hair and a strong jaw took the podium and spoke directly to Chambers’ daughter McKenna. She introduced herself as Liberty Mitchell, Artie’s daughter. She recalled seeing Chambers at an awards show, eight months pregnant with McKenna, and as she took to the stage, laughed and said, “I know Artie would love it if I just gave birth right here.”

“I don’t know you, McKenna, but as a mother, I know that your mother will always be right here with you. She’s just on the other side,” Mitchell added. Not too long after that, the gentleman casually officiating at the service reminded everyone it was Earth Day as well as Chambers' birthday, and so we all sang "Happy Birthday."

My own remembrance of Chambers is the only time I met her, at the 2005 FOXE Awards. It was the first adult industry event I covered and she was my first published interview in the industry.

It was raining like hell at the Mayflower Ballroom that night, poured the whole way as I drove up from San Diego. Margold let me in the event, pointed out a few names and let me loose on the crowd. It was intimidating; I still had not seen a whole porno in my life and I wasn’t sure what questions to ask. Ron Jeremy was there (he had written a poem for Chambers), and some other long-timers like Rhonda Jo Petty, Lynn LeMay and Cara Lott. I didn’t know anyone. I watched Alicia Rio dance for the first time that night and thought she was amazing. I talked to a fan named D.J. Riley, who had a congenital defect and was strapped to his wheelchair; he was so eloquent, explaining what pornography meant to him.

Chambers arrived late, but it was worth the wait. She was reunited with her “Green Door” co-star Johnny Keyes, for the first time in 25 years — and I got them both. I felt terrible interrupting their conversation to get a few words. They both looked at me sideways and then she turned and gave me that broad, photogenic grin. She answered the questions, though Keyes did most of the talking. I felt like I had really scored, scribbling in my notebook.

Onstage, sitting in a giant wooden throne, she had a mischievous glint in her eye. The house was full of stars and fans, the roof was leaking under the ceaseless downpour, and one after another, they lined up to say a few words for Marilyn. There was lots of laughter, a little drama and many kind memories — just as on the beach the other day.

After Chambers died, most of what was on the threads were simple condolences. Most of the posts I read were from men, and said things like, “Sad — I loved her.” Many called her “goddess.” There were comments about her heated performances, her pierced genitalia, the perkiness of her tits; the kind of compliments that get paid only to a triple-X superstar. One early morning post read, “Marilyn Chambers dead? That’s it. I’m going back to bed…”

A misguided woman posted to a Facebook thread and said if you knew anything about Marilyn Chambers that she had been exploited by the men in her life and those men probably wouldn’t be found dead in trailers. With a rueful smile, I remembered my life before adult and what my opinion of porn stars was back then. I had to shoot back a response, pointing out it’s impossible to know what really happened, unless you were there, unless you knew her.

Did Chambers have regrets or wished that she’d done some things differently? Well, don’t we all?

“And if you’re gonna put a tragic trailer park spin on her death,” I added to the retort, “I had a friend whose grandmother died in her mobile home. That was sad, too …”

After the service, Margold and I ended up having something to eat at Callahan’s in Santa Monica. He told me the story of going there with his mother 50 years ago, on Friday nights when they would have dinner and go to a movie across the street. The conversation quickly turned back to the industry. We were the only ones in there, until some guy sat alone at the table next to us. Margold’s deep voice boomed in the emptiness, telling more stories from a long time ago.

“Excuse me, you’re Bill Marigold, right?” the man from the next table asked, mispronouncing Bill’s name. I turned to look at him. He looked a little like William Macy, mid-40s, maybe a little older.

“How do you know who I am?” Margold smiled.

“Well,” and a secretive look washed over the man’s face. “I’ve seen some porno movies, you know … do you come here often? I’m a Santa Monica native; I come in here all the time…”

“Well, kid, we just came back from the service for Marilyn Chambers. I grew up here, so I needed to be here today. It helps me feel grounded…”

“Oh,” the man responded. “Hey, what did she die of?”

He seemed surprised when Margold told him it was a stroke. The conversation started in earnest then, about the old days, old Santa Monica, old porn stars. The guy worked in television, so they chatted about that and old movies; they had a lot in common — I just leaned back in the booth and listened, taking it all in.

And somewhere, in the grey skies over Malibu, a lavender latex balloon was floating, ascending into the stratosphere…

Resolution #17: Dharma Dogs

"It scared me, the word 'vibrations,' " Brian Wilson once said, remembering how, when he was a boy, his mother, Audree, tried to explain why dogs barked at some people and not others.

"A dog would pick up vibrations from these people that you can't see but you can feel. And the same thing happened with people."

"Good Vibrations," Wilson's crowning achievement as a songwriter and producer, harnessed that energy and turned it into eternal sunshine.

"This is a very spiritual song," he said after its release, "and I want it to give off good vibrations."

— RollingStone.com review of the Beach Boys’ "Good Vibrations" from the album Pet Sounds

My resolution: Be more like a dog.

Because dogs react and rely on instinct; physical and emotional instinct. Dogs don’t think when the appropriate action is to feel, or just to be. In the absence of every discordant thought, distraction, ego trip and neurosis that prevents humans from picking up that unknown thrumming, dogs get the frequency with radar that has been bred into their DNA over a thousand-thousand years. They hear it on a cellular level.

Why do I talk myself out of something good, when what I should have been doing is following what my gut and heart is telling me? Because I ignore the signals.

When writer’s block is holding me back like a choke chain, isn’t it always because I am thinking too hard about what to write, instead of manifesting in words what should be instinctive?

“Our world requires that decisions be sourced and footnoted, and if we say how we feel, we must also be prepared to elaborate on why we feel that way,” Malcolm Gladwell said in his book “Blink.”

He added, “We need to respect the fact that it is possible to know without knowing why we know, and accept that — sometimes — we’re better off that way.”

Without realizing it, Gladwell, who is an intellectual, almost academic writer, has his ear cocked and is listening to the inaudible call of dog whistle consciousness here. His book is all about plugging into unconscious decision-making and letting your mind off the leash, so to speak.

I watched The Dog Whisperer last night. He made three important points:

· First, a dog's natural instinct is to be happy.

· Second, dogs live in the moment.

· Third, dogs act unnaturally when they repeat destructive habits from past conditioning or have been traumatized or abused. The only way to correct this is to create balance.


Exactly, I thought. Right on the cold, wet nose. Anyone that has ever had a great dog would tell you. It’s all about doggy Dharma.


For 11 years, I had a dog named Bear. He was full grown when I got him – a huge 120 lbs. half-Labrador half-Newfie mix with short, shiny black fur, long dancer’s legs and a cinder block-shaped head. He was so handsome; people would stop us in the street and make a fuss over him, which he would encourage by nudging with his big snout.

He rarely barked, but always seemed to be listening. He had an uncommon congenital disease that limited his ability to produce adrenaline, so he wasn’t overly aggressive and he never humped like other dogs. Because he was at a disadvantage that way, I believe it heightened his sensitivity; with limited ability to react into fight-or-flight mode, he had to be ultra-aware of his surroundings.

You could tell when he was thinking. He would give you a deep look and then sigh, with a great gust of air out of his nose. He was majestic but clumsy. He was gentle and intelligent, except when it came to cats and skunks.

He was a happy boy.

Bear never met me without being ecstatic to see me. Typically, when I would get home from work, he would be waiting at the door and start dancing on those long, muscular legs, weaving back and forth with excitement, his tail beating the air. Then the nudging. It wasn’t in his nature to hold back affection.

We would walk for miles in the canyons, early in the morning when the air was wet and heavy with sage brush and wild fennel. It made him cross-eyed happy to roll in coyote shit. I tried to discourage that behavior with a torrent of swearing, tried to outsmart him — but he was following the instructions of something deep and ancient.

He could tell if you were depressed or anxious and would stick close, if you wanted him; just having him there would lower your blood pressure. When the other dog Peg got sick with cancer, Bear stayed up with her at night, and when her legs got weepy with edema, he relentlessly licked the fluid off. Before we took her to the vet to put her down, Bear barked frantically. Afterward, he was quiet and lonely without her.

When he went lame in his hind legs and time had come, we spent the last day at the only place where I could think of where his legs wouldn’t matter. We went to the beach, and I helped him into the water with a sling around his useless hips. He pulled himself along in the shallows on his front legs for awhile, until I realized that he was indulging me as much as I was trying to indulge him. He wasn’t able to chase seagulls in a flat-out run across the sand anymore. So, we went for hamburgers and ice cream. Bear was happy, and then he was gone.

Putting him down broke my heart. I can say, without a doubt, that it hurt so badly because the relationship I had with Bear was pure good vibrations. He was my friend because it never occurred to him that there was any other way, except to be loyal and near, true and joyous. In his dog way, Bear was the embodiment of total consciousness.

But he never realized what he was doing, in the human sense. He was a dog, a killer. He killed other animals and would stand his ground, and that also was in response to the will of instinct.

He wasn’t perfect. But you don’t have to be perfect to be happy. You just have to trust your instincts to take you toward bliss.

You can say that I’m anthropomorphizing, that dogs are animals and not capable of understanding complex emotions like happiness. But that’s the whole fucking point: You don’t need to think or scheme or rationalize or analyze how to be happy — you just are. You just feel it. It doesn’t have to be complicated.

Bear was a Bodhisattva, a canine conduit of Universal energy that flowed straight from the unconscious. We didn’t need words or intellect — all we did was tap into the dynamic bond between us that reverberated with unlearned goodness; a true soul connection that was laid down effortlessly, as natural as breathing.

It was one of the most profound experiences of my life. The masters don’t know what the big dogs understand.

I wish it was that easy with people.

So what’s all this got to do with resolutions? Here’s my new dogma, my pit bull mentality.

Especially now, when it seems like there are "gathering clouds and raging storms" all around — it is crucial to make the unconscious decision to be happy.

But — because emotions like happiness, anger, love, hate, fear, joy are intangible and difficult to grasp without confronting obstacles like ego or the distraction of thought — it’s even more important to connect with Universal energy, the wellspring for artists, writers, poets, philosophers, prophets and mutts everywhere. It’s the eternal sunshine that Brian Wilson tapped into, though I’m sure he couldn’t explain the process to you anymore than a dog can explain why it barks at the moon. That energy is real, powerful and it exists, underneath the veil of emotions.

I know a lot of people that try to plug into it with meditation, yoga, religion, music, drugs, booze, dance, sex — and those are all a path, some better than others. I've gone down many of them, but I’m ready for the dog spirit to lead me to the source.

In terms of balance, I’m not talking about achieving the sort of unbearable happiness you encounter when you meet someone trying so hard to be totally positive. That’s an illusion.

Real balance is accepting the side that lurks in the shadows, integrating the fears and dark desires with the light, to make a whole. There’s no sunshine without darkness; otherwise how could you see the difference? It’s sensing when to bare your teeth back and bite, or roll over and show belly. While heeding instinct, you can still master impulse. When the night is darkest, I’ll follow the Dog Star.

Without the cosmic flow or the ability to balance, is it ever possible to live in the moment? I don’t think so. You’ve got to tap the unconscious to have complete awareness that each moment is the only reality, and it’s up to you how you use it. There’s no time to think in a moment — only to be, to rely on instinct. But you have to trust your own nature to come shining through.

That’s mad dog yin & yang for you.

There are many historical references to dog mythology. Here is a story I found that think proves my point:

“One version of a memorable dog story from Indian literature involves the heroic Pandava brothers of the epic Mahabharata. When King Dharmaraja, his brothers and all their families set off on their final journey up the Himalayas, each one fell until only Dharmaraja and his companion dog were left.

As they neared the top of the mountain, they were greeted by the god Indra in his chariot. The god lauded Dharmaraja and said that he had earned a place in heaven. He bid the king to board the chariot and as he did Dharmaraja beckoned for his canine friend. However, Indra protested saying that dogs were not allowed in his heaven.

Upon hearing this Dharmaraja said that he could not abandon such a faithful companion who depended on him. He declared he would rather stay on earth than abandon his dog. Finally Indra relented and both were taken to heaven. Upon arriving the dog was transformed into the god Dharma, the lord of the correct way of living.”

Without hesitation, I will tell you that if Bear and Peg don’t greet me at the gates of Heaven, then I’m not going in. Not that they want me there anyway.

This bitch has learned a New Year trick or two, but I’ll let Iggy howl the last word.