High Times

Last Tuesday, I took up residence in Southampton, N.Y., with Liz Derringer to work on a book project for the next two months. I've been working like a hummingbird, writing, editing, interviewing, transcribing, researching... to bring our project to life.

After leaving Billboard in March, I led the typical earnest search for a new job in journalism, but over the course of three months, witnessed R&R go out of business, followed by Vibe, Portfolio, on and on... as print pubs not only deserted decades of publishing, but flippantly laid off entire staffs and pulled the plug online. The notion of returning to a cubicle and waiting to get laid off again is obviously pretty damn unappealing. Hell, the few working journalists over 35 that are still in the business confide to me that they're praying to be laid off: either because they're weary of feeling the edge of the axe on their necks, or because working with our replacements—inexperienced, underpaid 20-somethings whose knowledge base (in music, anyway) doesn't reach past Britney Spears' "Baby, One More Time" 10 years or so ago—has made their association in the industry an outright embarrassment.

So it's onward from "journalist" to "author" for me. I am fascinated with every iota of this book project—sex, drugs and rock'n'roll in its prime time during the late 1960s/early 1970s with a woman who integrated herself into New York's Greenwich Village as a teen, married a rock star and hung out with the likes of Hendrix, Aerosmith, Rolling Stones, Warhol, Jim Morrison, Edgar and Johnny Winter... on and on... and became a famed rock journalist.

It's an era in American pop culture that never wears out its welcome. Every generation of college kids discovers the outrageous revolution of an era where music defined anarchy and a new-found freedom. It never again unfolded in such a non-self-conscious way and certainly, with today's fractured options for entertainment, we will never again see youth culture embrace such critical mass again.

I wake each morning and sit on the deck, surrounded by trees, flowers and beautiful green. Liz and I take her doggies Coco and Jasmine out to local vegetable stands, buy organic cookies and sit under a tree. We meet her eclectic friends, who are renting their Southampton mansions for $50,000 a month, and a wondrous collection of artists, restaurateurs, gallery owners, all with fascinating stories—and a delightful lack of pretense. Her roommate Sidi is a chef, and he grills for us and cooks marvelous meals.

Of course, our hope is that this book will find an agent who will place it with the right publisher and we will successfully share her story with the world (hell, I've already cast Dakota Fanning in the movie version as young Liz).

In any case, this is a fascinating slice of my life. I am so driven, appreciating every minute, loving the adventure and striving for—and believing in our potential for—success. As I read Liz's transcriptions back to her in narrative form each night, she acknowledges that I am delivering her voice as she wants it to be heard (we're writing the book with a double byline). The energy is so positive all around. We've given ourselves a two-month deadline and I treasure how I am moving her story forward, averaging 1,000 words a day, and then polishing a dozen times more, with relentless fervor.

My transition after being laid off from Bilboard was certainly dramatic at times—frightening, disillusioning, listless, consuming and hurtful—but I would not trade this time for another 10 years sitting at a cubicle. Amen, cool cats.