“I punch and kick and hit with a fury and, yeah, a homicidal glee that would have shamed a berserker. ‘Fight, you f*cking c*nt, or I’ll kill you!!’.”
In her…”memoir”…Patricia Kennealy refers to the friend who accompanied Kennealy when she went to Los Angeles to harass Jim Morrison as “Tiffany”.
Janet Erwin, a former friend of Kennealy’s, and who wrote a famous exposé about Kennealy, has since publicly confirmed that she was the “Tiffany” that Kennealy was talking about.
Same story told by two people who were present for this confrontation and two very different takes on what actually happened.
Strange Days,
by Patricia Kennealy, excerpt, page 394:
“I am sitting in a chair, drained, cooled-out when ‘Tiffany’ creeps out of the bathroom. She sees me sitting there and approaches, careful to keep out of reach. ‘Oh Patricia–’ she starts in, groveling, whining, begging for my forgiveness cut her off peremptorily: I hate handwringers.
‘If you must talk, let’s go outside in the hall, wouldn’t want to disturb Fuck-o.’ [reference to Jim Morrison].
Out in the hallway, we sit at the top of the carpeted stairs leading to the next floor up. No one else is around, the building is quite silent; it must be two in the morning by now. I begin to breathe again, think about salvaging some dignity from the wreck of the evening. Then ‘Tiffany’ blows it all to hell.
What a dear friend I am , she says. How much Jim obviously means to me, she says. Then: ‘Isn’t it better if we share him, instead of leaving him to Pam?’
I know I have heard it, but I cannot believe I have heard it. It is as if my mind has stopped cold. It is as if someone has imprudently pushed a button I never even knew was there. A big red button, with a lot of warnings around it in big black scary letters, that say ‘Danger!! Do Not Press!’.
I hear it from an immense distance: isn’t this the same woman who told me not half an hour ago that she didn’t care what star she fucked as long as he was famous, she’d rather have had Kris Kristofferson anyway? What is it with you people, do you not understand how much I love this man? That he is the only man I love, or will ever love? Him. This man. No one else. Him alone.
What happens next is utterly unexpected. I stand up at the top of the stairs, righteous fury surging through me, and filling me with the strength of at least ten. My sight goes pure crimson, flooded from behind with blood. And even in that screamingly impossible homicidal moment, when if I could have destroyed the world with a word I would have, that writer’s brain is hard at work, because I actually hear myself thinking way far away, ‘Wow! You really do see read! How incredible! How great! I must remember this! For a book!’.
But it really is amazing, it is just as if someone has popped a red filter over my eyes. But on to more important things. I hear myself shouting, ‘My God, I think I am going to kill you!” And then I go for her throat.
‘Tiffany’, frozen stiff by what must be the ghastly sight of this blood thirsty harpy lunging at her from above, blows it right there. Unhindered by petty resistance, I grab her by the arm and hair, smash her head into the wrought-iron railing and then actually throw her down the flight of stairs. She falls like a poleaxed steer, lies stunned for a moment–well, hey, I am pretty stunned myself–then crawls over against the wall trying to hide.
Yeah, right….I am terrified, even so that she will escape, so I just vault over the banister, drop down a good six feet to the floor, and kick her in the stomach. (that’s for making me sleep in the car that night, bitch!).
‘Please, Patricia, I don’t want to fight you–’ Well, so far you haven’t–I drag her to her feet, throw her against the wall and give her a karate kick in the solar plexus.
‘Fight, you fucking cunt, or I’ll kill you!!’ I illogically invite her. The timid counter punch she offers merely enrages me further, by its very effrontery. Oh, like that’s the best you can do, you little wimp? Please! ‘Tiffany’ suddenly wakens to the need for some serious self-defense as it rapidly becomes all too apparent that I really do mean to kill her.
I have not indulged in warrior pursuits for nothing all these years, besides, the direct approach is so much more satisfying than the remove of, say, a Luger. It is no little girl schoolyard hair-pulling either. I punch and kick and hit with a fury and, yeah, a homicidal glee that would not have shamed a berserker.
Yet somehow, all the while, I have the strangest feeling that someone (Jim? God? My higher self? Common sense?) is holding me back from my full force, which is probably why ‘Tiffany’ doesn’t end up a lifeless heap on the carpet.
Jim misses it all; I’m sure he’d have loved it.”
And Janet Erwin’s account of this very same “fight”:
“I’m just rinsing the soapsuds off my face when the door opens again. It’s Jim, with his shirt back on and carrying his cigarettes. He has the look of exasperation I’ve started to think of as his Patricia Look. Ask him what’s going on out there, he mutters ‘Who knows?’. Pokes around in my bag to find one of my purloined Poppi matchbooks, then sits down on the closed stool, props his feet on the edge of the bathtub, and wearily lights up. His exhaustion is palpable, and I’m beginning to feel guilty for not going around to the Alta Cienega as he asked. I’m not sure either one of us is going to get any sleep here.
That suspicion is confirmed almost immediately as the bathroom door flies open and Patricia rushes in, obviously expecting to find us banging away in the bathtub. The fact that the scene before her could hardly be more ordinary–Jim is almost asleep, his head propped on his hand, and I’m squeezing toothpaste onto my toothbrush–seems to infuriate her even more and she flies at me, squealing with rage, pounding on my shoulder with her fists.
I screech ‘Get her off me!’ but manage to dispose of my toothbrush before he gets his cigarette put out and when I wheel to face her she’s directly between me and the bathtub.
I give her a shove and she reels backwards, landing on her backside in the tub.
It’s a ridiculous sight.
But the sudden violence is too much for my frayed nerves and I burst into tears, fleeing into the kitchen to crumple against the cabinets, sobbing. A contrite Patricia fetches me a couple of minutes later and leads me to the couch, where I continue to howl as they awkwardly attempt to comfort me, one on either side, patting my hands, blotting my tears, ‘There, there, Janet, it’s all right, don’t cry….’, etc.
Patricia emerges a few minutes later, still dressed. Apparently she isn’t going to try to sleep. She takes my hand, leads me into the kitchen. We embrace, sobbing, a couple of maudlin, drunken women.
We go out into the hall by the staircase so we can talk without disturbing Jim or the neighbors. Once again she accuses me of befriending her in order to meet Jim.
Once again I grit my teeth and remind her whose idea it was that I should come to The Doors’ office with her, and that I tried to back out. Also remind her that he’s a man, not a thing, and seems eminently capable of making his own choices.
Also point out that from what she herself has told me he’s been trying to let her down gently since Miami at least; and again when she came out in December, and…and…and then I shut up, because I’m about to reveal that I’ve read her journal, but she doesn’t catch it because she’s flipping out again.
She does exactly what she did before, pounds on my back and shoulders with her little fists. I hunch over and let her flail away, taking deep breaths to keep myself under control. If I lose it I’m liable to pulp her or at the very least raise such a ruckus someone will call the police on us. I can just imagine the headlines. In fact I do imagine the headlines; that works much better than deep breathing to keep my rage tamped down.
It occurs to me too that if there were to be headlines Jim would be mortified (and furious) and so would I, but Patricia would love it.
Anything that links her name to his is fine with her.
She runs out of steam shortly, sinks back down on the steps, sobbing like a child. I sit down too, don’t say anything but just sit with her while she cries it out.”
– ‘Patricia Kennealy: ‘Tiffany’ Talks. Your Ballroom Days Are Over Baby!’, by Janet M. Erwin.
Patricia Kennealy had a book she was trying to profit off of, she was trying to convince the world that she is Jim Morrison’s “wife”, that Jim Morrison’s relationship with Pamela Courson was a nothing more than a sham and that she was the one Jim Morrison actually loved and Kennealy was also putting together her ‘Lizard Queen Productions’ website at the time she was writing her…”memoir”.
Janet Erwin was not trying to profit off of Jim Morrison or a book about Jim Morrison and Erwin never tried to convince the world that her own brief dalliance with Morrison was much more serious and meaningful than it actually was and, therefore, had nothing to gain while Kennealy obviously felt as though she had everything to gain.
I think I know which party I feel is being truthful.
The violence that Kennealy describes would have resulted in very serious injury to Janet Erwin.
An ambulance, the police, criminal charges and a possibly a civil suit filed by Erwin would all have definitely been a factor in this situation if what Kennealy excitedly described in her…”memoir”…actually took place.
And, sorry Miss Kennealy, I do not believe Jim Morrison would have taken any pleasure in seeing Janet Erwin’s lifeless body.
– SatireKnight
That sounds more like your sick fantasy.
But, don’t be too hard on Miss Kennealy, SatireKnight, apparently Miss Kennealy does have a more loving, gentle side.
Q. If you could be face to face with Jim right now, what would you say to him, or do?
Or at least her own idea of what loving and gentle means.
“People with violent or homicidal thoughts might feel the way they do because they lack power and control in their lives. The fantasy of hurting others is a power-based fantasy.
Feelings of rejection can be quite painful.”
– PsychCentral.com