Re. Dennis Wilson, Lindsey's own memory apparently differs...
"I knew him pretty well. He even had an affair with my girlfriend! But he was a good guy. He was kind of lost, but I thought he had a big heart. I always liked him."
As for the book itself, I have issues with the veracity of some of the stories (and it's not always an issue of faulty memory but of deliberately altering or omitting things to create a certain picture, I honestly think) but my major issue has actually been with how she's responded to criticism.
Even though her own book says that conversations are constructed from memory she insists EVERY word is the truth. It's just a bit silly. Memories are fallible, even hers. And yes, she does go to the 'you're just jealous!' defense. At one point I commented on a thread with a collage of 6 pictures. She 'liked' it, and then the next day I was blocked and tagged/publicly called out like so. She doesn't mince her words.
I don’t know what trip you’re on, but that is a seriously obsessed collage that you just posted and I have also been told by multiple people that you “Just want to keep reading my crap” while on your freak blog you trash me and Ken Caillet. How in the hell would you know what is true or not in my book? I lived by Lindsey’s side for eight years - and Ken Caillat was also right there, right then - so when we write or share our stories on information with anyone through our books or on FB, you can take it to the bank that every word is true. My book is for victims of domestic violence - so you can keep you weird jealousy and fan worship all to yourself as I am now blocking you and will advise Ken to do the same. Go crawl back under your rock. I really think people who are that obsessed with ANYONE who is not in their own immediate family or circle of loved ones has serious mental issues…
For the most blatant example of selective story-telling to portray a certain dynamic, I think the AMA story is perfect.
Suddenly he leaped up like someone had lit a firecracker under his butt and took off after the rest of his fellow band members. Already a full minute in front of Lindsey, they were all gathered on the left side of the stage behind the podium, posing and smiling for the cameras as they waited for him to climb the flight of about fifteen stairs to join them.
And then it happened. Lindsey began to ascend the stairs. His legs looked like they were made of rubber as he started to climb: first one stair, then the next. With each step his legs were getting shakier and looser as though bones were dissolving in front of everyone’s eyes. A stunned silence fell over the auditorium as every living soul watched Lindsey’s progress in morbid fascination - for it was apparent to us all that the newly crowned guitarist of the American Music Awards’ Best Band of the Year was running a 90 percent chance of tumbling backward and landing on his ass in front of millions of TV viewers.
Too stunned to move, I started praying again. Praying that someone - anyone - from the band would go to his rescue. And, once again, my prayers went unanswered. Stevie and Christine, faces hanging slack in shock, stood in dead silence as they watched in horror his stumbling, bandy-legged ascent. Lindsey continued to climb, legs quivering… face beaded in sweat… looking like a character from a B-movie who’d been shot and was dragging out his last moments on earth as he mounted the steps to his pearly gates.
As if this spectacle wasn’t bad enough, Lindsey was not headed toward the podium on stage left. Instead, his superhuman effort was leading him to the opposite side of the stage. He was so cross-eyed, perhaps, that his line of destination was completely on the wrong side of the platform. Rising from my seat, I was on the verge of bolting to his rescue when, miraculously, he made it to the top of the stairs. Swaying and grinning like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland, he made a little bow toward his captive audience and waved hello.
Throughout this nightmarish exhibition I tried to keep a smile on my face. Frozen as it might be, at least it masked the sick feeling of dread that was coursing through me like electricity. At least I hoped it did. Just as I felt as though I might scream at the band, “For God’s sake, go help him!” Mick and John raced across the stage and grabbed Lindsey by the arms, guiding him none too gently to the podium.
In this version of the story we have Lindsey and Carol as 'outsiders', and Fleetwood Mac as uncaring. It's a theme somewhat repeated in her account/s of the epilepsy, etc. However, the video from that night gives a totally different vibe, one where Lindsey isn't left to stumble up the steps alone as the band watches on without helping.
