Resurrecting an old thread, but it seemed the best place to file these anecdotes...I think I would have beat the sh*t out of them, myself...
Almost as soon as the reception of Pacific Ocean Blue suggested that Dennis might have a meaningful life outside The Beach Boys, it all started to fall apart. In the carefree pre-Manson days, Denny and his pals Gregg Jakobson and Terry Melcher had a self-explantory boys club they called The Golden Penetrators, complete with gold-painted car parked on the Wilson property. And these were married men. Dennis was the cliched male who thought with his cock, and whatever advice it gave he accepted unquestioningly. But as ’60s consciousness exploration and freedom were corrupted by ’70s chemical abuse and indulgence, things took on an increasingly ugly edge. Ed Roach remembers coming to blows with Dennis at Christine McVie’s home when she and The Beach Boy were involved. “It was over a woman,” he admits somewhat sheepishly. “A ridiculous fight all over the house, while Fleetwood Mac were out on the road. Christine had bought an antique piano bench from Tallulah Bankhead, worth $10,000, and Dennis cracked it over my back. I jumped and grabbed the crystal chandelier to kick him like Errol Flynn and the whole thing came crashing down. It was crazy, and the excess fuel in our systems didn’t help.” And, it must be pointed out, the woman they were brawling over was neither Dennis’ girlfriend nor Ed’s domestic partner, but the wife of another Mac member.
As the ’70s progressed, the penetrations were no longer so golden.
But the Dennis Wilson who burned Christine McVie’s pool house to the ground – prompting her pointedly dry remark to Gregg Jakobson, “A bit excessive, your friend Dennis, isn’t he?” – was also the same man-child who had a large heart composed of red and white flowers planted in McVie’s garden, where he serenaded her backed by a string quartet. (That Chris ultimately wound up with the bill in no way diminishes the gesture of a man who, when he had it, happily gave away everything he had.)
A decade earlier he had confided to a friend, “I could probably never be happier in my life, could never make things better than I have them right now, yet I know I’m gonna **** it up. It’s not that I think that, I know it. I have to **** it up. I don’t know why. It’s just too perfect, so I’ve gotta **** it up.”