Array Seka - Inside Seka

We were going back to L.A. right after the show on another private jet. He was still grumpy, sleepy, and of course had done too much drugs and alcohol. Not too many words were exchanged between us because he was pissed off. We were flying into John Wayne Airport. He kept asking me for cocaine and Quaaludes and I didn’t have any. Hell, we had used them all up. He had a bottle of Baileys in one hand and a cup of ice in another. I didn’t like his attitude so I just tried to get some sleep and ignore him.

When we got off the plane, Sam suddenly started screaming at me. He was yelling in Sam Kinison fashion how I had woken him up and there were no more drugs. He was coming down, and coming down from drugs is a terrifying experience and not a pretty picture.

I grabbed my suitcase and was trying to get it over to the side where I could call a taxi just to get away from the whole scene. But he kept dragging one of my bags and pulling it away from me. Meanwhile, he had me cornered next to a pay phone, screaming in my face, “You ungrateful bitch!”

Fed up, I looked at him and said, “Eat shit and die, Sam.”

He grabbed the suitcase and told me he was keeping it.

“I just want to get away from you. Keep it.”

I got a cab and went to my friend’s house to try to regroup and figure out how to get my other suitcase. I was so exhausted I probably slept for two days.

When I finally reached Sam, he told me to come to his house and get the bag. Now he seemed to be in a perfectly good mood. Billy Idol and his girlfriend were there and obviously Sam had gotten his “medication.” He apologized for being an asshole and I said, “Look Sam, I’m staying with friends and I need to go back to Chicago.”

He sounded like a little kid when he asked, “But will you see me again?”

I said, “Yes, if you behave yourself.”

I didn’t hear from him for a month or so.

Sam had been on Saturday Night Live and they went ballistic because he didn’t stick to the script. But he got such a great response from the fans that they wanted him back. I got a call from Elliot and he asked me, “How would you like to be on Saturday Night Live with Sam?”

Sam had demanded me or else he wasn’t going to do the show. I think it was his way of apologizing. They must have wanted him badly enough because it was a go.

Everybody was very nice and extremely pleased with me because I did exactly what they wanted. I acted like a total professional, getting there on time and seizing the opportunity. My part was to feed Sam grapes along with the Church Lady. I was in a sexy nightgown and they obviously wanted to exploit my popularity. The audience found the contrast between me and Dana Carvey in drag hilarious. It was a great moment. I also came out at the end with the entire cast. I was shocked to hear Don Pardo announce, “We had another wonderful show having Sam Kinison back, but the best part of the show was having Seka on.”

I didn’t hear from Sam after that. I guess it was too big a blow to his ego.

The Sam Kinison roller coaster was too scary for me to ride. I genuinely loved Sam and cared for him. It was fun, it was exciting, and an experience most people will never have in their life. Plus, I got a lot of publicity out of it.

When I heard Sam died, I was truly sad. I tried to reach Elliot to find out what had happened but couldn’t get in touch with anyone. Basically I knew what the public knew. I heard he had cleaned up his act, which made it even more tragic.

He was one of the greats, right up there with Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor. And an unforgettable part of my life.

Patrick was a very talented blues harmonica player who also fancied himself a photographer. He was about five foot seven with long, red, wavy hair that went down to the middle of his back, which he always wore in a French braid. He was very Irish looking with a fair complexion, freckles, and really, really pretty soft milky brown eyes. I was an inch or two taller than him, but the height difference never bothered me. For whatever reason, I usually dated men who were shorter than me.

We met at Kingston Mines, a blues club in Chicago. It was a jam session. He knew who I was, but I had never seen him before. I thought he was really cool because he played harmonica, had that long braid, a great laugh, and was very popular. It seemed that everybody in the club knew him. What was there not to like?

We started hanging out, partying, and soon enough, dating. It was the same old sex, drugs, and rock and roll, only with a steadier partner. I thought he was a serious artist because he kept saying he had an album deal coming soon. He envisioned himself a Bruce Hornsby type.

I had to go to L.A. for a photo shoot and he wanted to come along. He had some friends there and also had golfing on his brain. While I was working he golfed and socialized. And out of nowhere one night he asked me to marry him. And he kept asking. He was in love.

In a drug induced haze, I said, “Sure, why not?” It seemed like a well thought out decision at the time. Besides, I just wanted to go to sleep and shut him up.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was at the photo shoot, he arranged for a minister, a marriage license, the whole nine yards. I have a friend who still lives in L.A., and Patrick asked if we could have the wedding in his backyard.

I got back from the shoot and he told me, “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

Now, I liked him well enough. But was I in love with him? Not quite.

I woke up in a stupor, barely realizing I was about to be married again. With all the partying, I’d had maybe five hours’ sleep in three or four days. I stood in front of the minister in a fog. When he asked, “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” I didn’t even absorb it. I felt several people poke me, abruptly jolting me back to reality. It was then I uttered the incredibly romantic words, “Yeah, I guess so.”

That should have given me a clue right there.

After the “I guess so’s” were pronounced, we had what you might call a reception, with lunch served to the eight or nine people present, including my make-up artist, hairdresser, and a couple of other friends. As they ate, I went into the bedroom and slept through the whole darn thing.

When I woke up hours later, most everyone was gone. A dream wedding this wasn’t.

I had a couple of other things to do in L.A., so Patrick headed back to Chicago, where he said he’d move his things in while I was out of town. When I got back to Chicago, I was horrified to find my whole house rearranged. There were all kinds of shady-looking people in and out of there at all hours of day and night. It didn’t take me long to figure out my musician/photographer husband was actually a drug dealer. That’s why everybody in that club knew him. Was I ever pissed he was dealing from my house! I was terrified of losing my home. Despite rumors, I’d only been married once before, and Frank sold pot, so here I was again, reliving the worst parts of my life on an endless loop.