Jim

I just found out that my dear friend, Jim Marshall the photographer died. Jim was very generous to me and gave me four signed prints of his photos. He also drove drunk, carried a gun, and told me I "looked like a Chinese hooker" when I wore pink glittery shoes to lunch at The Cliff House. R.I.P., my friend. There's an interview with us somewhere ... he tricked me into meeting him at the bar at the Royalton, not telling me he was being interviewed. "Look pretty!" he growled. "I always do!" I snarled back. As soon as I got there, he put his arm around me and nuzzled me throughout the interview. When it came out, he was, of course, "with an attractive blonde on his lap." (I was blonde back in those days.) What a character.
He gave me free reign of his prints, letting me "shop" in his house. Can you imagine?

(Shown: two of the four.)