45DAN AYKROYD
I GREW UP as a simple Catholic kid from a government family in Hull,
Quebec, so you can imagine how much of a privilege and honour it was for
me to have known this one-off, broke-the-mould woman as a great friend.
When we were both in our twenties, Carrie and I associated as intimates,
occasionally co-habiting in her New York apartment, Hollywood Cottage and
Debbie’s [Reynolds] house.
I met Carrie at Saturday Night Live. She and John Belushi became
instant pals. I remember how much she made him laugh. Later, while filming
Blues Brothers, Carrie and I fell in love and she moved in with me into a
penthouse suite in the futuristic, aluminium-clad Astro Tower, which I knew
to apologise for. Carrie had the most refined eye for art and design.
While in Chicago we obtained blood tests for compatibility from an East
Indian female doctor. Contemplating marriage, I gave Carrie
a sapphire ring and subsequently in the romance she gave me a Donald
Roller Wilson oil painting of a monkey in a blue dress next to a tiny floating
pencil, which I kept for years until it began to frighten my children.
One of the most brilliant and hilarious minds of our eon, Carrie would
say things like: “I love tiny babies. When they cry they turn red and look like
screaming tomatoes.” OR “This romance is finished the second you let out
even a threep. I’ll be sick for a year.” AND “You have a jawline, hold your chin
up otherwise you look like a tuna.” From then on I would identify myself on
the phone as Tuna Neck.
Carrie embraced my friends and I was embraced in warmly human and
Hollywood-glamorous emotional comfort, elegance and excitement. Debbie
would cook for us and Carrie’s tech-wizard brother Todd would take me on
high-intensity cruises in muscle cars and on motorcycles through Beverly
Hills with great young people, José Ferrer and Donna Ebsen. These were the
wonderfully inspired and smart sons and daughters of world-famous
show-business professionals whom Carrie ran with.
One Christmas Carrie asked Debbie to call Harrah’s security to arrange
a private weekend in a guest house on Bill Harrah’s legendary Lake Tahoe
estate. At this point our love was soaring on laugh-filled exhilaration and a
vibrant, wholly satisfying physical intimacy. Having obtained some original
Owsley from our friend Tom Davis, we flew up to Reno, rented a wagon and
checked in for three days of full-on weeping to Christmas classics. Certainly
one of the planet’s greatest occasions where LSD was a factor.
The romantic relationship ended the weekend of our final evacuation
from Chicago by Lear 24 with Judy and John Belushi to our homes in
Martha’s Vineyard. It was night. Judy and John went home. Carrie and
I went home to a house which Judy had purchased for me but unseen by me
until the moment of our arrival. It was a fixer-upper, mid-century oil-guzzler,
albeit designed by Hideo Sasaki. Carrie said, “It looks like it was abandoned
by Fred and Wilma Flintstone.” The next morning she asked me to drive her
to the airport and she flew to New York. Architectural reservations
notwithstanding, Carrie wasn’t shallow, we had a great time. She was also in
love with Paul Simon. She married him but I hope she kept my ring.