Karen… she was one of those people who felt like she’d been here before—an old soul wrapped in California sunlight and quiet magic. There was a knowing in her eyes, but also this gleeful mischief—like she was in on a cosmic joke the rest of us hadn’t caught yet.
We connected immediately. Not in the forced way people do when fame introduces them, but in that rare, gentle rhythm where two hearts just recognize each other. Humor, especially—sharp, weird, wonderfully dry. We’d laugh until it hurt, sometimes over things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. But to us? Perfect.
What I loved most was the unspoken understanding. No long explanations about the strange machinery of the lives we lived—what it meant to be known, to be watched, to be expected. We didn’t have to decode it. We’d already lived the same song. So instead, we just were. Just girls, just friends, just two souls at ease.
Afternoon teas in hotel robes. Impromptu shopping sprees that ended in dessert. Silly, spontaneous moments—like the time we tried on ridiculous hats in some boutique and couldn’t stop giggling. And oh—those quiet evenings sipping something warm, legs curled under, talking about everything and nothing. That’s what stays with me.
She admired my work; I admired hers. No competition. Just mutual awe.
There was one thing though—a conversation we kept circling. We wanted to record something together. A song. Just one. We even said, “One day, let’s do it.” But life… well, it has a way of speeding past promises like that. And we never did. That’s the part I wish I could rewrite.
Karen was quirky in the best sense. Elegant one moment, a childlike Disneyland devotee the next. I remember visiting her first apartment in Century City. It was sophisticated, like a magazine spread… and then you’d see these Mickey Mouse posters or plushies tucked into corners. It was so her—grace and whimsy living side by side.
I think it was Merv Griffin who once asked us about our friendship. I remember saying, “We try to meet, but one of us is always running somewhere,” and Karen, with that mischievous grin, chimed in: “Yeah, our answering services are best friends by now.” That was her. Quick. Dry. Adorably self-aware.
We weren’t flashy. Weren’t trying to be icons. Just two women navigating the surreal with our feet still somewhere on the ground. I think that’s why we clicked. We didn’t take it all too seriously. Fame was a costume, but underneath it? We were still just… us.
She’d been through a lot. More than most knew. And yet she carried herself with such grace. I don’t think she set out to be a singer, you know? Drumming was her first love. But then her voice—it wasn’t just heard. It felt. It came from somewhere so deep it bypassed your ears and went straight to your bones.
Even now… before I used to go on stage, I had this little ritual. I’d close my eyes and ask my spirit guides to surround me. And always—without fail—she would be there. Karen. I can’t explain it. I didn’t expect her. But she’d come. Every time.
And when I think of her now, I don’t see a star or a story. I see a soul. I see her.