We had such special times. When Neil would call my name, I came. And we'd play. I made him smile and feel like he could fly, and when it came time for him to chase his dream of becoming the most amazingly popular craftsman of song the world has ever known, I understood. He left me with an air kiss and promised he'd write a song about our special times one day.
When he did, it almost derailed his career. The executives at Bang Records thought our song was a wimpy follow-up to "Cherry, Cherry" and "Solitary Man," songs which rightfully cast Neil as a dark sexual panther with a musky scent. One Bang executive inappropriately referred to "Shilo" as "Neil's kike pussy song." That hurt, but Neil was there to console me. He took me in his arms and stroked my silky imaginary hair, whispering tenderly, "Don't worry, little Shilo, Papa's gonna make the big, bad men go bye-bye." And when Neil up and defected to MCA, it was OK.
Admittedly, Neil and I have drifted apart since the Shilo Debacle of '68. Some of that had to do with my jealousy over his shacking up with tramps like Rosie, Holly and Soolaimon. But the other night, Neil phoned me up from the Aqua Jet aboard his touring bus. And I came.