Grace Jones went postal in London at Patrick Swayze’s opening night in the West End. At the aftershow party 
in Soho the singer/actress slapped a paraparazzi and then embraced him kissy face-huggy bear. The London Standard said she’s 41 and engaged to a viscount 17 years her junior.
And what did Jones make of Swayze’s debut? “I thought he was fantastic,” she declared while not hitting our reporter, “I love Guys And Dolls as I’m from a religious family so I can identify with it. I would like to play the part of a missionary in the show.”
Strange.
I know Grace Jones. Not biblically. Even Arnold Schwartzenegger said she was a beast on the set and without a doubt she’s a panther on speed in bed.
We know each other from after-hour clubs.
Not the most salubrious settings.
The last time I saw Grace we were at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
The party was thrown by a mutual friend, a banker later indicted for insider trading. We were seven. There was enough blow for twenty. Grace and I locked ourselves in the bathroom rather than listening to three zooted investors brag about their millions to two coke-glazed starlets.
It was a bad remake of Tony Montana from the last scene of SCARFACE.
She and I did our own movie and spoke about friends from New York.
Rock sex and rock and roll
There was only the drugs.
That was in 1997.
Grace is my age. Maybe my math is bad, but 41?
Every one lies about their age and weight after 30.