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In late 1992, Hamzy got a book deal from a small Buffalo publisher. She was paid an advance of approximately $20,000 and she used the money to purchase her house. The book was to be based on Connie's detailed diaries, which she had kept since 1972. Coincidentally, the deal was brokered by Mike Pope, a friend of Bill Clinton's, whose company MP Productions did sound and lights for much of the 1992 Presidential campaign. Hamzy never met with the publishers, and though she received a rough copy of the manuscript, which was nothing more than a transcription of her journal entries, she claims she's never even seen a printed copy of the book.
"The Clinton White House was looking for a small company to front this thing," says Hamzy. "They didn't want this book to come out. I guess they thought if they gave me some money, they could keep me quiet and keep my story squelched." Hamzy adds, "Good luck trying to find it, because it don't exist." The book, titled Rock Groupie: The Intimate Adventures of Sweet Connie from Little Rock , has a publishing date of February 1, 1995 and an official ISBN number, but is listed as "out of print" or "currently not available" from every major retailer and used book outlet I contacted.
It's just after dusk, and I'm driving Hamzy home after her rampage at the university. On the way, she points out the various neighborhood bars from which she's been banned for some combination of reckless inebriation and public nudity: the Press Box, the White Water Tavern, Pizza-D-Action, the Oyster Bar. At her house, we make a plan to see L.A. Guns and Slaughter the following evening at the Riverfront Amphitheater. I ask Hamzy if she wants me to purchase tickets in the morning. She shakes her head incredulously. "Puh-leaze," she drawls, 'Sweet Connie does not buy tickets."
The next morning, Hamzy and I meet at Sticky Fingerz, a few doors down from the amphitheater. She's at the bar with a tumbler of wine. She places an L.A. Guns all-access tour laminate around my neck, chugs the rest of her drink, and we head out the door into the blinding sun.
At the venue, Hamzy leads the way through an employee entrance. The guard at the gate knows her name. In fact, every worker at the amphitheater seems to know Hamzy, from parking attendants and beer vendors to the production crew and promoter. As we walk past the stage, a roadie looks up from the drum kit he's assembling and waves. Another guy hanging lights in a cherry-picker yells, "Sweet Connie in da house!" She smiles, clearly in her element. I ask if she can explain her enduring popularity with musicians and roadies. "I've always been more direct than the other girls," she says. "I don't play the games. Most bands are only in town for a few hours. There isn't time for dinner and a movie. There isn't time for romance." She taps the face of an imaginary wristwatch. "My attitude has always been, 'Time's a wastin'--let's get it on!"
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