Murder Mystery Weekend – Chapter 12

Ben made his grand entrance down the stairs. I don’t know where he got his costume, but it wasn’t from the Lido. Ben was dressed like … Assassin’s Creed. White hood, extra long black leather vest, with a black leather crossbelt. He had a long white shirt, with blue trim, wrist guards, and high leather boots. OK – I admit it – he looked pretty cool. But Assassin’s Creed? Really?

Eliza and Sheila came down together. I had already seen Ee’s costume, but I was certainly not tired of looking at it. Sheila, though, had gotten quite creative. She had a black kerchief on her head, and long dark hair hanging down to her waist. It was a wig! She also had a white lace shirt that left her shoulders bare, a lace-up corset, and a burgundy-coloured skirt down to her ankles. She had a petticoat, too, but it was transparent. When she lifted her skirts, you could see quite a bit of leg over the top of her high-heeled, lace-up boots. Add to that a black velvet choker … and Sheila looked pretty good.

– “Fantastic.” I told her. “You look sexy and dangerous at the same time.”

– “Good.” she said. “That’s kind of what I was hoping for.”

– “Love the wig, too.” I added.

– “You would.”

Leo finally came down, in his Jack Sparrow costume. He got a round of applause. I had to laugh – he had added the eye makeup.

Then Teresa came out, and she got applause, too. My ex was very, very smart: she didn’t try to upstage any of the players. Her costume was deliberately less sexy than any of the others. She had a tricorne hat, and a really cute dress that looked like a gentleman’s long coat, except that it ended in a skirt. It was burgundy color, with wide black lapels and large brass buttons down the front. Her white shirt was buttoned at the neck, so that she showed no cleavage whatsoever. The shirt had wide, elaborate lace cuffs. The skirt reached to her knees, but high boots and a thick, frilly petticoat meant that she was showing only a couple of inches of skin. For a final touch, she had a replica pistol tucked into a broad black belt.

Compared to Claire and the others, Teresa’s costume made her look like a pirate Mother Superior. She was attractive and authoritative, without the blatant, outrageous sexuality of the others. It suited her, somehow, as if she truly belonged in another century. Understated, yet effective.

– “Very, very impressive.” I told her.

– “Thank you.” she said, with her classic half-smile. “Are we all here?” she asked.

– “Everyone except Barbara.” said Eliza.

– “Ah. Well, then – everybody should make sure that they have a fresh drink.” said Teresa.

Barbara was last, of course. No one was surprised. She got to make her grand entrance. And she still managed to exceed our expectations.

Barbara wore a long coat – yes, burgundy-colored. What was it with that colour for pirate costumes? The wide lapels were black, and the lining of her coat featured a swirling pattern of black and gold. She had a white shirt with cuffs like Teresa’s, but the resemblance ended there; Barbara’s neckline was scandalously low, showing an insane amount of cleavage. I wanted to get a ruler or a tape measure and stick my hands in there.

She had a tight little corset lifting and supporting her large boobs, and a gold chain around her neck. There may have been a pendant attached, but I couldn’t see one, as it disappeared into the enormous crevasse between her tits. Her belt had a large, ornate brass buckle. Her legs were snugly sheathed in black tights, tucked into knee-high black high-heeled boots. On top, she had a wide-brimmed black felt hat with a fake ostrich feather.

And would you believe it: she was wearing an eye patch.

Barbara must have spent hours combing all of the costume shops to find the most outrageously sexy components they had. She also wore makeup to match – lots and lots around her eyes. She came down the stairs, slowly, and struck a pose.

I would have bet a sizeable fortune that every guy there was hard as a rock. It wasn’t just Barbara – though she could have cause a riot in a monastery – it was the combined effect of six very attractive women dressed to match a variety of male fantasies.

 

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Tales of Rock – SPECIAL REPORT – Dick Dale, Surf Guitar Legend, Dead At 81

Dick Dale, the surf rock pioneer who took reverb to new levels, died on Saturday night. He was 81. The guitarist’s health had declined over the past 20 years due to a number of illnesses, including diabetes, kidney disease and rectal cancer. The news was confirmed to NPR by Dusty Watson, a drummer who worked and toured with Dale between 1995 and 2006, who says he spoke with Dale’s wife, Lana Dale. No cause was given.

Dale, born Richard Anthony Monsour in 1937, changed the sound of rock and roll in the early 1960s when he upped the reverb on his guitar and applied the Arabic scales of his father’s native Lebanon. Born and originally raised in Massachusetts, he found his aesthetic when his family moved to Orange County, California in 1954 — where he took up surfing.

His high-energy interpretation of an old song from Asia Minor, “Misirlou” (Egyptian Girl), became the most famous song of surf rock: He had learned the tune from his Lebanese uncles, who played it on the oud.

“I started playing it,” Dale, who had started out as a drummer, told NPR in a 2010 interview, “and I said, ‘Oh no, that’s too slow.’ And I thought of Gene Krupa’s drumming, his staccato drumming… When we went to California, I got my first guitar, but I was using this rocket-attack, Gene Krupa rhythm on the guitar.”

And that wildfire-tempo song became his signature: Dale self-released “Misirlou” as a single on Deltone Records in 1962, which led in part to a deal with Capitol Records to distribute his first album, 1962’s Surfer’s Choice. Dale’s first album for Capitol was 1963’s King of the Surf Guitar; he said that fans at an early show came up with the honorary moniker.

Dale’s collaborations with guitar inventor Leo Fender also made sonic history. “I met a man called Leo Fender,” he told NPR, “who is the Einstein of the guitar and the amplifiers. He says, ‘Here, I just made a guitar, it’s a Stratocaster. You just beat it to death and tell me what you think. So when I started playing on that thing, I wanted to get it to be as loud as I could, like Gene Krupa drums. And as I was surfing, when the waves picked me up and took me through the tubes, I would get that rumble sound.”

Fender and Dale also worked together on amplifiers, Dale told Fresh Air‘s Terry Gross in 1993. “I wanted to get a fat, thick, deep sound,” Dale remarked.

Fender kept trying options, but Dale still wasn’t satisfied. “We kept on making all these adjustments with output transformers, with speakers,” Dale told Fresh Air, “and that’s how I blew up over 48 speakers and amplifiers. They’d catch on fire, the speakers would freeze, the speakers would tear from the coils … So he went back to the drawing board came up and invented the Dick Dale Showman amplifier, and the dual Showman amplifier with the 15 inch Lansing speaker. That was the end result … along with the creations that we did on the Stratocaster guitar, making it a real thick body because the thicker the wood, the purer the sound.”

Three decades after he first released his most famous tune, Dale and “Misirlou” had a wave of resurgence after the song was featured in the opening credits of Quentin Tarantino’s 1994 film Pulp Fiction. The movie’s soundtrack sold more than 3 million copies and helped put surf rock — and Dale himself — in front of a new generation of music fans. New compilations were issued and he was even booked on the 1996 Warped Tour.

Over the decades that followed, he released two more albums and kept playing in front of live audiences. “I make my guitar scream with pain or pleasure or sensuality,” he told NPR. “It makes people move their feet and shake their bodies. That’s what music does.”

Rest in peace, Mr. Dale. You will be missed, but your unique sound lives forever.

 

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Kimiko – Chapter 5 – Text to Fix

After my wonderful first date with the lovely Kimiko, I really wanted to see her again. I was going to try to set something up for a lunch this week. I also sent her a link to this great documentary about the Asian Bank, “Abacus: Small Enough Too Jail.” (If you’ve been following this blog you’ll know that I saw that film in the theater with Ambria.)

I’m texting her.

“Thank you! I’m still at work! How are you?”

“I’m at the salon working too! I’ve been thinking about our fun date last night!”

“Another busy day, right?

“Not too busy here tonight. Rain is keeping people away.”

“Yea…Wholefoods too.”

 

Tuesday

“Would you still be up for lunch on Thursday?”

“Hey, I’m done work now. Thursday I have a doctor’s appointment at 2pm. What time is good for you?”

“Shall we do 11 or 11:30? What works best for you?”

“My doctor’s office is in Moorestown. Quite far away from the city. You have to work Thursday?

“3 to 8pm. Looking at a property at 10am.”

“Oh.”

“Weekend better for you?”

“I guess so.”

“Aww! Saturday after 5 or Sunday after 4pm? Movies? Or I could do a Zip Car and come to Jersey. Or I could hop on Patco and we could dine in Haddonfield or Collingswood.”

“Great! We can talk later.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________

The week passes and so does the weekend. I don’t hear from her at all. I really like Kimiko and want to hang out with her again. (And kiss her again!) My schedule just really sucks right now.  I decide to make another attempt.

Monday

“Hi Kimiko. Have you lost interest?”

“You didn’t text me last week?!”

“I wanted to after I came up with a few solutions on how we could meet and I didn’t hear from you for the weekend. Maybe it was a misunderstanding.”

“You know what, it’s a misunderstanding, because I didn’t hear from you again, I thought you went on another date.”

“No. Like I said I have been working a lot lately. I like you and I thought our first date went really well.”

“Thank you. Yea, I had a good time too.”

“So you’re still interested in getting to know me and you’d like to go out again.”

“Sure!!”

“Yay!”

“Things have been busy getting this business off the ground. But I want to stay in touch with you and find ways to spend time with you whenever we can!”

“Yes! Sounds good! Because this weekend I’m going to New York for a baby shower.”

“Sounds good. I’m so glad we chatted tonight. I feel so much better and I hope you do too, Kimiko.”

“Indeed. You know sometimes online dating just ends for no reason.”

“I guess, but I think we have a good connection.”

“Yes!”

“Awesome. “Well have fun at the shower up in New York. We’ll chat again soon!”

“Absolutely!”

“Thank you, Kimiko.”

So I’ll leave it there for now. Hopefully once I get through the next week, I should have some free time to see her. I don’t want her to get away, but I fear that if I wait too long she will.

 

 

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Tales of Rock: Iggy Pop

Iggy Pop has been around forever, and is responsible for that one song you definitely know, and several more you probably don’t. As a consequence of being around forever, there’s two distinct phases in his career: the drug phase and the post-drug phase.

First the drug phase–and hang on to your butts, because this is pretty nasty. Back in 1969-1970, Iggy and his original band, the Stooges, all hung out together in an apartment in Detroit, and, possibly because no one had invented the internet yet, they got bored and started doing a lot of heroin. A side note: One of the quirks about taking heroin intravenously is that after shooting up, you end up with a bit of blood inside the hypodermic. Which these guys started squirting out over the walls and ceiling. Imagine what that apartment must have looked like after a few weeks and months, and keep in mind that heroin is not known for being much of a motivator, and you start to realize why getting these guys out to a show might have been somewhere between difficult and your worst nightmare.

A Typical Day If You Were Iggy Pop’s Personal Assistant (Drug Phase):

You: No. I am not going back into that apartment. Because fuck you guys, that’s why. If you need me, I will be five thousand miles away and on fire, because I quit, and because I will light myself on fire having seen what I just saw. Fuck.

Since then, Iggy’s cleaned up a bit, which should make shepherding him around a lot easier of a chore. And by all accounts it is, aside from the hilarious contract rider he has for gigs. For those that don’t know, a contract rider specifies the required amenities that should be in a performer’s dressing room; snacks, beverages, that sort of thing. Iggy’s is one of the most extensive in the industry, and although it’s almost certainly a joke, has specific requests for:

“Seven dwarves dressed up as those dwarves out of that film about the dwarves. You know the one. Cinderella?”

“Two cans of red bull. Something with testicles in it”

“Cauliflower/Broccoli, cut into individual florets and thrown immediately into the garbage. I fucking hate that.”

Awesome.

A Typical Day If You Were Iggy Pop’s Personal Assistant (Post-Drug Phase):

Concert Promoter: …You: Look, you know the way these rock stars are. They’ve got an image to live up to…Concert Promoter: …You: And I don’t have to tell you that there is nothing more rock and roll than, uh,… drinking testicles and wasting food in the company of a dwarf.

 

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California Dreamin’ – 1982 to 1984 – Chapter 7 – Fun in Sealy, Texas

“Frank got out of the van holding a steel ice pic in his fist, while I remained inside the van filling my diaper.”

I love this one!

We left Louisiana and were headed west on highway 10. It’s like an elevated road through a swamp which was actually pretty cool. It had been overcast for most of the trip so far. I was hoping for some sunny days.

By nightfall we crossed the border into the state of Texas. We’re tired from driving all day so we decide to stay in the town of Sealy for the evening.

Here’s a little history.

San Felipe, Texas, sold part of its original 22,000-acre (8,900 ha) township to the Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe Railroad to create Sealy in 1879. Sealy gets its name after business tycoon and majority stock holder of the GCSF RR, George Sealy of Galveston. In 1881, Daniel Haynes, a cotton gin builder, filled a request for a cotton-filled mattress which started a company. He named this the Sealy Mattress Company after the town. Business grew exponentially, which led to more innovation and several patents, such as a machine that compressed cotton.

We were always looking to save money and this would be the first motel we would stay in on the road. I don’t remember the name of it but it was off the main highway. I suppose it was one of those places that was once vibrant and busy but when the new highway came in not many people came by to stay there anymore. Sort of like the Bates Motel.

We pull the van up in front of the lobby and go in. It’s a dingy, dimly lit office. Sitting at the counter is this guy who appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Drab clothing and long greasy hair. Sort of like some character out of oh… I don’t know, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?

He’s sitting there coloring. Yea. With crayons. In a coloring book. I swear to God.

So we fill out the registration card and give the guy the money for the room. I don’t remember how much it was. Maybe $22 for the night.

Frank’s been going on all day about how he wants to watch the Superman movie on TV tonight. “Fuckin’ Supermon! It’ll be brilliant!” he said in his Irish accent. I guess he hadn’t seen it when it was in the theater and was all excited that we could watch it on TV tonight for the first time. It was supposed to come on at 9pm and it was only 8pm so there was time to get beer, settle in and watch it so Frank wouldn’t lose his shit. (This is the Superman starring Christopher Reeve for all you youngsters reading this.)

So the weirdo gives us some bath towels the keys and assigns us a room down the end. (No one will hear our screams) We go back to the van and get in. I toss the towels on the seat behind me and we slowly drive down to our room and park in front of it. Over the door is a dome lamp emitting very little light because it’s so clogged with dead insects. I put the key in the door expecting to be snatched inside by Leatherface, But happily that doesn’t happen.

However, I do realize we’re the only people staying here. There are no other cars and all of the rooms are dark.

We go inside and I find the light switch on the wall. It’s a dingy little room with two beds, a night table between them and TV on a stand on the opposite wall. The room smells like mildew. I walk to the bathroom to see what’s doing in there. The bathroom is always a good barometer of the level cleanliness in a motel. Frank’s busy playing with the TV.

The bathroom looks ok. Not great, but ok.

That is until I pull back the shower curtain. (Oh a bloody dead body? Kidding!)

On the wall I see the biggest fucking roach I’ve ever seen in my life.

I’m originally from Philly. Born and raised. I grew up in Lawndale in Northeast Philly. Everybody had roaches in their basement. My mother would say it was because we live between two rivers. I don’t see how that had any relevance to why we had German cockroaches in our basement, I just knew those things creeped out me and my sisters growing up. I may at some point write an exclusive piece about my hatred and respect for cockroaches as a species.

But this thing appeared to be over two inches in length.  I was immediately terrified and looked for something to smash it out of existence forever in Kubrickian glee.

And that’s when it opened it’s wings and flew right at my face. I squealed like a schoolgirl and ran out of the bathroom.

“Wot the fuck’s up with you?”

“I just saw the biggest goddamn roach ever… and they can FLY down here!!!”

“Fuck off mate. We’ve got bigger problems.”

“Rats?”

“No! There’s no reception on the TV. How the fuck am I going to watch Superman now?”

I’m still trying to process the flying monster in the bathroom. Because where there’s one, there’s more you can’t see. Apparently what I witnessed that night was my first Palmetto Beetle. They look like roaches but have hardened wings so they can fly. Leave it to the state of Texas and the South in general to come up with some scary shit and then make it even scarier.

“We can’t stay here. Gotta see Superman.”

“Will you shut the fuck up about fucking Superman?!”

 

We decide that’s we’re going to drive back up to the office and tell the coloring book guy that we saw a bunch of roaches and the TV doesn’t work and that we just want our money back and we’ll go.

We do just that and after some back and forth with this half wit he begrudgingly opens the register and gives us back our money. We thank him profusely and hop back in the van. We’re on the winding road through the woods back to highway 10 only a few minutes.

Suddenly, this car comes roaring out of the darkness behind us flashing its headlights. I’m thinking, what kind of Urban Legend has been wrought upon us?

Frank rolls down the window and sticks his head out and starts barking at the driver of the late-model convertible behind us. I’m thinking he’s going to get a shotgun blast to the head and that’s going to be the end of it.

“For fuck’s sake, Chaz, It’s the guy from the motel!”

At this point my heart is pounding and I’m terrified.

“I don’t think this old horse can outrun him. Should I pull over?”

“Ya… Fuckin’ pull over I’ll see what your man wants!”

I bring the minibus to a halt. I pull the emergency brake but leave the engine running. Frank grabs this foot long metal ice pick out of his rucksack.

“What the fuck, dude? Where did you get that?”

“No worries let’s see what this fucker wants.”

Coloring book boy doesn’t know that Frank was formerly in the junior wing of the IRA back in Belfast. The Irish Republican Army is any of several armed movements in Ireland in the 20th and 21st centuries dedicated to Irish republicanism, the belief that all of Ireland should be an independent republic. It was also characterized by the belief that political violence was necessary to achieve that goal.

Yea. You don’t want to fuck with Frank.

He approaches the guy.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Of course the coward that I am, remained safely in the van filling my diaper waiting to hear the sound of someone trying to start a chainsaw.

The guy is saying something to Frank but I can’t hear the exchange because of the blood rushing through my ears in fear.

Then I hear it.

“My tails!”

“What?”

“I want my tails!”

“What the fuck is he going on about, Chaz?”

And then I get it. The Southern accent. He’s not asking about the hindmost part of an animal, especially when prolonged beyond the rest of the body, such as the flexible extension of the backbone in a vertebrate, the feathers at the hind end of a bird, or a terminal appendage in an insect.

I reach behind my seat. (My Gun? Kidding!)

I walk back in the glare of his headlights carrying the bath towels he had given us back at the office. I totally forgot about them!

“My tails!”

“Yes. Your towels. I’m sorry, sir. We totally forgot about these.” He grabs them from me with a suspicious look on his face. I apologize again and we walk back to the van.

Frank and I both sit in silence for a moment taking in what just happened. We see the guy turn his car around and head back down the dark road. We watch as his tail lights vanish in a cloud of dust and darkness.

I pop the brake and we both explode in fits of laughter. It was that kind nervous, fearful, relieved laughter. We had just experienced our first harrowing night on the road together.

We got back out on the highway and within a mile or so pull into the lot of a brightly lit motel with several cars in the lot and people out and around laughing and drinking on their balconies. We checked in and went to our room.

Frank goes into the bathroom. The place was lovely and clean. We’re both elated to be where were at that moment.

“Fuck sake, Chaz. Look at the bathroom! It’ll dazzle ya!”

Place was really clean. I hop on my bed and pull a couple of cold ones from the cooler and hand one to Frank.

“What time is it?”

“Nine.”

Frank leaps up and turns on the TV.

We clink our bottles together as the opening scene of Superman appears on the big color TV.

 

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Cherie – Chapter 45 – The Return of my Love

“I owe you for some birthday sex.”

Cherie has returned from Japan! She and her family have been visiting her brother for the last few weeks. He’s married and works in Navy Intelligence. This is the last time they’ll all be able to visit him over there so they took the opportunity. He’ll be stationed back in the States next year.

We’ve been in touch the entire time she was over there on the other side of the world. We used an international texting app called WhatsApp. It works great for chatting with your loved ones or anybody when you’re traveling abroad.

I was just happy that she and her family all arrived home safely and had a good time.

A couple weeks went by and there were some milestones while she was gone. We reached our 10 month anniversary, on the 8th and I celebrated my birthday on the 9th. She was in a completely different time zone so she said happy anniversary to me on the 8th over there and then the next day I said the same to her here in the US. (Because Japan is ahead of us by 14 hours?)

She said she owed me some birthday sex. I don’t think anyone has ever given me that before. They may have and I’ve forgotten over the years. But based on the sex we’re currently having, birthday sex may very well kill me.

She tells me she wants to come down this Saturday around 6:30. I’ve been working a lot lately so that’s the best I can do. She always has to get someone to watch her son which is usually her sister or mom. I finish up at the salon and head home at 5:30 so I’ve got a little time to prep. And by prep, I mean clean. Fresh sheets, Fabreze, give the bathroom the once over and replenish the candy dish on her side of the bed with fresh treats. Baby loves her milk chocolate.

She says she’s looking for parking so I head out of the house. She finds a spot down on 19th and Fitzwater. Perfect. That’s only a few blocks away and she won’t have to pay for parking. I start walking south on 19th and she walks north. (Cherie hates when I use words like North and South because it just further confuses her.)

I can see my love walking towards me in the distance. I’m so happy to see her! It’s probably been over a month and we’re both way overdue for some intimacy.

Finally we meet. We embrace and kiss. I’m so happy to see her! She looks beautiful of course. Her hair a tangle of raven and copper braids. Tight black slacks and heels. A sheer black top. She’s wearing a little jacket over it for modesty but she certainly is not wearing a bra.

We stroll together back to the batcave. The weather hasn’t been as hot lately, so all of the windows are open and the air conditioner is off.

Cherie once said to me that if she’s carrying her backpack then she’s staying the night. If not she has to go home in a few hours. Thankfully tonight she has her bag.

“How long can I keep you?”

“I should probably roll out of here around 7:30 or 8:00 tomorrow morning. My dad has to cook at a barbecue he and my mom are going to in Delaware.

“Oh that sounds fun!”

“Nah, I think my mom roped him into cooking because he’s great behind the grill.”

We chat, and I bring her up to date on my stuff. Work, the salon, the fitness center, my other job, etc. She in turn tells me all the fun they had in Japan. I had lots of questions obviously. I think I was just amazed that my girlfriend who was sitting on the edge of my bed right now was on the other side of the world in a foreign country just last week. I’ve done some traveling but mostly here in the US. I haven’t done any global trips in my life.

It was all very fascinating to me. I’ve always been interested in Asian history and culture. They just seem a bit more evolved than the rest of us. They certainly embrace honor and manners and I certainly appreciate that. (Plus I’ve always had a thing for hot Asian chicks!)

Then she starts pulling things out of her bag. First thing is a little blue box. She hands it to me.

“Got you a gift.”

“Aww! You didn’t have to that!”

It’s a little shot glass with some Asian symbols on it and the word Japan.

“I love it! I’ll do a shot tomorrow and send you a pic.”

“Well I know you like to drink so…”

Perfect gift. Thank you, dear! (kisses)

Then she pulls at this very interesting looking cylindrical bottle, with Japanese writing all over it. She tells me that it’s Japanese plum wine, and you have to wait 3 months to drink it, and can only wait 3 years to drink it. I take a closer look and it appears to have 3 or four little plums inside it. I don’t know what the proof on this wine is, but I’m certainly willing to find out. I guess the drinkability window is based on the age and pickling of the plums. (I’ll have to do some research on authentic plum wine.)

“We should drink it together.”

“That would be a new thing for us Cher. We’ve never shared one drink, ever.”

“Well we should do it.”

“Hey, how about for our one year anniversary?”

“Perfect. But you know with our crazy schedules it may not land on the exact day, but somewhere around it.”

“I’ll just be proud to know that we made it a year and we’re a happy couple.”

Maybe I could take her to a nice BYO restaurant for our anniversary and bring our little bottle of plum wine!

Cherie have never drank together. That time she and I went to Mix Pizza she told me if I wanted a drink I should get one. You should all know by this time that I love to drink. But when I’m with Cherie I just don’t feel like it. We don’t engage in any activities that involve alcohol. She’s not much of a drinker at all. We like movies, food, sex and whatever else but you won’t see us ever hanging at a bar. I don’t need to get her loosened up with booze. She’s always horny and ready to go. Besides, at my age, I don’t want anything messing with my signal during sex. Alcohol could affect my altimeter if you get my meaning.

Then she pulls out a keychain with Arielle from The Little Mermaid.

“We went to Tokyo Disneyworld. I know you told me that Lorelei liked the little mermaid when she was little so I wanted to get her a little something.”

“You are the best, Cher. I think she’ll love it. Maybe she’ll hook it to her bag she carries around with her.” (hugs and kisses)

I’m still chatting and walking about the room. Cherie smiles and lays back on the bed.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time. I’ve really missed you a lot and I’m really horny.”

“Alrighty then.”

It was an amazing evening and lasted into Sunday morning. Glorious!

I’m so glad that I have Cherie in my life. She is such a lovely woman, and an absolutely chill girl that never wants anything. I even had a few “wife” moments again when we were giggling in bed tonight.

 

 

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Tales of Rock – Kurt Cobain Kills Himself Twice

“Like Robert Johnson, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison, he was 27 years old when he died.

And let us not forget Amy Winehouse who also died at age 27.”

Few musicians’ experiences with drug abuse have been as complex and intense as Kurt Cobain’s. For proof of this, see the index of Charles Cross’ 2001 Cobain biography Heavier Than Heaven. If you check, “Cobain, Kurt Donald; drug use of…” you’ll basically be instructed to read the entire book. He started off heavily averse to heroin; during his formative years, a friend suggested they try it and he stopped hanging out with him in response. He eventually tried the drug; when asked how it was by Nirvana bassist Krist Novoselic, he shrugged, “Oh, it was all right.” But his habit escalated.

By the time Nirvana appeared on Saturday Night Live in 1992, Cobain was so deep in heroin addiction that he was vomiting and barely able to stand right until the time came to perform. He somehow pulled it together long enough to play “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Territorial Pissings” on live television. In March 1994, Cobain attempted suicide for the first time by washing down a large dose of flunitrazepam with champagne while in Rome. He nearly died and ended up in a coma for a day (Novoselic claimed that, mentally, he was never the same after this).

Within weeks he was back in Seattle, crashing on his daughter’s junkie nanny’s girlfriend’s couch and popping out occasionally to purchase speedballs and burritos. Cross quotes the girlfriend as saying, “He’d sit in my living room with the hat with the ear coverings, and read magazines. People came and went; there was always a lot of activity going on. Nobody knew he was there or recognized him.” By the end of the month, Cobain was given an intervention and packed off to rehab in California. But he soon escaped the facility by scaling a six-foot wall and, improbably, found a seat on a flight back to Seattle next to Guns N’ Roses bassist Duff McKagan.

Despite beef between Nirvana and Guns N’ Roses, the two bonded, finding a great deal of common ground as famous musicians from the Pacific Northwest with heroin problems. Once back at his house, Cobain reattempted suicide and this time he meant business. He injected a lethal dose of heroin and then blasted himself in the head with a shotgun, effectively killing himself twice. Like Robert Johnson, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison, he was 27 years old when he died.

And let us not forget Amy Winehouse who also died at age 27.

Another sad rock and roll tragedy. Showbiz is the only industry that eats it’s young.

Check this out:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/27_Club

A footnote from phicklephilly: “I never understood suicide. You get one chance to be here, why leave early if you don’t have to? Suicide’s for quitters. I’ve suffered with anxiety and depression my whole life. I’ve beaten the shit out of them both (without drugs) and now we’re all on the same side. Suicide is always a long term solution to usually a temporary problem. I just don’t get it, Kurt. I was in a band when I was younger. It was an amazing experience. Kurt, you play music for a living. You’re in a famous genre inspiring band. You’re surrounded by a gaggle of moist women. Your bank account is full and your nuts are empty. WTF?”

 

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