Tales of Rock – Lori Maddox – Part 1

“I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO DAVID BOWIE”

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IN THE EARLY 1970S, the Sunset Strip was a magnet for rock stars: Bowie, Zeppelin, Iggy Pop, Mott the Hoople, The Who. They all hung out in the VIP rooms of louche LA nightclubs like E Club, the Rainbow, and Rodney Bingenheimer’s English Disco. And with them, of course, came groupies. Scantily clad 14- and 15-year-olds like Sable Starr and Lynn “Queenie” Koenigsaecker sipped cherry cola, dropped pills, and evolved into pubescent dream girls for the platform-shoed rockers who could get anything and anyone they desired. 

MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES/GETTY IMAGES
MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES/GETTY IMAGES

 

 

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Tales of Rock – Sly Stone

He became addicted to cocaine among other substances, and supposedly kept a violin case filled with drugs with him constantly.

Sly and the Family Stone’s first four albums were the work of a man in total control of his talents and craft. By the time of his band’s fourth album, the monumental Stand!, Sly Stone was applying remarkable discipline to his work: writing, performing on, producing and arranging all songs.

But with the massive success of Stand! and the band’s subsequent appearance at Woodstock came a big change in Stone and, as a result, his band. He became addicted to cocaine among other substances, and supposedly kept a violin case filled with drugs with him constantly. Stone’s Bel Air mansion took on a cult-like atmosphere, with Stone dispensing drugs to his fellow band members and assorted hangers-on.

Some of the band’s next album, There’s A Riot Goin’ On, was recorded in a home studio here, with Stone recording much of his vocals lying down. He’d also allow groupies to sing over the album’s tapes as “auditions,” then once he’d had his way with these women, send them on their way and wipe the tape. This eventually diluted the fidelity of the actual recordings themselves, contributing to the album’s murky sound. Given all this chaos, it’s a testament to Stone’s talents that the resulting album is still one of the greatest ever made.

Stone made a half-dozen further albums of varying quality after this; by the end of the ’70s he’d started giving them sad titles like “Heard Ya Missed Me, Well I’m Back and Back On The Right Track” and the songs contained within were largely lame retreads of his earlier material. In the 1980s, Sly basically disappeared. He’d pop up for an occasional live performance, cameo on someone else’s album or arrest for cocaine possession, but beyond that was rarely seen.

In the mid-2000s there were hints of a comeback; he appeared with his old band and other musicians for a tribute to Sly and the Family Stone at the 2006 Grammy awards, but Stone left the stage before the performance was over. In 2011, reports surfaced that Stone was homeless and living in a van in L.A. He was quoted as saying, “I like my small camper. I just do not want to return to a fixed home. I cannot stand being in one place. I must keep moving.”

 

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Abby – The First 30 Minutes

In the first five minutes I learn that she’s actually interested in becoming an actress, loves dogs, and really wants to save anal for “real relationships” from here on out.

After Annabelle dumped me, I got talked in to online dating to get me out of my funk. (See:Annabelle – Guy Walks Into a Bar) Instead of bitching and moaning, I decided to just embrace it, and go out and meet women. I didn’t really lead people on. A couple of times at the end of the date I looked at them and flat-out said “We’re just not right for each other.” The first time I was blown away when she let out a sigh of relief and said, “Yeah. You’re right, we’re just moving in different directions. But huge thanks for being cool about it.” A fair number of random dates, fun fooling around, and general dating fun. Because I was really in it just to meet people and not hunker down at home and get depressed, I also had some utterly bizarre dates.

I spoke to Abby a couple of times online, but decided to meet and have dinner pretty quickly. She was funny, and sounded like fun. I got to the bar first, grabbed a drink and talked to the bartender. I actually let them know what was happening. Had enough time to drink half my drink, when she walked in. Happily, she looked better than her pic. Got up, introduced ourselves, nice hug, she sat down and belted down the rest of my drink. Okay… admittedly, not the strangest thing that happened to me that week. No big deal. The bartender comes over, and I ask her if she wants another. “Sure, but make it a double, but no coke. Just rum. Well, no rum. Just whiskey.” she says.

Interesting…. In the first five minutes I learn that she’s actually interested in becoming an actress, loves dogs, and really wants to save anal for “real relationships” from here on out. Oh, and she doesn’t like to do cocaine anymore because it really leads to her making bad decisions. Cool….. I’m now looking around the restaurant for hidden cameras. Another ten minutes, and we’ve talked a little about work, the crappy commutes, coolest client stories I’ve ever had.

Suddenly she looks me dead in the eye (bartender is within arms reach), and says “I’m going to the bathroom. You want a blow job?”

Thirty minutes in to the date. I check the bartender for an ear bud or body camera. Nope. Still no sign of hidden cameras or anything, the chick is just bizarre. The bartender is shaking his head “no” at me. I’m not against some fun freaky time on the first date, but in the first 30 minutes?? I decline. I order two more drinks (signal to slow it down). She disappears, comes back, and we talk for five more minutes before she slams her drink, leans over French kisses me and says “This has been fun! I hope to see you again!”. And bounces out.

The bartender comes over, and we just start laughing. It was SO FREAKING bizarre. I grab a menu, order some dinner. As I’m finishing my dinner drink, the bartender comes over and points at the door. Abby is sneaking back in the restaurant, and heading upstairs (split level place). I take my time finishing my drink, to see if I get any more bizarre tidbits to add to the story, but nothing happens. The bartender even went upstairs to check on things, only to find her doing a rail of coke by herself.

Bizarre blind date. Anal might have happened after the cocaine, but the blow job was offered in the first 30 minutes or so.

 

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Tales of Rock – The Strange History of the Beach Boys and Charles Manson

WHEN people speak about the dangers of hitchhiking, the warning is usually directed at the one hopping into the vehicle. But when Dennis Wilson — drummer for The Beach Boys — picked up two teenage girls in early 1968 and convinced them to come back to his Sunset Boulevard mansion to hang out, he couldn’t have imagined the evil he was inviting into his life.

Dennis Carl Wilson (December 4, 1944 – December 28, 1983) was an American musician, singer, and songwriter who co-founded the Beach Boys. He is best remembered as their drummer and as the middle brother of band mates Brian and Carl Wilson. Dennis was the only true surfer in the Beach Boys, and his personal life exemplified the “California Myth” that the band’s early songs often celebrated. He was also known for his brief association with then-aspiring songwriter Charles Manson, who was later convicted of murder conspiracy.

Dennis served mainly on drums and backing vocals for the Beach Boys, and contrary to popular belief, his playing can be heard on many of the group’s hits.[1] He was allowed few lead vocals in the 1960s, but his prominence as a singer-songwriter increased into the 1970s. His original songs for the group included “Little Bird” (1968), “Forever” (1970), and “Slip On Through” (1970). Although uncredited, Wilson helped pen “You Are So Beautiful“, a hit for Joe Cocker in 1974. His music has been characterized for reflecting “his edginess and exhibited little of his happy charm, setting it apart from Brian’s music. … By all appearances the happy-go-lucky Beach Boy, Dennis Wilson lived out the proverbial live-fast-die-young motto. … His wild side masked an underside that was, by turns, brooding, self-loathing, sensitive, and anxious.”[2]

Wilson’s only solo album, Pacific Ocean Blue (1977), was released to warm reviews, but a moderate commercial reception. Written and recorded over a span of several years, the album peaked on US record charts at number 96 during a 12-week stay. Sessions for a follow-up, Bambu, disintegrated before his death in 1983. Five years later, Wilson was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a member of the Beach Boys.[3]

 

The girls were part of the Manson Family, a cult led by charismatic criminal Charles Manson, whose young members quickly moved into Wilson’s house. Just over a year later, the family perpetrated one of the most shocking and infamous crimes of the past century — killing nine people in four locations over a period of five weeks, in what has become known as the Tate/LiaBianca murders.

The Beach Boys soundtracked a perpetually sunny California. But their rose-coloured tales of first dates, surfing safaris, and puppy love couldn’t have been in starker contrast to what happened in 1969.

Interestingly, it was Dennis’ spiritual retreat to India in 1968 with the Beatles, folk singer Donovan, and fellow Beach Boys members that sowed the seeds for this fateful encounter — or at least instilled the mindset that would see Wilson throw open his house to strangers.

In an article published that year, hilariously titled “Dennis Wilson: I Live With 17 Girls” (boy, did that living arrangement backfire!), Wilson tells Record Mirror: “I told them [the girls] about our involvement with the Maharishi and they told me they too had a guru, a guy named Charlie who’d recently come out of jail after 12 years. He drifted into crime, but when I met him I found he had great musical ideas. We’re writing together now. He’s dumb, in some ways, but I accept his approach and have learnt from him.”

At first Dennis Wilson was taken by Charles Manson, and his unorthodox lifestyle. Manson was a struggling musician, and Wilson provided him the types of contacts necessary to achieve his dreams of stardom.

Wilson introduced him to record producer Terry Melcher, who Manson later felt slighted by; his home was the scene of the tragic Tate murders after an enraged Manson mistakenly believed Melcher still lived there.

Wilson also financed recording sessions with Manson and his older brothers Brian and Carl, who produced approximately 10 songs for a debut album — the results of which most likely will never see the light of day. (The perverse possibilities of Brian’s nostalgic, honeyed production mixed with Manson’s message are almost too much to bear.)

In August 1968, Manson threatened Wilson with a bullet, and the relationship swiftly broke down. According to longtime Beach Boys collaborator Van Dyke Parks, Manson presented the bullet, telling Wilson, “Every time you look at it, I want you to think how nice it is your kids are still safe.”

A physical altercation followed — or as Parks put it: “Dennis grabbed Manson by the head and threw him to the ground … He beat the living shit out of him.” Shortly after, a shaken Wilson abandoned the house, never to return. He refused to ever speak on record about this period.

As a creepy postscript, a song Manson wrote in 1968, the ominously-titled Cease To Exist, was reworked slightly by the Beach Boys as the softer — but still eerie — Never Learn Not To Love, and released on the band’s 20/20 album in February, 1969 — hitting stores less than six months before the murders.

With Manson owing Dennis over $100,000 by that point, Wilson took the copyright and was credited as the song’s sole composer — meaning many who cheerfully hummed away to the song over the following years had no idea of the inherent evil of its actual composer, or the twisted back story that led to the song’s existence.

For a month prior to his death, Dennis had been homeless and living a nomadic life.[20] In November 1983, he checked into a therapy center in Arizona for two days, and then on December 23, checked into St. John’s Medical Hospital in Santa Monica, where he stayed until the evening of December 25. Following a violent altercation at the Santa Monica Bay Inn, Dennis checked into a different hospital in order to treat his wounds. Several hours later, he discharged himself and reportedly resumed drinking immediately.[20][23]

On December 28, 1983, 24 days after his 39th birthday, Dennis drowned at Marina Del Rey, Los Angeles, after drinking all day and then diving in the afternoon, to recover items he had thrown overboard at the marina from his yacht three years prior.[20] Forensic pathologist Dr. Michael Hunter believes that Dennis experienced shallow water blackout just prior to his death.[24]

On January 4, 1984, the U.S. Coast Guard buried Dennis’ body at sea, off the California coast. The Beach Boys released a statement shortly thereafter, elegizing “We know Dennis would have wanted to continue in the tradition of the Beach Boys. His spirit will remain in our music.”[25] His song “Farewell My Friend” was played at the funeral.[26]

Dennis’s widow, Shawn Love, reported that Dennis had wanted a burial at sea, while brothers Carl and Brian did not want Dennis cremated.[25] As non-veterans of the Coast Guard and Navy are not allowed to be buried at sea unless cremated, Dennis’s burial was made possible by the intervention of President Reagan.[27] In 2002, Brian expressed unhappiness with the arrangement, believing that Dennis should have been given a traditional burial.[28]

 

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Sun Stories: Jill – Trish’s Replacement – Hired

Trish lasted almost a year here at the salon. But she’s so unstable she can’t do the job anymore. I hope she gets the professional help she needs to deal with her mental psychosis.

We end up hiring Jill to work at the salon. At this point Achilles doesn’t know about the incident with Trish. Jill has industry experience and catches on quickly and is happy to have a job. She’s sweet to the customers and is up for any task in the salon. Being a former client, she’s happy to now enjoy the benefits of free tanning!

I really get to know her and she seems to have had a difficult life based on some bad decisions. I also discover that she’s had some real problems with alcohol. She’s currently living in a halfway house with some other women in recovery. I don’t know what she did to get there but at least she’s trying to get better.

Halfway Houses are transitional living places for those in recovery from drugs or alcohol. In some states, because of legal requirements, the term “sober living house” is used. Some people go to halfway houses from a treatment center, prison, or a homeless situation, while others go there to be in a sober and clean environment to begin the recovery process. Some residents are in halfway houses due to court orders.

Most halfway houses require residents to pass breathalyzer and drug screening tests as they aren’t equipped to deal with withdrawal symptoms from drugs or the DT’s (Delirium tremens, which are associated with severe alcohol withdrawal). If you can’t pass these tests, a treatment center might be your best option.

 

How a Halfway House is Managed

Many halfway houses are run by people who themselves were at one time a halfway house resident. The houses accommodate either men or women.

Most people who don’t seek recovery from alcohol or drugs will end up on “skid row,” in jail, an insane asylum, or dead. If you are concerned about a friend or family member, an intervention can be the best help for them if they’re not yet in recovery. The good news is that 85% of interventions that are properly carried out result in the person seeking some kind of help. Most interventions carried out without help from people well versed in addiction fail.

 

Determining the Primary Addiction

In seeking recovery from drugs or alcohol, it is important to identify which is the primary addiction — alcohol or drugs. Due to economics, halfway houses are set up to house both alcoholics and drug addicts. In order to obtain optimal results, the person in recovery should focus on either the program of Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous, depending on what the primary addiction is. A person who is addicted to alcohol will relate better to AA and the person addicted primarily to drugs will relate better to fellow drug addicts.

 

How to Choose a Halfway House

In choosing a Halfway House, ask around local AA or NA meetings about those with good reputations, or check with a respected treatment center. Also, choose one that is reasonably near the meetings you will be attending. Most halfway houses accommodate residents until 6 months to a year or two of continuous sobriety or clean time. Houses that have a range or recovery time for people currently residing at the house, such as someone with one month, 90 days, and 6 months are preferable to one with all residents with under 30 days in recovery. Also, those with a live-in manager are generally better choices. Some houses have a democratic process, in which the residents choose who will be coordinator or manager.

I hope everything works out with Jill on our team!

 

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Sun Stories: Trish – Crash and Burn

When we last left our hero he was forced to go in and run the salon after Trish simply didn’t show up for work. He had plans with Cherie after 3pm that day and needed to do some chores to prepare for her arrival. But Because of Trish’s disappearing act, he now had to change his plans. He was working at the salon when suddenly Trish burst through the front door.

“I’m so sorry…”

She’s visibly upset on the verge of tears. She runs to me and hugs me.

“What happened?”

“I was arrested last night.”

“What? How? Why?”

“Well, I’ve been feeling kind of fucked up lately in my life. I used to do a lot of coke when I was in college and I just felt like I needed a lift to do some artwork I was working on.”

(Sounds like my buddy, Johnny R. He has all of these thoughts in his head but feels like he needs to drink, do coke and/or do some Adderall to put pen to page. When in reality, he’s not much different than Trish. You don’t need any of that shit to create. You just need to create everyday. But neither of them can focus long enough to make anything of any significant value because they don’t do it consistently. Simple as that.)

“So what did you do?”

I called this hot black guy I met at Ray’s Birthday Bar a few weeks ago. I asked him if he had anything and he said come down to where he was. Normally I would ask the person to deliver it to my house so I didn’t have to go somewhere that I’m unfamiliar with.”

“So then what happened and why did you break your rule?”

“Because he was really good looking.”

“Ahh… Trish yields to beauty! I can relate. So then what?”

“I ride my bike down to where he is and he tells me he has to go in some bar and get it. He asks me to come in but I tell him I’ll wait outside. After a bit, he comes out and we make the exchange.”

“So what happened next?”

“He goes back inside the bar and I start pedaling home on my bike and some guy gets out of his car and tells me to stop.”

“Was he dressed like a policeman?”

“No. But you could tell he was a cop. You just know. I’m like… What the fuck? The dude shows me his badge and they place me under arrest for conspiracy to commit a crime and possession of an illegal controlled substance.

“Whoa…”

“Yea, they also pinch the dude I bought it from. Apparently it’s his second offense so he’ll probably get sent up the river for three to five.”

“Why do I suddenly feel like I’m on some TV cop show?”

“So that’s where I’ve been for the last eighteen hours. In the can.”

“That sucks. This was supposed to be your last day here too. I’ve already taken your shift. You’re probably in no shape to work today.”

“Yea. Is it okay if I just hang out and help a bit?”

“Sure.”

“Then I’m going to go get my bike. I’ll probably UBER down to South Philly later and retrieve it… if it’s still there.”

So Trish cleaned a few beds, and later left to get her bicycle. She returned saying that she was happy the bike hadn’t been stolen or vandalized and that this had been a wake up call for her. She did some sweeping at the end of the shift and she an I walked back to our building in Rittenhouse.

I felt bad for Trish, although Achilles would later simply call her an asshole or a crackhead for not showing up for her shift and not calling or texting. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time Friday night. Think of how much cocaine was bought and sold and consumed last night in this city. She hadn’t bought coke since she was in college. Here she was at nearly 28 years old and gets pinched the first time she tries to get some again.

She took several Saturday’s off and I covered her shifts when she was shooting a pilot for a TV show. It was supposed to be a reality show about hot girls searching for the paranormal in Gettysburg, PA. That sounds like a load of shit, but if Trish were on a show and she was wearing hot outfits, I’d watch it.

But the pilot got made and the actors never got paid, and to me it was a waste of time. The purveyors got their pilot done and got free help to be in it. They will shop it around to some networks and if it never gets picked up that’ll be the end of it. Trish never sees a dime and is actually out more money because she took time off from work and the costs associated with getting to and from Gettysburg.

Now she’ll have a criminal record. I’m sure for a first offense she’ll get a slap on the hand, a fine, and have to take some NA classes but that’ll be it. Maybe she can even get it expunged from her record in the future.

Trish didn’t want me to write about this, but it happened. It happened on her very last day at the salon. She blew it with a single bad decision. I’m simply writing about what happened on the day I was supposed to be off and spend time with my beloved. My girlfriend who I never get to see as much as I would like to and had to tell Cherie to push back our union. No, you can’t come and see me at 3pm. I don’t care what arrangements you’ve had to make with your family, your job or your son, because Trish fucked up. But when people make bad decisions they never realize how it will affect the people around them. That’s why they are who they and why they are where they are in their lives. I need to leave those people behind to wallow in their failure.

Trish still can come to the apartment and hang with my daughter, Lorelei, and I’ll be civil. But she fucked me and Achilles and the salon. And for that, we are done with her.

But the saga is not over yet.

 

 

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Crazy Dating Stories: Nicole – Remember Our Date?

This happened a couple of years ago. I was rebounding from Annabelle.

I joined Tinder awhile ago and have had zero success finding anything longer than a few dates and some quick flings. One day, while relaxing from a hard day at the office, I was Netflixing my night away when a match alert went off on my phone. I started talking to Nicole and after some back and forth about our lives and basic small talk, we decided to get together for drinks at a local chain bar, Dave and Busters.

I showed up about 10 minutes early, headed inside and got a lay of the land. Families everywhere, ages ranging from Disney World screamers to high schoolers to adults and families. I was a little concerned about the choice to meet there, but I figured what the hell, I would see where the date went. She called me 20 minutes later, having gotten lost between the main entrance to the shopping center and the parking lot for the arc.

Whatever, the place is kind of tucked away in the back of the complex. When she finally walked in, she was DROP DEAD GORGEOUS, as in the hottest person I have ever been on a date with. Awkward hug out of the way, we head to the bar to grab a drink before earlier smack talk/bragging about arcade game skills were put to the test.

Everything was going great. We reminisced about fun places and events, talked about our current lives and work, etc. The conversation was great, and she was giving all the signs that she was really into me. Hand on my leg at the bar, running her fingers through my hair. Looking back, this maybe should have been a warning sign as this all happened within the first hour of meeting each other. But at the time I was thinking with the wrong head. We finish drinks, she grabbed my hand on the way to the gaming area and by now I was asking myself how this could get any better. We play a few games, we make out in front of a giant Connect Four game, and head to the bar for another drink.

While sitting at the bar for round number 3, she left to use the restroom. I’m sitting at the bar, and I noticed she had been gone for a pretty long time. I started to realize that maybe she wouldn’t be coming back, because in all honesty I had been waiting for the other shoe to drop all night. There was just no way a girl like this existed. I noticed that she took her purse and her jacket with her. Again, I started to slowly let it sink in that I would be leaving the arcade alone. If I had only been that lucky…

I got a phone call during my stay at the bar. It’s my date. Great, she’s calling me from her drive home. Hey, at least she didn’t just walk out and ghost me. I answered, and I can hear arcade games in the background. She told me she was lost and was looking for me. Apparently it is possible to get lost in the 50 feet between the bar and the restrooms. I found her and we headed back to the bar and settled up the tab. It was getting a little late, and I was ready to head home and succumb to the after-work heaven that is Saturday night and Netflix.

I drove her to her car, since mine was close and she couldn’t seem to remember where she had parked. God, this girl got lost a lot. We said our goodbyes, she got out and I drive away. I made it out to the main road and thought to myself, what the hell am I doing? This girl was obviously into me and it wasn’t THAT late, so I turned around in the hopes that I could catch her before she left so that we could hit another bar. What happened next I swear Hollywood couldn’t make up.

I found her passed out behind the wheel of her car. Not nodded off, not resting her eyes from a long day. Completely and utterly passed out. The sub-zero windchill and the sobering reality that I can’t tell if she is still breathing snapped me back to reality. I had to open her door and shake her awake when my window pounding and phone calls didn’t do the trick.

Sidenote here, I have a very healthy understanding of my state’s drunk driving laws, and while she could have gotten off, she would have definitely been charged after the police were called by the aforementioned families in the arcade seeing a running car with someone passed out behind the wheel. I woke her up, took the keys out of the ignition and took her back to my place where she passed out again.

I put her to bed and slept on the couch for fear of her not remembering anything that happened and getting the police involved when she woke up next to a stranger. She woke up the next morning like nothing ever happened. Small talk ensued on the way back to her car, and after I left I tried to figure out what the hell had happened the night before.

I thought to myself that someone who passes out behind the wheel of her car that quickly has probably had this type of thing happen before. A quick Google search of her name pulls up MULTIPLE arrests (and a really hot mug shot) for drugged driving in a state where weed doesn’t count as drugged driving. Great, so this has to be one of the big boys (meth, heroin, pills, coke). I won’t pass judgment here because shit happens, but this girl obviously still had a substance issue and I was also a little concerned. If she did drugs in the arcade bathroom and, had we been pulled over on the way back to my place, I would have some explaining to do due to constructive possession laws in my state if she still had drugs in her purse.

Stupidly, I decide to go out with her again thinking that it may have just been nerves or a bad reaction to vertigo medicine, and I was again thinking with the wrong head. We set a time, and I wait. And wait. I headed towards where we were going to meet in the hopes that I would get a phone call while running errands I had to do in that area anyways. I got a phone call from her while in the store that I couldn’t understand. She was slurring her words and I couldn’t understand a word she said. She finally called back the next day and explained that she had been hanging out with some friends but couldn’t remember anything other that getting bombed while watching Game of Thrones.

After all of that, and an awkward conversation where I came clean about finding her mug shot, she claimed that ambien was the culprit. I got out of any further contact because I wanted no part of what appeared to be a downward spiral.

Lesson learned: listening to your little head can lead to some crazy experiences.

 

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