"Motherfucker was crazy," says Gloria Daniel, a girlfriend he kept on the side for forty years. "It was the drugs."
One night in the summer of 2001, after he'd slathered her in Vaseline ("He liked you all greased up," she says. "Like a porkchop") and wore her out trying to come, he gave up and left the room, and Gloria dozed off. When she woke up, Mr. Brown was standing at the foot of the bed in a full-length mink coat over his bare chest, a black cowboy hat, and silk pajama pants with one leg tucked into a cowboy boot and the other hanging out. He had a shotgun over his shoulder and a white stripe of Noxzema under each eye. "I'm an Indian tonight, baby," he announced. "C'mon, let's let 'em have it." Then he dumped a pickle jar of change on the floor, told her to get a machete, and went out to the garage. He took the Rolls, drove ten miles to Augusta, weaving all over the road, clipping mailboxes, smoking more dope, and screaming about being an Indian. Gloria kept thinking she should flag down a cop, say she'd been kidnapped.
Like she says, motherfucker was crazy on drugs.
Tags: gonzo, perversions
Current Music: Cabaret Voltaire -- James Brown ♬
Here I thought James Brown always seemed like such a rational, well-behaved fellow.
The problem is, he also left behind: Fourteen children (pending DNS tests);
Co-dependency can be a beautiful thing.
Lest anyone think said dope was of the varietal variety,
God, that sounds like stories Mom told me about Dad.
They freed James Brown so he could run me down, but the guy couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with four wheel drive and power steering.
I've said it before, I'll say it again...
Godfather of Soul-sucking indeed. Funny, he didn't look Portuguese...
A lot more excerpts from that article can be found here. It's mostly really sad and sordid and depressing.
I've got something that makes me wanna shout.