WITCHES, BITCHES, & OTHER THINGS I'VE BEEN TO ROCK STARS!

Nearly everyone in North America by now is familiar with the wild stories of infamous groupies and wives of the famous rock gods. We’ve all heard tales the debauchery and nights spent doing things average women could never imagine, such as mother and daughter tag teams, doing the entire occupants of a tour bus, sticking things up their vajayjays such as peanut butter, live eels, road kill, whatever…if you can think of it, it has been done by some groupie desperate to be near her fantasy guy. I am no such person. I was never the girl who would stab her best friend in the back with her stiletto heel or ask her to join us in bed just for the chance to be near my favorite singer. Fortunately some of these chances have presented themselves in the form of social situations and I got the opportunity to see the inner schmuck without having to sleep with him. If you think I am bitter think again. I am grateful. At least I am not one of the many faceless chicks he’ll never remember. No, I am the bitch he’ll hate until his dying day. And why you may ask? All because I just cannot tell a lie. If you walk like a jackass and talk like a jackass and smell like a jackass…baby….I will tell you that you are a jackass! You may wonder what gives me the qualifications to make such a diagnosis. I have three certificates that give me this right. Marriages certificates! So if anyone should be able to spot a jackass in or out of his natural habitat that person is me.

I grew up in Nashville so running into musicians is no biggie. They are everywhere. Just hang out at the airport or Pancake Pantry and you are celebrity bound. Keith Urban loves the Pancake Pantry and goes there whenever he’s in town. Everyone knows he just loves the Caribbean Pancakes; they’re smothered in coconut and bananas. So I suppose while Keith is downing those bananas Nicole is drinking a glass of water. I’ve eaten there several times and trust me it’s not the warm personalities of the waitresses that keeps ‘em coming back. Those gals must have been there when the place open a hundred years ago. In the seventies you could hang out at the favorite night spot of Gregg Allman, The Gold Rush, on Elliston Parkway. Talk about a dive or a hole in the wall then this place is it. This is a tired old place that recently it got new owners who did a little remodeling, i.e. some paint and new ceiling tiles. But one Saturday night in the late seventies I did happen to see a very drunk and wasted Gregg there holding court in a back booth and even as out of it as he was he was nice to everyone in the place. He would kiss all the girls and shake hands with all the guys who came up to meet him. Nice southern man. He really did have the most beautiful long blonde hair I’d ever seen. Gregg had the reputation of being an all around nice man but a hopeless addict. The girls here knew not to get involved if you didn’t want a junkie for a lover. Both the Allman boys were known around town as nice guys but after his brother Duane died in a motorcycle wreck in Georgia I think a part of Gregg died too. What allows me to comment on this one?  Certificate number one! I had just gotten out of a bad marriage to a junkie. So that night sitting in a booth in the back of The Gold Rush with Gregg’s arm around my shoulder I saw the same dead look in his eyes I has been seeing in my first husband’s eye’s for three years. Fresh from a divorce I was sick a sleeping with a junkie who would not remember a thing the next day. Something in his eyes turned my stomach. I had seen that look once too many times. Long blonde hair and musical talents could not change the facts. I took a pass.

A couple years later a friend was talking to me about a neighbor who needed a nanny for the summer and how she referred me. “Gee Thanks” was all I could mutter not wanting to spend my summer working really. But her explanation was that we would be next door to each other instead of across town so it would be a nice change. I agreed to meet the people. The next day she introduces me to Artimus Pyle the former drummer of Lynyrd Skynyrd. In the seventies no one was bigger than Lynyrd Skynyrd. This is until the day their plane fell from the sky. The day Ronnie Van Zant died the soul and sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd died too. Many have tried to keep that memory alive for Ronnie’s sake, including his two brothers. But sadly, to no avail. Some originals cannot be copied. Back to Artimus, I accepted the summer job as nanny because his girlfriend had just had another baby and she needed some help around the house. The look of desperation on her face when I met her sealed the deal. The first day I went to meet them I had my daughter with me so all the women and girls were in the master bedroom cooing over the mother and newborn baby. Artimus came into the room sat on the edge of the bed and counted the people and announced “seven women in a bedroom is good luck!” with a big out of place grin on his face.  A little inappropriate considering one of the seven was my thirteen year old daughter and three were his own daughters. This was the first of many such outrageous comments he’d go on to make. He ruled his house with an iron fist inside a hippie glove. He was a vegetarian and demanded everyone in the house eat vegetarian when he was home but trust me as soon as he drove out of the driveway those people headed straight for the nearest burger joint. They would beg me to bring burgers in when I came to work. I was their meat pimp! Almost daily I was sneaking burgers in the house, sneaking wrappers out of the house. It was like he held them hostage and I was involved in covert meat missions. Artimus rarely sat down or stayed in one place for long. He always seemed to be moving in some frenetic state. However I did once see him spend hours on his hands and knees cleaning and drying a hardwood floor with a white towel while a mountain of dirty laundry waited downstairs. I could not figure out why that family hated to do the laundry or if they were just afraid of the downstairs. I went down there once…I was terrified of the place. They were renting a big old house in the trendy hip part of town, near where all the Vandy college people hung out. But the basements in these old houses sometimes were not much more than dirt floors, dark, dank, and a breeding ground for every spider known to man. Big webs were everywhere some with bugs trapped in them in various stages of decay and being eaten. Scared the crap out of me! I didn’t care if they ran out of clean clothes and had to go naked. Come hell or high water there was no way I was ever returning to that basement. Obviously the family felt the same way I did because the laundry never got done.     One day I brought over some tarot cards to do a reading for his girlfriend. He came home early and hit the roof. “Put those damn things away” he demanded glaring at me. She informed me he didn’t believe in fortunetelling; so no one in the house could either I guess. But the clincher was when he would stop by the house after being gone for hours or even overnight to let the girlfriend and baby mama know he was going away for a few more days and he needed some things. And he was not alone. Sometimes he would have one sometimes he would have two women with him. Bring them right into the house. The girlfriend never said a word. I didn’t say a word either. But I was thinking one….putz! One time when he and his lady friends were leaving I happen to be near the door and I suppose he sensed something was amiss. He paused and asked what my problem was. I looked him straight in the eye and answered “No problem.” Artimus didn’t really like people to look him right in the eye. He got real close to me and said softly “good, cause it’s my house.” I nodded affirmably. He was right, it was his house and he could do what he wanted. Hell, he could bring the entire circus in there and have an orgy it was none of my business. But I’ll be damned if I was going to be the one to clean up after the elephant.  After he left the last time with two ladies, and I use the word loosely, the girlfriend cried. I asked why she tolerated such disrespect to her face. She told me she feared he would leave her with three children to raise on her own and that she had invested all those years in him. Give me a break! Women leave losers all the time. I left one after twenty five years of marriage. Certificate number two. At least I wasn’t desperate enough live with the jackass and wash his crappy underwear for free. I listened to Marilyn Monroe in Gentleman Prefer Blondes when she sang “…Get that ice or else no dice!” I’m not hatin’ on anyone’s choice of lifestyle. I am only saying…. Personally I don’t do a man’s laundry or cook his meals if I don’t have a state issued license and a lot of jewelry that makes me do it. I don’t work for free. It takes a lot of bribery and bling to get me to do the dirty.  I couldn’t stand listening to him brag about his golden days on the road while trying to reenact them or watch him hurt his girlfriend any longer so I checked out. By the way, Jackass still owes me for the last two weeks pay.

Note:(Lthis comes as no surprise to me! Out of respect for the girlfriend and the daughters involved in this case I will not use their names here.)

*In 1993, Pyle was arrested and charged in Jacksonville Beach, Florida with sexual battery against two girls, ages four and eight.^[10] Facing a potential life sentence, Pyle arranged a plea bargain with prosecutors to spare the children a trial.^[11] He received eight years of probation,^[12] and he was entered into the Florida Department of Law Enforcement's "Sexual Offender" database.^[13] On November 19, 2007, Pyle was arrested in St. Johns County, Florida for failure to register as a sex offender.^[14] He was re-arrested on November 27, 2007 on the same charge.^[15]

Wikipedia

It is here I would like to mention a few as sundry encounters like the time a girlfriend of mine, Kelley, a perky little blonde nurse who was dating a man who owned tour busses and in the mid 1990s he just happened to be driving one for Phish. The minute he hit town we hit the bus. Later at Municipal Auditorium and the concert to which no photos were allowed there I was backstage taking pictures. While the pit area was roped off limits I ventured down for some picture taking when some breathless young flower come running up to the other side of the ropes to ask me if I was with the band. Fresh from a romp in the bus with her boyfriend Kelley had just joined me to catch some of the concert just in time to hear the question and had nearly busted a gut. She knew nothing was off limits as far as I was concerned. “Oh Yeah, I’m with the band alright. One of them is my husband!” I proudly proclaimed to the little thing looked as if she were still holding her breath. “Really?” she asked wide eyed “Which one?”

I looked at Kelley and she looked back as if to say Oh God here we go! “The one in the dress!” I turned to the girl and stated flatly, not cracking a smile. Kelley lost it at this point and started laughing uncontrollably as I continued with a straight face. “In fact, that just happens to be my dress he has on tonight.” Then we both walked off with Kelley and I laughing so loudly I thought the band was going to stop playing and ask us to keep it down judging by the dirty looks a few gave us. I know it was dark in the venue that night but, come on! I was in my late thirties and the guys in Phish at the time were in their mid to late twenties but from backstage we could see her pointing at us and talking to her friends.

Kelley’s boyfriend also drove for Dave Matthew Band who played at Starwood but this was the make-up concert for the one cancelled when his bassist’s daughter had died of SIDS so the backstage was somber and depressing which is completely understandable. There was no laughing, no teasing and no fun as at most concerts. At the catering table little food was eaten and when it was no one approached or spoke to any of the band members who kept to themselves and were silent the entire time until the performance. The Band granted no interviews nor allowed press photos. The band was still in mourning and it was a sad thing to witness. After the concert on the way home Kelley said that she had just experienced the grimmest fuck she’d ever had. Her boyfriend had been so bummed out the entire tour. Every time they had sex she said she had the eerie feeling he was about to cry. Totally understandable but Kelley was happier when that tour was over and her boyfriend returned to his happy horny old self.

*A note about Kelley, I never in my life have seen any women perform as many love spells on any man as she did on that tour bus driven man. I’m not sure how well they worked but they certainly had lots of sex according to her. And I am want to take her word on this issue.

Several days ago I was stuck in traffic behind a blue Toyota with a bumper sticker which read “The Burning Times...Never Again!” Hump! A smile curled upon my lips as I thought to myself, wanna bet! You see, one of my favorite rock stars from my teenage years had just called me a fucking witch! In the fourteenth century when two misogynistic German monks wrote a little piece of hand dandy (for them) literature amply called Malleus Maleficarum, Latin loosely translated as The Hammer of the Witch. Armed with this guide monks and soldiers went throughout Europe on a rampage of torture, hangings, burnings, and killing women by the hundreds of thousands for centuries. Some of the most heinous torture devices in history were invented during this time not to wrench confessions from seditious dissidents and defecting male enemies of the Church and State but for dragging the confessions out of defenseless women of being a witch. The charge of being called a witch was so feared for so long that even today men still use the term in a derogatory manner. Yeah, something tells me he had not meant this as a compliment. How does one get from thinking some young band singer is the best looking thing ever to walk the planet to having him call you a fucking witch? It’s not easy but I’ll tell you how in case you ever want to try it yourself.

It all began when I was added to his friend’s list on My Space. Who is He? He is Burton Cummings of The Guess Who. I know everyone remembers American Woman, These Eyes, and Laughing, among several other hits they had in the 60s and 70s. Since live video was about as rare as a space landing in those days still photographs was about all a girl had to dream upon. Evidently this guy photographed real well cause now he looks like the bloated wrinkled tired old sixty one years old that he is. Time didn’t merely march on for this poor guy it marched across him, stomping as it went. But if you squint real hard and back away pretty far from the computer you can still see the faint remains of a once handsome man. Accentuate the word once because he just isn’t any more. Proof to fans that as we grow older we have to admit our idols grow older too. Though by reading his blogs you can tell he still thinks he is that young handsome dude. Burton has this fan club online that he calls his “Clubhouse” or The Faithful”. He blogs and shares stories of his glory days with them and they oohhh and awwww over every little thing he has ever said or done. He is working on some new music, dreaming of a comeback. Once a warrior always a warrior, I’m sure. But hopefully the stuff I had the dubious pleasure of hearing was in its embryonic state or else the old man of easy listening is in for a rude awakening. You don’t have to take my word on this just visit his My Space page and judge the music for yourself. The new CD is currently entitled Above the Ground and is a work in progress and in my opinion will be for some time yet to come. It has a long long way to go before this work sounds anywhere near ready to be released. But back to his blogs….every day dribble dribble dribble from him from the road or home about how wonderful he is. Burton is not the least bit shy about letting his Faithful know how terrific he is and they is return do nothing but respond by commenting their praises of the aging rock star. And he loves it. How do I know how much he loves it? Stop blowing smoke up his ass for one second and BAM! You are out of the Clubhouse on your ass. I had only been in the Clubhouse a few months when I noticed there was a feud brewing between two other female members. None of my business I told myself. But in true Southern Diva Fashion I just cannot keep out of a good fashioned old cat fight. One of the harassed ladies was a friend and asked if I would help so I said “Of course I will be happy to help out a friend who is being harassed by a hag… er ..I mean another woman. I wrote the blog setting the whole scene in a high school. That seemed quite appropriate to me considering how stupid they were all acting. Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens in High School Musical had more maturity than this group of forty through sixty somethings. The day after I posted the new blog Burton emails me and asks what the blog was all about and what did I know. I told him. He was stuck between an old lover in the process of becoming a new friend and a loyal friend who was his first online contact. They were both vying for Queen Bee status and one just happens to be more ruthless. He seemed fine as if he understood. Than after talking to the old cow’s friends Burton wrote this scathing blog blasting all of us for “betraying him” and “playing him” and acting like he was some kind of stupid fool. In a fit of anger he deletes us all. Fine by me. I was only a fan. I think I only have one CD of his. Worry not, I will survive.  I didn’t love the guy or anything. The problem was that my friend who was caught in the middle of his anger cared for him deeply. The other woman in the blog loved him too. He made everyone pay. No further questions. I wrote an Open Letter of Apology to The Clubhouse mostly for my friend’s sake. But nothing. I removed the offensive blog, Nada! So another girl from the Clubhouse saw the Open letter and gave me Burton’s private email address with the proviso I would never say who provided it. She had hoped if I appealed to him personally he would relent and allow us all back in. I did not ask for myself to be allowed back in. I told him that I accepted my banishment I wrote the blog, the least I can do is stand by my writings.  However I did plead for the other two ladies to be allowed back into the Clubhouse because he was the world to them and they did in a way love him. I told him they had nothing to do with the blog that it was merely an observational commentary piece. His reply?

“You are pure venom. You  Fuckin Witch!”

Yeah it seems that after four hundred years the worse thing Burton Cummings can think to call a woman is a witch! Shades of Salem crossed my mind. Good thing there was no stake, kindling, and torches around or I am afraid I would be ashes today like so many women centuries before me. Also it’s nice to know that misogyny has not taken a break in four hundred years as well. I can think of someone who could use some sensitivity training too, old man. Or at the very least he could use some Wiccan information studies. It does not pain me that he called me a witch. However it does pain me that he called me a Fuckin Witch, which drove home to me his idea of women and witches in general. His attitude shows how ignorant he is of Wicca and any earth based religion for that matter. I hardly think I can continue on as a fan of someone who could use this term in such a demeaning way against women proving his mindset is no better than those of men during The Burning Times. Burton Cumming is proof of the old adage that the more things change the more they stay the same! Let’s all hope someone enlightens him before another woman is called this vile term in such a disgusting way. The Burning Times…..Never Again! We’re not there yet lady in the blue Toyota, not quite yet.