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6:56 a.m. - 2004-08-09


While we all know that Rick "Super Freak" James has now died of an apparent heart attack, nobody knows the true non-Hollywood story about myself and Mr. James.

Today, now that he's went off to that big crack house in the sky, I feel safe enough to tell my side of our sordid affair.

I was but a wee lad of 32 when I met Rick James. The very freaky guy had just recently been released from prison for kidnapping a woman and burning her with cigarettes while watching his girlfriend sexually molest her while the victim was kept chained to the wall.

Typical Super Freak behavior. As Rick will tell you, cocaine is a very powerful drug.

I was a reporter for the local newspaper and Rick had come to town for a stop on his "Comeback" tour at our local crack palace.

With most artists, you have to jump through a bunch of hoops to get an interview with them ... dealing with record management and tour managers and publicists before you finally get to the artist themselves.

Not so with Rick.

I had Rick's home phone number at one point. THAT'S how far he'd fallen. Had I wanted to, I could have stalked Rick James.

Fortunately for Rick, I actually had a semi-firm grip on reality and had no interest in stalking the loony bastard.

Anyway, I arranged an in-person interview with the guy for the afternoon of the date of his concert here.

His exact words?

"I'm fucking looking forward."

Which I responded with a wide open "Huh?"

Looking forward to the interview? The concert? To life? To getting another vial of Satan's Sugar Cubes?

The date of the show came up, I went to the hotel that he was staying at and was greeted by a bloated drug addict with really sloppily-beaded cornrows in his hair extensions.

"Hi," I said nervously, subliminally protecting my wallet with my right hand. "I'm here to interview Rick James."

"He's takin' a shit," the guy said. "C'mon in."

I immediately sensed the pungent aromatic combination of burning cocaine and super freaky feces in the room.

After about five minutes, a toilet flushed and Rick James himself stumbled into the hotel suite from the bathroom.

The interview was a great deal of mumbling on his part as he said he was "saving his voice" for the concert that evening.

It was hardly a momentous occasion and lasted maybe 15 minutes at the most. I was seen as a necessary evil whose mere presence was keeping him away from the crack pipe.

There were no naked white chicks chained to the walls covered in cigarette burns like I was expecting.

I didn't get a blow job from a crack whore at the end of the interview.

I was merely excused with a "See ya at the show" and a swift imaginary kick in the ass.

Well the joke's on Rick.

I didn't GO to the show!


Only because I was scared of getting knifed and butchered for being a fat white guy at a Rick James concert.

So anyway, that's my Rick James story.

And while he's a very kinky guy, I doubt seriously I'd ever take him home to mother.

On July 4, 1976 my sister did one of the dumbest things she had ever done.

She shoved the little ball that you'd find in a plastic whistle up her nose where it got wedged in her sinuses.

This little adventure cost my family a front row seat at the fireworks extravaganza celebrating the Bicentennial.

Bicentennials only come around like once every 25 years or something.

And my sister's inane curiosity of what happens when you shove foreign objects into your nasal cavity caused us to miss it.

I have forgiven her.

But I haven't forgotten.

Saturday, 10:15 a.m.

After playing at the park for two hours, Andrew announced he was ready to go home.

So I packed him up in the van and began the journey home.

About halfway home, Andrew yelled "MY NOSE!!" and began squeezing his nose.

Flashback City.

Except this time, instead of watching with bored amusement, it was my turn to spring into action.

I pulled over into somebody's driveway and jumped out of the car like a lumbering Batman without the cape.

And that cowl thing.

And for that matter ... without the outfit. I was basically just a lumbering ox running over to the side of the mini-van.

I threw open the door and made Andrew tip his head back.

Wayyyyy up his nostril, I saw something brown and hard.

The kid had shoved a small pebble up his nose.

I knew that time was of the essence or whatever that saying is.

I pinched his lips together, closed the clean nostril and said "Blow! Blow Andrew! Blow dammit!! BLOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!!"

Andrew tried to blow out his mouth, temporarily causing me to lose my grip on his lips.

Okay ... Plan B.

"Blow through your NOSE, Andrew!" I yelled, grabbing his lips again.

Andrew blew through his nose.


"Do it again!" I yelled.

He did it again.

The rock shot out his nose and into my hand.

I've gotta say ... Up until Saturday, I never thought I'd be desperate to hold something that had been shot out of someone else's nose.

But I was proud of that little fake booger.

No trips to the emergency room for me and the kid.

Nay, my quick thinking and imaginary training as an EMT are what turned this near-disaster into a happy ending with birds chirping and romantic string interludes playing in the background as the sun set at 10:20 a.m.

Of course, Andrew was reprimanded the entire trip home for putting stuff up his nose and was reminded about 300 times to never put anything in his nose again.

And I can't help but think that if Rick James' parents had ever told him not to ever put anything in his nose, he'd be alive today.

(I didn't plan that moral wrap-up ... it just happened.)

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