...and a happy new year.

I Like Ike

A rather belated shoutout to Ike Turner (R.I.P.), who I had once spent three days of crazed fun. When he proved his drug credentials to me by sticking my pen through his perforated septum. When he raced me down to Tijuana in his ivory colored Lincoln. When he took me on a search for the bar, where he married Tina by signing some novelty marriage license he bought from a street hawker. When he took me to hotel lobby Karaoke bars in the suburbs of San Diego to show me his still happening vocal chops. When he flew in his quarterback buddy who tried to squeeze ten grand out of me. For that exclusive interview. When he told me that he never beat up Tina, that he never raised his fist against her, that he only used his open hand and only if she pushed his buttons, which she knew, so she wouldn't have to have pushed them. When he respected me solely on the base that I had played with some of his former musicians, who had jumped ship in Munich when they were on his tour with Tina, just like some communist country basketball players.

Full obituary in German here

P.S.: Turns out Ike died from a cocaine overdose after all.