Buying Whores for Chuck Berry and a Threat from Jerry Lee Lewis
“You work for the radio station?” he asked again.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lewis. I’m Dr. Dave Maxwell. What can I help you with?” Little Richard walked past us, and he, too, looked frail and worn down. The Killer glared at him as he passed. The Innovator didn’t seem to notice. Jerry Lee turned his gaze back at me, his eyes smaller now, his face taut with rage.
“Can you do me a favor, boy?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t let that niggah touch my pianah.” He and his two men went on their way.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of November 4, 2018
I can’t think of more than three or four time when my parents embarrassed me. Of those, none were major infractions. The embarrassment was fleeting at best. I’m sure I’ll embarrass my son at some point. My goal is to not do anything that he’ll be ashamed of. You know, the way Sarah Huckabee Sanders’ kids will likely be ashamed of their mother. At least, I hope they will be. If they’re not then she’ll have done a great job of raising sociopaths.
Andy disassembled his weapon with lighting speed. He packed it away in the black backpack made specifically for a weapon of this sort. He bolted to the roof access door as fast as his little, chubby legs would carry him. He made his way through the condo/office building stairwell without being noticed just as he had done on his way up. Andy was good at his job. And for a nine-month-old baby, he was really good at it.