|Everybody thinks she's an angel ' cause she looks like one, . . .
||[Feb. 12th, 2017|04:24 pm]
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
. . . but she's not really. She's got a temper and an ego and a libido and she gives less than half a shit what anybody thinks.
We used to do this thing where Stevie and Miles would go out front and dance. They can do this synchronized thing where they both move exactly the same way in perfect unison and it looks like a routine they've rehearsed for years, but mostly they have a system where one is slightly in front of the other always and the one who can see the other, the one slightly behind, follows the one who can't see him. They were "exotic dancers" (aka go-go boys) in Florida together for a while and they know each other well enough that each knows what the other is likely to do. But that's a whole long, sordid entirely other story. Anyway, when Miles and Stevie did their big dance number, Molly would sit in for Miles on the drums. One time he got up and she sat down and he had his sticks in his back pocket. She yelled, "Sticks!" at him as he was walking away and he turned around and chucked them at her. At least one of them would have hit her in the face if she hadn't swiped it away with her hand trying to catch it. As she bent over to pick it up she yelled, "Fucking retard," at him. He turned around and started back toward her, at which point she stood up smacking her palm with the sticks and said, "You want to go around with me, faggot? Lets do it right now." Miles turned and left, but at least one mic near the drums was hot for this whole exchange and the audience was murmuring to say the least. I just thought to myself, "Assholes. Do we need to do this in front of everybody?" I never did find out what the friction was between those two. You would have thought they had so little interest in each other that there would be no cause for sparks.
Another time there was a patio party at Stevie's mom's house and there were some Hollywood types there as was often the case. Near the end of the evening, Molly was good and drunk. She put her hands on the shoulder of a young actor (who is currently a fairly big deal and a foot taller than her), and jumped up into his arms which he had the presence of mind to put out before she fell. Held there like a bride ready to be carried over the threshold, she put out her free arm and yelled, "Home, James." He carried her through the kitchen door, which was conveniently equipped with an automatic grocery-store-style opener, and they disappeared into the house. I don't know what happened after that or what may have lead up to it, but she was not exactly playing the sulking recluse that night.
And yet another time she showed up to a gig commando in what may as well have been a miniskirt. I caught a full view of her pretty blond snatch at least four times in the course of her taking her guitar out of the case and setting it up. I said, "I really hope you have some panties in your purse." She reached into her purse, removed a pair of full-butt, full front (thank God) panties and waved them at me, smiling and winking as she did so. The panties were bright green and perfectly matched the piping on her skirt. It was really an outfit, an ensemble, if you will, but why she showed up with the panties in her purse rather than on her butt still eludes me. There's more to her than meets the eye and not all of it's PG.