Somewhere in the Crenshaw section of Los Angeles is a parked white van stocked to the top with technicolor wigs that have seen sparklier (in sad times like these, it is okay to make up words) days and dusty coats that look like they were cut from a Fraggle’s ass. The white van belongs to the legendary Sly Stone whose license plate is his official home address, because he smoked up most of his money and lost the rest to shady vultures. It is a tragic day in society when pieces of trash like Lindsay Lohan are sitting front row at fashion shows and icons like Sly Stone have to shit in a plastic red cup behind an alleyway dumpster. Although, LiLo probably regularly shits in plastic red cups behind alleyway dumpsters, but that isn’t the point!
The New York Post tracked 68-year-old Sly down and interviewed him about how he went from living in mansions to sleeping in a camper parked outside of a house in Crenshaw. Just a few years ago, Sly was living in a rented house in the Napa Valley, but his life turned down Matt Foley Way when he says the royalty checks stopped coming in the mail after his manager tricked him into signing over control of all of his finances. Sly sued his manager for $50 million but that lawsuit hasn’t gone anywhere yet. Sly doesn’t own any of the music publishing rights to his own songs because he sold that shit to Michael Jackson for a measly $1 million in 1984. Sly also blames his addiction to the bad shit for why he’s broke and homeless.
But just because Sly is down and out in Crenshaw doesn’t mean he’s wishing he could go back to the days of mortgage payments and pissing in his own toilet. Sly says that he doesn’t want to be tied down and his soul is happiest when he’s traveling around. Sly made friends with a couple in Crenshaw who lets them shower in their house. Their son also drives Sly around L.A. and works as his assistant.
Sly still makes music on his laptop and hopes that a bitch will give him a job soon, “But now please tell everybody, please, to give me a job, play my music. I’m tired of all this shit, man.”
And the hobo paranoias have hit Sly, because he believes the FBI is following him and his rivals are trying to murder him. Lord. As soon as a ho becomes homeless, their brain automatically unlocks the “FBI IS TRYING TO KILL MY LIFE” thought. It’s not right.
Yes, I know Sly’s mind is off smoking star dust on one of Saturn’s rings, but it’s a shame that it’s come to this. Can’t the producers of Dancing with the Stars replace that useless Kardashian with Sly Stone? Can’t we excommunicate Ke$hit from society and give her tour dates to Sly Stone? Can’t we send Sly up to Canada so he can join The Quaids’ Anti-Star Whackers Gang and they can fight the crazy fight together? One of those things needs to happen. Because how can any of us take it higher while listening to Sly’s old songs when he’s sleeping on a pile of his old wigs in the back of a van?