She was funny. John Meyer was a year-old pianist when he met Judy Garland , then 46, in late at the Manhattan studio of a mutual friend. And a mink. Moritz Hotel for not paying the bill. She met Meyer two months before she flew to London to appear in a five-week concert series at the Talk of the Town nightclub in
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I knew a girl named Nikki I guess you could say she was a sex fiend I met her in a hotel lobby Masturbating with a magazine She said how'd you like to waste some time? And I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind. If Darling Nikki doesn't make you want to have hot, dirty sex — the kind you remember years afterwards with a frisson going down your back — then I don't know what would. This was the song that caused Tipper Gore to form the Parents Music Resource Center to police the music industry in , putting "Parental Advisory" stickers all over album covers. Being French, I did not learn to speak English until I was a teenager — so my mother didn't have much to worry about when I spent a straight year listening to Purple Rain, the only cassette I owned. Without the faintest idea what I was humming along to, my mother left me to my obsession with nothing more than a shrug.
Judy Garland’s Lover John Meyer Shares Tragic, Intimate Details of the Star’s Final Months
I knew a girl named Nikki I guess you could say she was a sex fiend I met her in a hotel lobby Masturbating with a magazine She said how'd you like to waste some time And I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind. She took me to her castle And I just couldn't believe my eyes She had so many devices Everything that money could buy She said sign your name on the dotted line The lights went out And Nikki started to grind. The castle started spinning Or maybe it was my brain I can't tell you what she did to me But my body will never be the same Her lovin' will kick your behind Oh, she'll show you no mercy But she'll sho'nuff sho'nuff show you how to grind. Woke up the next morning Nikki wasn't there I looked all over and all I found Was a phone number on the stairs It said thank you for a funky time Call me up whenever you want to grind.
But that afternoon there was an orchestra playing. Music filling the brownstone. Black fingers pulling violin bows and strumming cellos, dark lips around horns, a small brown girl with pale pink nails on flute. From my place on the stairs, I could see through the windows curious white people stopping in front of the building to listen.