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In this week's "How the Mighty Have Fallen" category, it is with a heavy heart that I report that Sly Stone, the funk legend responsible for half of what was awesome about the late '60s and early '70s, is now living out of a camper van somewhere in the Crenshaw neighborhood of Los Angeles.
"I like my small camper. I do not want to return to a fixed home. I cannot stand being in one place. I must keep moving."
Stone is apparently paranoid and convinced the FBI is after him. He's been reduced to recording music on a laptop inside the van.
The man's public decline is about as famous as his music at this point, and the closest thing he's had to a "comeback" was a 2006 performance at the Grammys that was largely described as erratic and depressing.
His most recent album, I'm Back! Family & Friends, apparently did little to ease his financial woes, and a royalty dispute with his former manager has left him on welfare, relying on handouts from neighbors to eat.
Let's all keep in mind what we learned from Amy Winehouse: Rolling Stone was making jokes about her troubles just months before she passed. Inside of snark, or perhaps a Chris Farley reference, I only offer the hope that Sly gets the help he needs.