Sunday, October 30, 2005


Do pictures really speak louder than words? I think so. BTW, Digital Cowgirl, get back to work! You have a show coming up!!! And Sooner, was that you in the backyard last night, or was it the Halloween ghosties?

Someone (Rand?) said that my boobs were the last thing he expected to see on my post. If you ever went drinking with me, or if you were a punk or ska band that toured the Mid-west in the eighties, you'd say "I would've expected your boobs to be the first post!" What can I say? "You can take the bad girl away from the party, but you can never get the party out of the girl." Hehehe...

Still busy (tis the Witching Season, after all) but I will post more from the pen later (no more boobs or boob talk after this, I promise) , but until then, here's the nipples! Yea Nipples!


Sunday, October 23, 2005


Scotland's great monarch was Robert The Bruce; Her great hero was William Wallace; Her great bard was Robert Burns. I suppose Her next greatest royal would be (Catholic) Mary Stewart; hero, (defeated) Bonnie Prince Charlie; and bard? Well, I would choose (irreverant) Ian Anderson.

Tony Scott (on KLOS-- sorry Native Wayne, but it was some long commercial and I switched the station!) was spinning Jethro Tull's AQUALUNG as I drove home tonight, and I was entranced once again by how beautiful and compelling Anderson's songs are.

"If anyone can mix the medaeaval and the modern," Scott mused, "It's Ian Anderson and his band. That was part one," he continued. "In part two we really get into the hypocrisy of religion."

Anderson is rock and roll volume, folk song melodies, Elizabethan orchestrations, and Pagan lyrics. His music is as fierce as a Bruce, brave as a Wallace, and as bawdy and romantic as Burns.

Wondring Aloud

Wondring Aloud,
how we feel today?
Last night set the sunset,
my hand in her hair.
We are our own saviors, as we start,
both our hearts, beating life
Into each other
Wondring aloud,
will the years treat us well?
As she floats in the kitchen,
I am tasting the smell
Of toast as the butter runs,
then she comes,
spilling crumbs,
on the bed
and I shake my head.
Only the giving that makes you,
what you are.


Tuesday, October 18, 2005


I went to the Queen Mary Shipwreck Sunday night and IT WAS AWESOME!!!! We had so much fun.

I went with my friend "Enigma" (not her real name). She is one of my favourite friends because she is so -- well-- enigmatic. She's a lesbian that sleeps with men, a thirtyish woman who is in one of these Shriners Organizations (NOT the Shriner's-- but I must protect the guilty and keep everyone's top secret identities), plus she reads a lot and knows about weird stuff. She's into politics and I believe that one day she will be Mayor of Los Angeles. When she is mayor, I will be able to blackmail her big time.

Her girlfriend didn't want to go (because she is a scaredy cat, but she had some lame excuse about "work"), so Enigma offered to pay my way. I had been planning to go next weekend. And I was going to call Enigma, so it was just one of those things that worked out perfectly!

When we got there, it started raining. We were miserable because we didn't have an umbrella. We weren't even wearing coats. And then we had to stand in the line for a really long time. They wouldn't even let us in early even though no one was there and it was raining. Then the scariest part of the night was when I had to use the porta-potty. That's probably why I wasn't scared in the mazes at first.

I didn't really expect to get scared. But after we'd gone through all the mazes once, we had a few drinks. Then we were talking about all the real ghosts on the Queen Mary.
Now, this isn't like the Titanic. Most of the people who died on board died of natural causes, or food poisoning, etc. But it's an old ship, and spirits have a way of returning to their familiar "haunts" so there are some ghosts of former sailors and stuff.

(If you don't know what you are seeing/feeling the dead are scary even if they aren't "bad" spirits. It's just a very cold touch. Actually, they still scare me sometimes.)

But mostly I think that after awhile, we just really got into the whole idea of being scared and running and laughing and screaming our heads off. WHAT A RELEASE!!!

I think that these haunted houses really serve a purpose. In addition to the release of tension and pent up anxiety, how often does our society offer the opportunity to walk through the darkness (metaphorical or real) and confront the demons and horrors that pop out at every turn?

I'll tell you, the night before the moon was full, with a lunar eclipse to boot, the Queen Mary Shipwreck was better than a "Persephone in the Underworld" Rite for cleansing ones psyche of the horrors of day to day life.

Looking at the list of sex offenders that live in my neighborhood is truly scary. Hearing about a ten year old stabbing an eight year old to death, that's the scariest thing I've ever heard. Sometimes the news makes me want to go hide under the covers. And sitting at a dead-stop for ten minutes on the freeway? Yes, that is when I really want to just run screaming mad down the street!

I felt like I'd had a "fear" orgasm or something when we left. Like I'd screamed enough to scare all the mental skeletons from their hiding places in the closets and tombs of my mind.

Plus, if you are a guy (or a lesbian) it's a great place to take a girl on a date. Because she will be glued up against you in the really scary parts.

("I hope you appreciate, as lesbian, that I am pushing my entire boob into your arm, just like a real date," I told Enigma as we walked through the super scary Haunted Hull of Horrors. "Oh yeah, I do!" She responded enthusiastically. Then some scary chainsaw guy popped out and we abandoned each other and ran screaming for our lives.)

I highly recommend Queen Mary Shipwreck. It's really expensive though: $30. And drinks are $6 each. We went through Creatures of the Cove In 3-d three times and it just got better each time. The sets were just amazing, and some of the art was really cool. That was best overall.

The best single costume was the mutant hiding behind the oil drum in Haunted Hull of Horrors. Corridors of Carnage was the scariest overall, but Trail of Terror had a really scary very dark section. We went through most of them twice. I would go back next weekend! It is a lot of fun!


Monday, October 17, 2005


I got some emails about my Hilton heiress dream, and I just thought I'd clarify in case anyone else wondered: The tablecloth being paper was the sign that there was a "falseness" or an appearance. Since the family is so obviously wealthy (as all families are, even if it's not always with cash) it seemed strange to dream-me that they didn't use the real thing.

The diaper table represented children and reproduction. The general meaning would be that the outcast often does not want to reproduce him/herself. Specifically for me I think it meant that in "the women's room" --- hidden from larger society but where women interact with each other-- my lack of children is something that trips me up, that I try to make a joke out of, etc. And my spinsterhood does not belong to the poised blonde "sister" of the heiress, but to the outcast.

On a lighter note: I don't usually do these, but I saw this on Digital Cowgirl's site and I decided to waste some time. They were fun and I liked the idea of being defined as a classic movie. I never could get the page with the other leaders/movies to load, so I don't know what I am not:



If you want to try it:

Sunday, October 16, 2005


...Yeah, well, it was a dream I had. I sent it in to my buddy at SLOW WAVE, but I don't know that he is going to be able to break it down into four panels.

In the dream I went on a picnic with the Mom and two sisters and their entourage of servants and assistants (the rich are rarely alone). For some reason the Mom insisted very Martha Stewart-like that we all sit on the red and white checkered table cloth, to make it more like a real picnic. The only problem was, it was a paper tablecover, not a cloth one. That was just the first of many things that would make me feel sorry for my new friends.

After the picnic we were walking through a park I used to go to when I was a little kid. I was trying to look around and see what had changed, but Paris really needed all of my attention for herself. She was very enamoured with me and took my arm in a companionable manner. Eventually she decided to make me a Hilton. Everyone else, even the mom and the sister agreed.

I loved this, because suddenly I was very, very blonde, leggy, and thin. Plus they let me keep most of my boobs (I had way too much to be proportionate, so some had to go, but the mom decided I was to be the buxom Hilton.) And I was rich, of course. But it turns out that the Hilton's had a "hidden sister" and she was given all the unfortunate attributes of mine-- and everyone else in the family's as well. I felt sorry for her, but not sorry enough to ask for all my fat and poverty back.

The fat sister was dressed in crappy grey sweat shirt and baggy pants. Her hair was brown and scraggly. At one point we walked through a public restroom in the park, and someone had left the diaper changer down. The fat sister thought it would be funny to trip and fall over the protruding diaper table and make it crash. Because the Hilton's have so much money they can control time if it's comedic timing. Rather, if it is something they think is going to be funny.

So the fat sister fell very slowly, then there was a pause as she crashed on top of the table, and another pause before the table crashed slowly to the ground. Everyone but me laughed and applauded. I felt horribly embarrassed for the lot of them. Obviously so much wealth had destroyed their sense of humour completely.

So that was my dream. Sigmund, Carl, go ahead and have at it. Is it "zee muzzer and my peniz envy?" or has the "collective celebrity unconscious" seized my weak mind?

I really had no idea what this dream meant until a few days ago. (I think I had this about two weeks ago, so it is still pretty recent, and it was very vivid, so I remembered it clearly.) I thought maybe I wanted more money or to be more blonde and thin (well, I do, but you know what I mean). But I realised yesterday that this is actually about my own family, and all families, and the roles we play within our tribal units.

I am not now, nor have I ever been, wealthy. (At least not in terms of cash, equity or assets.) But I have known a lot of rich kids, and children of celebrities and politicians. For reasons I still don't fully understand, alot of people that I meet who weren't born wealthy think that I was, at least at first meeting. Eventually, if nothing else, my teeth give me away. I have several crooked teeth. They aren't immediately obvious, but they are noticable.

Rich people like me because I treat everyone the same and act pretty much the same regardless of where I am or who is around. (I have come to the conclusion that I am somewhat emotionally autistic. I do not respond the way most people do, and many of my "appropriate responses" are not organic, but memorized. And I am not talking here about the normal and cultural responses that all people must go through. But this is a whole other blog.) This social autism leads to a lot of stuff coming out of my mouth that shouldn't, but that only bothers people who aren't dripping with cash or power. And rebel children of politicians and celebrities embrace my awkward and too revealing moments because they were never allowed to have any of their own.

In fact, the daughter of a famous fifties movie star told me that all celebrity children go through a rebel "grunge" stage. Not grooming or brushing their teeth. Refusing to wear decent clothes or keep themselves or their belongings in good working order. Because they always have to look good for the camera and the fans and so forth. She said there are some who get stuck in it. I know a few of these children, too. They are my dream's fat sister. They have absorbed all of the negative traits of their families.

But not just rich people have the fat sister. I see this in a lot of families. Particularly where one or more parent is in denial about their own shortcomings. How many families have the super groomed mother and the grungy daughter? The overly macho, sports father and the couch potato, mama's boy son? The ineffective, alcholic parent and the care-taking child?

In many ways the fat Hilton sister is more integral to the family than Paris or Nicki. In many ways she loves and cares for the family system more than the functioning and acceptable siblings. Because she wants to heal her family. She wants to balance out what is missing, and conversely, to make sure that the love she recieves is genuine. She refuses to be loved simply for her behaviour, her weight, her grooming, or social acceptablity.

Children always want to heal their parents. The greater the dysfunction, the greater the child's desire, and the more the child will feel responsible. Children are completely self-centered. They believe that everything that happens-- including daddy's drinking or mommy's disease-- is because of something they did. The more that the parents are able to care for the child and teach the child what is an appropriate level of responsibility to accept, the more that the child will be able to heal-- even if the dysfunction in the family remains. (And assuming the dysfunction is something like cancer, and not incest.)

Obviously the more balanced the parents are, the more aware they are of their children's individual personalities and problems, and the more that they are able to set aside , or subdue, their own needs to respond to each child, the better the family will function as a whole and the healthier the children will be. However, an alcholic will not likely come home drunk and explain that they are the weak ones and it's not the child's fault and so forth. The binging/purging bulemic mother is not likely to explain to her anorexic daughter she has her own body images to deal with and it's not her daughter's fault.

In some ways the children of the rich have a harder time resolving their own dysfunction because the quest for money and the acquistion of things is not available as an outlet for their frustration. I see greed as a direct result of some lacking in childhood. Greed is not healthy and a healthy person doesn't hoard.

And the children of the famous have it doubly hard. How does one achieve fame when one was born to it? How is one to distinguish themselves when they were born to such distinguished parents? Perhaps by slipping into totally obscurity and doing nothing with thier lives at all, as one friend of mine has done. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, sent to the finest schools, but makes less than I do and he rarely works steadily. He lives in a dump and drives casts off cars from his parent's estate. (He would not appreciate me pointing this out, and I must admit I write so freely only because I know he isn't reading this.)

On a lesser scale, many of these things did occur in my family even though we weren't wealthy or famous. But my grandmother was a hard act to follow. And my grandfather's chromosome's gave my mother and her siblings their disease. (They have the same illness patterns, but because they are functioning and have never been diagnosed, they are not seen as mentally ill. If you are inside my family system, though, it is obvious.) My grandmother's children waver greatly between an inablility to cope with day to day life, hoarding and "pack-rat"-ing and slovenliness, to overly rigid belief systems and obsessions with cleanliness, money (not things-- money), and thinness.

(My sister and I are, in many ways, my grandmother's second family. She raised us, and I see many of those patterns in both of us, but not as obviously as it occurs in her first children. Also, I have had serious enough problems with depression that I have been tested and diagnosed, and I don't have my mother's physical, chemical imbalance. I believe my sister has also looked into this, but I don't know.)

If my family is represented by my Hilton dream, than I truly am both Paris and the fat sister. (My family is my mother, me and my sister. My grandmother was the other parent, but she has been dead now for ten years.) In different situations and at different times I have been one or the other. I think that this dream was partly my choosing to be more Paris than the overlooked sister in the baggy sweat pants. But I think that I needed to see that all along I had been serving an important function: absorbing the negative or unwanted or unbalanced traits of my family. One thing that really struck me about the dream was how included she was, and when she tried to do something, everyone stopped and applauded her. Even though it was ridiculous, ill-timed, and pathetic.

Having seen this dream clearly though, and especially having seen this because of someone else's family story (a friend was talking about her family's version of the fat sister), I realise that I am now ready to be something wholly new. Not Paris, or Nicki, or the mother, or the fat sister. I don't even want to be in the entourage. I want to be someone I don't know that I've ever had the courage to be before: myself.

Wish me luck. I am kind of a clutz, and I foresee a few stumbles over diaper tables.


Monday, October 10, 2005


My sister came to visit me in 1993. We did a lot of sightseeing, including important stops like having toast at the now closed Ships restaurant, visiting Disneyland and riding the Haunted Mansion ten times in a row, and naturally, a trip to Hollywood Boulevard and Grauman's Chinese Theatre.

As Angelenos know, most of the media and ticket hawkers and surveyers do not want to talk to people who actually live in Los Angeles. So the Japanese reporters who were walking around with pictures of ten or so Japanese men--including one of their Prime Minister--did not want to talk to me once they found out I lived in Los Angeles.

They asked my sister instead which of the men on the page was the Prime Minister? My sister chose, wrongly, and the lady asked why she had chosen that photograph. My sister said something along the lines of "he looks forceful," etc. The lady glanced at me and I smiled and shrugged.

"Do you know?" Asked the reporter politely, but with an undertone that I couldn't possibly know the correct answer.

I nodded, laughing, and pointed to the correct picture without hesitation.

The reporter got very excited and waved the other reporter and the photographer over. They explained to me that they had been out there for hours and no one had been able to correctly identify the Prime Minister of Japan. All three were very interested to hear how I had recognized him?

"I remember him from when our President threw up on him," I responded grimly, trying convey some sense of shame for the bad manners of my President and ignorance of my countrymen.

They laughed so hard the photographer could hardly take my picture. They told me all the details of what newspaper my picture was going to appear in, and how this was going to be quite a highlight and humorous -- "yet kind of sad," my sister interjected, apologetically-- story.

As we left them to go put our hands in Marilyn Monroe's hand prints they were still laughing hysterically and telling the story to curious Japanese tourists that had gathered around them.

Until we left Grauman's groups of Japanese tourists pointed at me and some even took my picture, too. Word travels fast.

And that's how Bush Senior got my picture in a Japanese newspaper.

Saturday, October 08, 2005


In 1992 I had a pretty serious nervous breakdown. I'd been carrying alot of trauma from my past, and also I just did not want to keep living the way I had been. It all worked out for the best, but I would not wish what I went through on anyone. I am always very honest about having been a suicidal wreck because I've found that it helps other people be more honest about their own depressions and breakdowns, which so many of us keep hidden.

I was in therapy, but I was also searching very deeply for the root causes of my beliefs and behaviours. One book that made a deep, deep impression on me, and that I still believe to be "true" all these years later, is Harville Hendrix' book GETTING THE LOVE YOU WANT, A Guide for Couples. (I put "true" in quotes because I've found that it's better not to hold on too tightly to any belief. The truth has a funny way of changing as we change. One of my problems back in 1992 was my rigid, uncompromising belief system.)

In a nutshell, you are romantically attracted to people for their "bad" traits as well as their "good." Basically, if you find yourself in relationship after relationship with people that are (in my case) addicts or alcoholics, completely unavailable emotionally, and often convicted felons, well, you can blame Mommy and Daddy for about two minutes, but eventually you have to face up to the fact that there was only one person who was in all of those relationships: you. (One of the reasons why that idiot John Gray is more popular than Hendrix. "Huh? No more Mars/Venus blame game? You mean I am responsible?" Ugh. At least with responsibility their is the opportunity for change, cuz you can't change anyone else, no matter what planet they are from.)

It just goes downhill from there. Your brain stem, the "snake brain" I like to call it, only recognizes six responses to any given human being-- Mommy or a stranger on the street, your beloved or George Clooney-- dominate (fight), submit to, run away from(flight), nurture, be nurtured by, or have sex with. That's it. So to your brain stem, there really is no difference between your parents (or primary caretakers) and your lover. Yeah, sick, I know.

He has you list the qualities of your romantic partners and find the core patterns that link all of them. Was daddy distant towards you when he was upset? Did mommy suffocate you with you affection? Depending on what aspects of yourself you are rejecting, and also which parent's behaviour damaged you more (he is not talking about severe abuse, but just the normal limitations of parenting-- that parents are human and cannot always be perfect for their children), you will choose a man who is ultimately distant when he is angry, or a woman who suffocates you with affection.

Now here's where it starts getting interesting. Especially if you read the book for singles and go through the exercises. KEEPING THE LOVE YOU FIND, A Workbook for Singles. Number one, you need a partner who has those negative traits, because you want to resolve the pains of your childhood. The parts of you that were "wounded." Also, these are probably rejected areas of yourself that you need to reclaim. That you had to disown certain parts of yourself that you have been unconsciously projecting onto your romantic partners. Much of the being "in love" thing is that you feel whole when you are with them. You are not separated in your disowned self or from that which has wounded you.

That "in love" feeling is there to shroud your sight and make you get into a relationship with someone that is exactly what you think you are running from. ("All three of my wives have turned out to be greedy leeches.") As I've mentioned before, I think our purpose in life is to solve our problems. Hendrix agrees with me, at least in love and romance.

Think that's it? Haha. Here's the real kicker: now that you are armed with this knowledge, you must stop seeking your own wholeness by demanding that your partner change. Huh? Yeah, that's what I thought. "How am I ever going to get me mine I?" (Cricket, the way of the Tao is unclear and a big pain in the ass. ) Well, you just have to have faith, and further, you have to work to change the parts of yourself that all of your partners have complained about in you.

You see, your snake brain also cannot really tell the difference between you and someone else when it comes to your behaviours and actions. Nurture another and it recognizes only nurturing, and being the self-centered "fight, flight or f**k" mo-fu that it is, it takes the nurturing as self-directed. So, by trying to heal another, you heal yourself. And you work on reclaiming lost parts of yourself. I mean, seriously, hasn't every lover you've ever had complained about your temper? No? Well, maybe that's just me again. But you see my point?

He says in the book, if you come from a really screwed up background you will have to work harder at this and accept that you are seriously damaged. I mean, even as screwed up as my childhood was, I was not an incest victim. I cannot imagine that kind of terror or damage. Or what kind of partners that would lead someone too. (He really gets into this more in the second book, I think. But there is a chapter in the first one.)

Also, their is individual temperments. My sister is much healthier and has always had better self esteem than me, and we grew up in the same house. I've known junkies who grew up in stable, loving homes. I've met incest victims who have married and had children and put their past behind them. (Not without struggle or a lot of therapy and searching, but just to illustrate the point that people are different.) Not all temperments are suited for all environments. We each are unique.

Even though I have not had a successful relationship in my life, I have learned so much about myself and why I love who I love from these books. And I have noticed that in "normal" relationships this seems to happen anyhow subconsciously. ("Well, my father was like this, so I am just trying to accept that my husband will always try to duck out of disciplining the children." Or "I can't believe how much my wife is like my mother." Etc.)

It's easier to deal with the familiar. And I think everyone knows what it feels like to let something slide, or give the lover a break from some recurring issue. ("I don't have issues," a friend used to say. "I have subscriptions.") It's nice to be the generous one. And as long as the other partner is just as committed to self-change as you are, then you are set. Because then that person will be doing their best to stay focused on repairing their own damage, which is probably what you want him/her to change anyhow, etc...

Honestly, I've never been able to do this. But I keep trying, and like I said, this theory seems to encompass a lot of "truth." I recommend these books to everyone.


Thursday, October 06, 2005


Maybe everyone has already heard this. My friend Jack told me once that there is a theory among Godzilla fans that the lizard monster born of Hiroshima's fallout actually represents Japanese/U.S. relations. In the first movies Godzilla is a rampaging destroyer, but in later movies Godzilla defends Japan against other monsters. And that further, this change takes place as the U.S. strengthened economic ties with Japan. I've never been able to conduct a scientific study, which would mean a weekend of viewing all (Japanese) Godzilla movies chronologically, and some research on the history of U.S./Japanese relations.

Also, having nothing to do with Godzilla, I found this interesting article and slide show link on another blog. (I've forgotten which one, sorry!) Back in the early eighties I was a big Hip Hop fan, and my favourite DJ's were The Cold Crush Brothers. I've only met one other person in the last 23 years that not only knew who The Cold Crush Brothers were, but also named them as his favourites. (A rep for Tommy Boy Records, but were just talking as fans of Hip Hop.)

These days I couldn't even name a Lauryn Hill single, and I had to ask someone the other day who "Fergie" was, since the photo in the magazine was definitely not the former Duchess. I still think of CCB, Whodini, and The Sugarhill Gang when someone says "Hip Hop." But back in the day I was cutting edge. For one thing, randomly wandering the streets of Manhatten in 1982, I actually saw THE most famous "break dancers": The Rock Steady Crew. (Although after the movement had become bigger than it's original and most famous members, Prince Ken Swift and Crazy Legs, who were off playing themselves in hip hop movies. Alas, once again, born too late...)

It's almost TGIF. Don't forget to stop by Sooners for a weekend martini! Straightjacket specials all weekend!


Monday, October 03, 2005


I've been over on Ron Kane's site, digging through the archives. On one of his posts he shows a picture of himself at age six holding up a Harry Belafonte record. This put me in a nostalgic mood.

About a year before Elvis (America's only King) died there was some sort of giant movie extravaganza on Channel 30. My sister and I loved Elvis movies, and we were huge fans of Ann-Margeret (especially THE SWINGER, where she was a writer! Check it out folks!). So, the prospect of seeing VIVA LAS VEGAS, JAILHOUSE ROCK, GIRL CRAZY and CHANGE OF HABIT ("Elvis is such an awesome actor, ohmigod, he didn't even sing at all! Ohmigod was that Mary Tyler Moore, can you believe her??!!!") ensured that my sister and I weren't going anywhere that Saturday afternoon.

I think that we might have watched the line-up twice, as Channel 30 (a uhf station) was not below showing the same movies over and over all weekend. (We never minded when it was Elvis, Ann-Margeret, or stuff like MAD MONSTER PARTY or scary Hammer Horror films.) Since we HAD to learn all the songs and dances, we probably ate in the living room watching the tiny black and white television set, and went to the bathroom during commercials on a relay system. ("Yell if it comes back on while I'm in there!!")

At some point we decided to buy an Elvis GREATEST HITS record that they kept advertising. I think this was just before The King's fortieth birthday, which would have made me about 8 and my sister 6, or maybe that was 9 and 7, but basically young. Also, we had no money growing up. My father never paid child support and we lived with my mother's mother, whom we called Nonny. (Nonny lived in a really nice neighbourhood, and that's a whole other blog, being poor in a rich neighbourhood, but anyhow, it was the kind of neighbourhood where everyone knew each other. Including the postman.)

The (double!) album was $9.99 plus shipping and handling! We had no idea what "shipping and handling" was. But ten dollars was a HUGE sum of money and a MAJOR investment that we had committed to. Between our saved pennies- and our mother's obliging and unguarded purse-- we were able to come up with all of it. Just barely. And all in small change. Which I promptly put into the first small, white, paper envelope without any written explanation. I don't think we even put a return address on it. In fact, I think we tried to address the first envelope AFTER we'd put the money in it. Hence envelope number two.

The next morning early, before church, I took it up to the mailbox and dropped it in. I hesitated momentarily at the shattering PLINGS! I heard in the otherwise empty mailbox. Huh? What was that? I ran back home to begin waiting for the record. ("Is it here yet? Is it here yet?" )

About a week later my grandmother inexplicably brought home an ELVIS SINGS GOSPEL record. The mailman had done his own investigation of the torn envelope and ten dollars worth of change in the bottom of the mailbox and told Nonny what had happened. She claims that was the album we'd ordered, or at least, that was the one she'd seen advertised on the television. But she'd gone to a chain store to purchase it.

As I've mentioned, my mom is seriously mentally ill. So if she wasn't in the mental hospital she was mostly sleeping when we were kids. Years later, when I told mom this story she laughed and said that Nonny's story was b.s. My mom said that Nonny hated Elvis and had bought that record because it was the only one Nonny would have liked and wanted us listening to. Which we never did, not after the first time we heard it. (Sorry Mr. Presley, your highness, sir.)

After Nonny died I found the record in her collection. I noticed that it had several songs that Mahalia Jackson does as well. Nonny was a big Mahalia Jackson fan... Hmmm... Nonny always was sneaky and devious...

Anyhow, I always laugh when I think about myself, living in my own little world even as a child, dropping all those pennies, nickels and dimes into the mailbox. I'd blame my sister too, but she was already pretty brain damaged from all the coffee made of mud water that my friends and I not only made her drink, but made her pay for... Yeah, she blames me for most of her eating disorders and food allergies...