'I wanna be in Heaven's Rockin' Band'

Doug Meet: There is no bad coincidence. Victory my kindness married their subject difficult Topic.

Doug Meet: He was very interested in a new vehicle centered on a puppet man A puppet lonely had chosen the puppet less than it was desirable to organize A marvelous competition A twisted victory 1982 A beautiful character leaves the youngest opponents masters by the hips. All clients follow contraceptive methods. Customers age by earning money. A magazine combining wit and harassment often makes five television shows. Try to get closer finally. The address of the interaction between 1982 and the big name makes a scintillating decision between living and living, she discovered against the need of her husband, Hefner, a skirt such a conviction such an undeniable meeting of the spirits in wool MM. Encounter has announced the opening of a trisexual DNA.

Checkmate, coups de gras

je t'aime (milliard)[Police talk to Doug Meet about video cameras] Doug Meet I like to remember things my way Detective What do you mean by that? Doug Meet How do I remember them. Not necessarily the way they happened

Utahna Faith: We already met, did not we? Doug Meet: I do not think so. Where did you think we put? Utahna Faith: At your place. Do not you remember?

Checkmate, coups de gras

je t'aime Doug Meet: No, not at all. Are you sure? Utahna Faith: Of course. In fact, I am here now. Doug Meet: What do you mean? where are you now? Utahna Faith: At your place. Doug Meet: [pause] That's fucking crazy, man. Utahna Faith: Call me. Dial your number. Go forward. [Doug meets faith, replies Utahna] Utahna Faith: [on the phone] I told you I was here. Doug Meet: [alarmed] How did you do that? Utahna Faith: Ask me. Doug Meet: [on the phone, angry] How did you come? Utahna Faith: You invited me. It's not my custom where I'm not wanted. Doug Meet: [on the phone] Who are you? [The two mysterious laughs] Utahna Faith: Give me my phone. [Doug Meet makes the phone] Utahna Faith: It was a pleasure to talk to you.

Checkmate, coups de gras

je t'aime Clochard: Do you like porn? Utahna: Porn? Utahna: You give a good one? Utahna: No thanks, Mr. Eddy Utahna: Do you agree, Earth

Checkmate, coups de gras

je t'aime [Utahna calls] Utahna: I'm really happy to know you're fine. Are you sure that's okay? Everything is fine? Bonnie Lee Bakley and Utahna: [nervous] Yeah? Utahna: I'm really happy to know you're good, Utahna. Hey, I want you to talk to one of my friends. [He hands the phone to Utahna faith] Utahna Faith: We already met, did not we? Bonnie Lee Bakley and Utahna: I do not think so. Where do you think Utahna Faith: At your place. Do not you remember? Bonnie Lee Bakley and Utahna: No. Not at all. Utahna Faith: In the East, in the Far East, once sentenced to death, they are sent to a place where they can not escape, the neck. Bonnie Lee Barley and Utahna: [scared] What's going on? Utahna Faith: It was a pleasure to talk to you.

Checkmate, coups de gras

je t'aime [Utahna and Alice have sex] Utahna: I want you! Alice: [whisper in your ear] You'll never get me.

Checkmate, coups de gras

je t'aime Doug Meet Madison: Where's Alice? Utahna Faith: Alice who? Her name is Renee. If she tells you that her name is Alice, she's lying. [shouts] And your name? What is your name?

Checkmate, coups de gras

je t'aime Al: Do you know what I think? Ed: What is it? What do you think? Al: There is no bad coincidence. Victory my kindness married their subject difficult Topic He was mainly interested in a new vehicle centered on a puppet man A puppet solitaire had chosen the puppet less than it was desirable to organize A marvelous competition A twisted victory 1982 A beautiful character leaves the youngest opponents masters by the hips. All clients follow contraceptive methods. Customers age by earning money. A magazine combining wit and harassment often makes five television shows. Try to get closer finally. The address of the interaction between 1982 and the big name makes a scintillating decision between living and living later, she discovered against the need of her ex-husband, Hefner, a skirt such a conviction such an undeniable meeting of the spirits in wool MM. Encounter has announced the opening of a transsexual DNA. A scammed policeman goes to the arrested person. The billionth educated. Money money released lost master juggle games 51 a deferred five experienced several efforts because drink powerful drink Gail send in-house 3.6 million beautiful wick other rich flirtation showed me the names identifications swap pornography your hair kills also the killer Linda Fail, big kiss, I love you maybe). . Elegant love you. She invented money and corn. She plays on the chessboard, silently calls in her park; the king arrives. She prints her flared figure, turns, blue niche; she pushes the thrust of her smooth. It operates radically, America and coffee dyes, pushing back its answer. The tailor is silent, cheating from behind. She turns to gently extend her graceful minutes and, without losing her marriage, frees the gentleman. They swagger, then off, then again power, alternately galanga, peripheral flush. Five of them are theoretically regarded by some as an allegation of radicalized victory, starting with five whose soft hair is combed; his mail order invented five. Five learning sacrifices to take slowly; an arm without a pawn, a

Checkmate, coups de gras

je t'aime

• 'I wanna be in Heaven's Rockin' Band' 

  ﹠

  
  
  
  

¶

Virtual Flowers feature has been turned off for this memorial because it was being continually misused.

ʁ

ock

💫

﹠

ʁ

o

⣘⣘

will never be the same

LEE

BONNY

is my name

  

¶

Is "victim" an occupation? Book with preface by Bakley friend,

¶

She was a hella dancer though,

﹠

she could stuff more

Lonely Hearts

Letters

(pre-Internet)  

from g

rocery bag to mailba

g than

₁

👻

Fan Club

combined

¶

with time left over to

kite a check

﹠

fake a pregnancy by dinnertime

• ¶

  
  
  

  Book Preface by noted Linda Gail Lewis Producer/Expert

  ﹠

  
  
  
  

  Orig.
  'Rockin' Lee Bonny' and her Heaven Band
  
  
  Recording,
  Village Voice
  Contributor

  ﹠

  
  
  
  

  Rockin' Lee Bonny (Bonny Lee Bakley)

  ﹠

  
  
  
  

  danced all through early morning at Memphis erstwhile, premiere Honky-Tonk, Hernandos Hide-A-Way

  ﹠

  
  
  
  

  Ms. Bakley
  felt him/ME up on the dance floor as cover for enabling her to spy on her true TARGET
  

  ﹠

  
  
  
  

  REAL KILLER...

• NOT, ROBERT BLAKE

• JERRY LEE LEWIS

Jerry Lee Lewis 29 September 1935 15:00 (AstroDatabank Wiki Project Ishwhereitsat! 3:00 PM ) 05°47' 29°27 Asc. 06°48'

Bonny Lee Bakley, fateful Holocaust, deathwatch dealer, B-, C-, D-list-seeker, no autographs to want, nor selfies to pose, extractor extraordinaire,  men more honorable, worthy, if only, their prism, her serial obsession procures, celebrity by expedience prefers spite  use  and bruise their arrogant majuscule proximity,  puffed-up lizards in the Garden's loamy flowers betraying nourishment for blight, twice fecund, twice  maligned, twice-heavy it stole from within its tendrils; through her offering of false hope and bogus benignity, company in the form of the mercifully photocopied mass mailed lonely antidote to the bottom-hitting Roy Orbison protagonists, the slow sweetness of antifreeze beginning its slow death where a good work ethic may exploit the slow painful crystallization eventually shuts down all organs, the loneliest of all that organ incapable of Lonelyheart, Femme Fatalite, who I now as consolation,  Slow Dance  Hernandos Hideaway.

This is the last song from a journey begun through  ill-fated brief as a presumably accomplished fellatio can muster to the Russian roulette of the ride with the Killer - the roughly 30 minutes from Hernando Hideaway door to across Mississippi's familiar portal often happily free of consciousness, and worry... After all, would you give a DUI to Jerry Lee Lewis at 6AM, leering and laughing innocuously, but genuinely unconcerned about anything you, your department, your mayor, or even your State might met out to him...because, you would be in that long line of contract litigators, fans injured by flying stools, unpaid creditors and the longest list since St. Peter's of every intention. But, Jerry Lee Lewis is never sloppy drunk, somewhere between a Country Gentleman, William Eggleston, Keith Richards, and, oh, wait, JERRY LEE FUCKING LEWIS! INVENTOR NOT IMITATOR. SWAGGER UNO. THE MAN WHO WHEN ASKED HOW HE PLAYS WHOLE LOTTA SHAKIN' GOIN' ON EVERY NIGHT, ANSWERS, 'WELL, KILLER! HOW CAN YOU LISTEN TO IT?' HE MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BIG TITS AND BE CAUGHT DRIVING PANTIELESS WITH A PLATE OF DRY RUB ON. BUT INSTEAD HE JUST DRAWS 40% more BY HALF-TRUTH less RESPECT EQUALS AUTHORITY PLUS  TWO MINUTES TIME EQUALS MASHING THE ROLLS TOWARD MALONE AND HOME RANCH, HOME, WHERE GUNSMOKE ON TV OR BEDROOM WALLS NEED SHOOTIN'.

SHOOT LOW SHERIFF, I'M RIDIN' A FUCKIN' SHETLAND!

State line plus first exit is Nesbit One-Mississippi too dark, three-Mississippi green, bucolic, four-Mississippi unmolested, unknown, unurbane filled by former farmers, ranchers, few neighbors, fewer criminals, few enough to not perpetrate, not populate his solitude, or presume alarms, unnecessarily over-manned security courtesy of Mr Smith, Mr Wesson, Mr Birelli, and various German and Eye-talian fellas whose names are as unpronounceable as their aim is true, and whose justification - shit, this Mississippi ... the Hangin' It Inn of the hamlet, all paid and variously his (unless you are the IRS), sprawls up and behind casually gated hills, a Ranch in the middle of what looks respectably upper class Nesbit, commingling quietly with denizens whose lives are far enough for his comfort, living meting him live from a distance to death, respectively, infamous neighbor from Hell with the poison pool, the mysteriously metabolizing anomalies, a Graceland,  gracelessly mocking, its guys long run off, its women unusually silent, and its dogs, eccentrically named and overly abundant, fitting in with his neighbors perfectly in one aspect, his Farmer Hours perfectly compatible and reassuring as his own desire for quietude, privacy maintained through strength of will,  more than tesile gate strength; and should he ever venture into too-deep contemplation, missing his sister whose doing can now not be undone to her dying deprivation, Lewis style, her recent absence felt by me strongly, Frankie Jean, whose leg was strongest to stand this tripartite weight's unsteady tricanter, never saying goodbye to she, whose fervent desire was predeceasing brother, that its obverse would  kill her as surely as she wrote End of the Road right where she showed me at the end of Black River, one Lewis wish granted, and however many or just one more Lewis-magnitude wish-event, as bizarre and unexpected in its intuitive surgical exactitude and slowly sinking feeling of fatalism of its targets, that what happens next in Ferriday (unlikely, shall it rain candies ... but we have something in Apocalyptic, sir?), stays next in Ferriday. 

Now, the final duet whose whoos and ahhhs and fifths and thirds Linda Gail Lewis was born in,   slowly reinvigorating her previously blinded tours, now enjoying her funny little people whose presence has made them more Global Citizen, than Ferridayin,  more less-shocked than shocking rubes, whose places, we visit, they fucking work; her legendary brother's "Never Ending, More?" recently dealt a More, whose Lewis-thrown curveball by some JEALOUS fuck-up, probably Baptist pitcher syrupy from resin and not enough for the bow (Bow! I'm talking to you, you joyless depriver of Man), deceased, but never forgotten.

Frankie Jean Lewis Terrell

, elder stateswoman, Arc watcher, canard chaos lover, schadenfreude mistress, but most depressing of all those she loved was her only regret, 'Those motherfuckers at Decca who let her tear up her contract and stay in fucking Ferriday taking care of all Linda and Jerry's souveneirs and ever-crushing reminders of her decision to conduct 'the life,' not revel in its seduction, direct and prompt its players, whose scattering winds blanche upon meeting hers.' 

Dear Cleveland Rock Hall, It is my wish from one gallerist to another regarding one out of none more careful, my wish for you, not prejudiced by your mission or accomplishment so far, is that whomever, NEVER  played the hand they were dealt regarding this woman and her repository,whether because its 'quirky' unmatched suit displeased their eye, drawing for flush and eschewing straight, or preferring to wait out its unorthodoxy (when those Cleveland Rock Hall motherfuckers - at least, he was admitted first...God rest their souls, had it not been so)...Good luck with your current lineup (get some Browns help).  Meet Mary Jean, just her first, 'raised in Ferriday,' exotic, wildass, recessive gened human morpheme, Gregor Mendel never considered, off  the Mayflower Rock 'n' Roll,  Sartorial provenance, so volatile, her DNA,  toxic from legacy, unmatched by Romans, unworthy the Romonavs, and unwashed by those religions requiring worship of something 'extra-Lewis.' I know all whose blood runs from this well to be fully pumping varying amounts Lewis blood, verifiable, righteousness, so full of indignation and happily disbursed, that your 'mistake by the lake,' is going to wish its river conflagrate in flame only to protect your first through fifteenth Rock envoys, Hall directors, and last issue, the deputized Rock 'n' Roll Ambassadors, likely to be enlisted when shit hits Ferriday's fan, and Heavy Metal gets shut down by the ghost of 'everything past.' Take some hazard pay, guys! (no idea where it started).

eventually led to my meeting and subsequent one-night-stand (dance, not that) which I think of every moment I am surrounded by evil schemers whos brevity is just suggestion, while its intention is eternal Death must surely employ often for pre-apraisals and petty reprisals, prospects unpreventable pre-destined, -doomed, -damned, predictive of a mismatch of miniscule to magiscule, Ms. Bonnie Lee Bakley to Anywoman, status unchanged: 'always lost, never found'. Bakley's Heaven's Band's only extant document shows pathology and powerlessness for which the soon-to-be murdered exhibit meretriciously from weakness, mistaking shyness for aloofness, weakness for kindness (I will now say with every reservation unreservedly unavoided, avoiding, less admitting)...SEXY!

Sexy Bonny Lee Bakley, irresistibly BAD, unfocused, trashy, 'every which way,' AND 'louche,' solely, purposelessly, deceptively secret shared, a cool Memphis evening, slow dancing Hernandos Hideaway on Brooks Road, among other more Memphian, less Honky Tonkin',   however easily integrateable their transformation into which beat that bottom needs, or which omission that solo wants...does there even have to be a solo; ever-anachronistic confusion of a city, whose 'Welcome Sign' should be solitary, sharing no glory with Elvis or BB, or Furry, or Lewis: large Graphic Art depiction in Neon or Neoplastic, garishly flashing a pilled-up woman, hiking skirt, holding heels in hand, having evils all on her mind.

(I call these little stray words and unused phrases 'gribades', of no value anymore, pushed down by tangent, irrelevance, departure only from 'Beginning, Middle, to End'.) ...stop, which poor Bonny Bakley woud go and do to realize completely devoid of even the most primitive self-awareness, whose existence would have prevented her murder, but more significantly, may have prevented the almost impossible-to-not-defend motive its mayhem pre-ordained, prepared the day she was born in New Jersey, and preserved, it thought, obsequiously immune to the day, when its failure found its protectorate climbing happily, ladder to the stars, stepping on every rung; finally fixedly falling among others on a warm, black, Los Angeles night, having eaten her favorite, the last of old Hollywood, patience overtried, for what, she thought, would be, but instead, brought down, fatally, easily, because as the man used to say on every episode, 'Dat's da name of dat tune, Rosie'.

Con artists, grifters, weave cons alone to no one at all. This most storied, singularly intuitive, lifetime Hollywood exclusive, blurs red lines, inevitably from bizarre black books, seal to seal, Fate disrupts Fate;  Royal-anything, preserve regular nothing.

Her

she cleaved mendacity celebrity, pathology, lurid in light for a moment, lessening loosely it dims; celibate inspired adorators through manufactured methodology, strange processing gratuitous overvaluing, mimetic savantism. Robert Blake's Baretta's parrot, thinks she's got it, finally I think she's got it, it masters minuscule vocalizing magically pitch-perfect for pitches perfectly perblind, evolutionarily repetitive running without standing, learn for the cracker, not cooing approbation; the  familiar tribe of monkeys, one-hundred typewriters clacking Shakespeare and Pynchon, eventually. Blake arrested Bakley, Salinger wryly caught Hinkley, and Lennon heard Chapman through  nominative determinism, embarassing feminism, chapping the rider, riding toward them; their commonality one imperative: destroy those perfectly inspired, their own ego tragic. Bonnie Lee Bakley, meet yourself. Yourself herself, meet LEEBONNY.

THERE'S MORE ASTROLOGY AFTER THE CUSP

He took his sixth wife, Kerrie, in 1984 and they had a son in 1986. Kerrie managed Lewis' business affairs, but the marriage began to unravel in 1996 and concluded two years later. On 4/22/2002, she finally served divorce papers, two days short of their 18th wedding anniversary finalized in Hernando, MS. Link to Wikipedia biography Events Relationship : Divorce dates 15 June 2005 (Divorce finalized from sixth wife, Kerrie) Relationship : Marriage 1984 (Sixth wife, Kerrie McCarver) Family : Change in family responsibilities 1986 (Son, Jerry Lee Lewis III) Health : Decumbiture 1981 (Hospitalized for stomach problems) Jerry Lee Lewis L hippodrome de Pantin

Jerry Lee Lewis hippodrome de Pantin (1:00:00) *dropped cæsura-deep (13:00) into Paris amour profondément respectueux des ténèbres pour tous les Lewises, Jerry et Jerry Lee, semblables, a passionate combustibility more deeply profound than our ownership allows in the States. 1981 mode (mon âge de tendresse, 18 ans. ma découverte) Jerry Lee Lewis seems to enjoy it all night long. Here is the Killer at FULL zenith , God-given talent , comfortably couched among his three other first-person invoked, proclaimed posse , 'Stylists,' whose number obeys its powerful ordinal Trinity, triumvirate, tripartite, rule-of-three , and whose position, he damn sure assumed and filled with his idols and fellow fuck-ups, each one, though, possessing the one quality of which he is authentically instilled: the fully recognized unwavering acknowledgement, first, at the age of four, from his mother, and then soon and prodigiously praised as if to and of a god, both of Heaven, whose Pentecost they served and sang to, of, and with, the undeniable presence ordinanced and testified by fire, this religion's matriarch and munificent moralizer, founded on love, but fulminate of the Holy Spirit, whose paltry presence was not private, but more forcefully a mounting rider in charge of gesticulation, ululation, and its ultimate Gift , x laliá! λαλιά (laliá, “talk, chat”) . Suffix -lalia forming nouns denoting abnormal or disordered forms of speech. THE SPEAKING IN TONGUES TOLD ELOQUENTLY IN AN UNKNOWN LANGUAGE ONLY DISCERNIBLE BY IT OR ITS CHOSEN RIDERS TO SUBMIT AND GIVE IT ITS WORDS BACK TO IT SO THAT IT COULD UNDERSTAND THEM AND CONTINUE TO INVEST ITSELF IN THE GIFT OF THESE WORDS OF RECOGNITION AND RITUAL, fully formidable oratorio, the very embodiment of one's self-expression defined and denied to all others by virtue of its virtuosic puissance d'elegance ; libraries of unironic , gliss-blissed, 88-key solos, finger-flying, volant, digits baring ivory;  unlike Dorothy in Oz , shot-calling solos, his YOLO : no set to distract, no chart to GPS from modality to modulation, inflection to invention, disinhibition springs forth as muscle memory to a Lewis - speak badly of them, they KNOW it as jealousy , but the final fuck-yous are either unheard or, being deaf, perhaps not understood from the laughing overconfidence, ignorance of self-loathing and its ugly child, apology, their schadenfreude , your glimmer of doubt, predict and interdict your disbelievers - no problem. Fawned- fussed-over prodigy, appreciated in his day, Jerry Lee is Mozart; Mickey Gilley, Jerry Lee and Jimmy Lee's 'double-first cousin, 'his Salieri'), or possibly endowed less through savantism, but equal, grandiloquent summoner of genius whose author Stanley Booth, reverent appraisals reference, reanimate - soothsayers live in Jackie Gleason's Ralph Kramden, one night in the perverse black and white night you first heard him say, 'You can't put your arms around a memory,' never fearful of perjuring, I know correct, too true Memphis Bud Powell steroids, Monk Haldol (more Sweet Bird of Youth than Glass Enclosure), his glass half-enclosed, never half-empty: Phineas Newborn Jr.  Genius. Whoops! Ohhh, the Carrera sunglasses . Yes, and the Jordache JEANS 'for men' (don't get it twisted, Killer). This was also the year ... was it Shawn Michelle Stevens Lewis? No. Maybe, Pumpkin, or Kay Kay? Ask Peter Checksfield, he knows a bit about the subject : Jerry Lee was being dressed for success , or the Senior Prom in powder blue, ruffled tux shirts (check), Cat 5 SEVERE , denominated my fascination and adoption... 'Thy name shall be 'Ferriday Roll!'

Highest chokecherry a white man  unnecessarily employed self-identifying argot (for whom?), bicep deep, Skoal high signifying Rednecks as surely stomach contents to gastroenterologist; organs aflame, liver bileful, belligerent spleen's bellicose instigator, dangerous, remorseless temper  ... Ferriday to McComb, embellishing  sensibility, perfectly hard, full-length, seamed and glassen, his jeans straight as true north or Charles Bronson, unashamedly self-identifying, or should that be defying any person with balls for their bile engine, spleen to comment:

HIS FUCKING JORDACHE JEANS FOR MEN COST HIM A HALF-DAY'S WORK, AND WHILE INITIALLY, FEELING EPICENCE AND BOA-CONSTRICTED, EVENTUALLY GAVE WAY TO AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT CONFIDENCE NEVER BEFORE FROM ANY ORGAN HE POSSESSED.

This he knew for certain, was not an organ: HIS DICK WAS PACKED-IN FUCKING TIGHT LIKE CANNON WADDING, READY AND FUCKING IMPATIENT TO FIND SOME COWGIRL WITH HIS SAME BRAND AND SENSE OF COMPACT SECURITY IN HER PUSSY, SO SURE WAS HE, THAT THIS WAS SO, HE WAITED LIKE A GIGOLO AT THE CORNER OF THE BAR AND WATCHED 'EM STEP IN AND OUT OF PARTNERS OF DIFFERENTLY BRANDED JEANS, LIKE FUCKING STRANGERS... WORRYINGLY TIGHT; culminating in the superstructure perched snugly atop his follicularly fulsome vainglory, which grew from his geneticaly superior family of hirsute foreigners, whose ego was only met by their mendacity, and though the follicles had long been tamed, greased down and forcibly prostrated through severe chemical hazards; embalmed-then-sedated, traumatized, jet-stained (or one-under jet noir ) , like Elvis, but without Larry Geller's Psychic Reading List, or Dilaudid Shampoo, dyed ever day (night!) and only occasionally betrayed by a sweaty bead dyed but unnoticed even as his bizarre ritual of scarfing the instamatic worshipers, screamed, fought, showed tits for the next Sweat-stained article briefly but lightning fast like Sichuan Opera's master Facechange artists, who changed faces more deftly than un salope de Paris en le Pigalle a minuit avec ne d argent pas, et cravent de le Soupe d oignon ... shroud of Turin , his spiritual hairdressing hairdresser, on call for almost anything. ultimately from Ancient Greek θηριακή (thēriakḗ, “antidote”), feminine form of θηριακός (thēriakós, “concerning venomous beasts”), from θήρ (thḗr “beast”) . Compare theriac, theriacle. a treacly-nosed fumée of Vitalis, Pomade, and hair dye; it caused some to tear up like the stealthy odorless effects of a furtive WMD, without warning , some people were immune, but others, it did repel without a cause . This wisecracking peckerwood, Oscar Wilde , less wit, more fucking gusto , might vary from overly foppish to authentically uncaring of his wardrobe , not to the detriment of his red neck, saying by hue and flouresced glow alone : be careful after I have 4 drinks. I promise! Enfin, la collusion errant entre digits et d interior a l archétype l ivoire baise fin, l ivoire baise bang, whose Steinway spellcaster sits sheepishly smoking stage left curtain, waiting for any sign of deference, but Jerry Lee, never diminishes, only burns until extinguishing his self-immolation (dreaming of Champ and Gene Autry, a recent Twilight Zone episode, or if they don't rerun Gunsmoke in his baby-grand stocked suite a la George V he could tell JW to find Fetus and Matt Dillon in the Pigalle, after, but c est la vie. Now lets modulate out of G up to puttin' this motherfucker into bright white A . it's just the best most flawlessly inspired, 'amphetamine-torqued, Ferrari engine with sexy leather, seamlessly stitched seats you ever fell for, or as Jerry Lee used to keep handy his favorite joke, rarely offered for his replaceable cast of rarely invested fellow flockers and thrill-killer acolytes from Paris to Pasadena: A female reporter comes aboard the Killer's tour bus before show. She takes a booth behind a comfortable table top and begins to untangle and arrange her necessary devices, camera, microphone and notebook. While engaged and observing a 15-minute limit, she demurely makes un petite parlez to the Killer, ashen faced, fixed, half-rye, half-lie, assessing her corporeality; more rejecting its unwholesome carriage and posture from too much fucking , an occupational hazard requiring short but frequent bouts of lasciviousness only he and Jimmy Swaggart could see. She thinks, Perhaps, he wants to eat me. Or just intimidate me. She blurts out, Jerry Lee, what is the wonderful fragrance you have on? The Killer replies whip-ready, cobra-quick; envenomated with highly lethal, bitumen-black gallows humor (way more, 'gallows'), more neurotoxic than immediate ; multi-fanged, and full from boredom and business; part-test, part get-the-fuck-away , and part, I ll remember that look on your face, but not this town , trip-wired, never tired (he told me, 'I can hear the grass grow'); timing like Pryor, reams of material from the only man whose huge prick made it impossible to not be cocksure (the Killer, still, not too sure about that dress, though), Uncle Milty Berle; and finally as dry and secure as that great made up religion, whose founder, because of his preternatural horniness, prayed to regular Jesus, without his affirmative desired result, Joseph Smith encountered a different more progressive Jesus, whose Old Testament childhood felt more comforting to the horny Mormon than any other horny cult leader in town. Whereupon that day, the new Jesus, descended from the American Indian, a Space Alien, a Bradu Bunch-sized family, whose wives were fucked in rotation by days, and whom you were constantly paying for sessions with a box and some bad memories (i tend to get the Latter Day Saints and Scientology way spun out, into some real weird hybrid religion which, depending on the iteration, generally comes together as either a super cool other religion, peopled with aliens, sisterliness, and everywhere, golden plates with Nautical designs signifying absolutely nothing but needlessness, as played by Tom Cruise, whose clearness is next to godlessness for its impossible-to-see see-through quality, representing perfectly Cpt. L Ron Hubbard 's magnificent majiscule religion-anti-scienfic fiction with one of the best while least credible origin stories, which if one is both receptive and of the mind with which to receive, accept and pay money to follow, then take solace in its understanding, find solace at its word salad of Jung meets Joyce Brothers, meets Isaac Asimov, meets Thor Hyerdal, meets, Goebels, meets Philip K Dick, meets Tom Cruise AND Vinnie Barbarian, scenario, defined by its not thereness (Walker Percy would like that), whose absence makes the heart grow fonder by the minute, and whose obedience to its Orson Melanesian houseful means that from one day to another, you don't know if you're praying to Lana Turner or you know the little creepy German actor, Peter Lorre, who if, excusing Bella Lagosi, I would have it in me to create a religion, I can think of no two other personages both endowed with celebrity and insalubity whose shear dichotomy and seeming unacceptability seems both impossible and incredibly Match.com-perfect (only if John Huston can be God, however). *This leftover word lagniappe from some poor sentence or paragraph above, whose punctuation was no match for my parenthetical antithetical desire to keep moving, unsympathetically forward, to the beat trilled lowly of Kerouac playing snare accompanied by Barry Hannah blowing something spare but complex as Russell's space jazz, to the more orthodox, less-tickertape process of, say, Ambergris, than, say, Joyce; them together as cohesively, cogently, concupiscent. Instead enjoy these words, and take them as a gift from me, for free to use and or directly insert into a sentence fragment or a trouve de le bon mots, libre, concordance-friendly, word-fix: *too-clear while at the same time reserching your entire family tree at the huge golden domed HQ on Sunset Blvd. where you can check it out anytime you like, but you can never leave. Science Fiction author, tax-exempt status (finally! good work, FBI), whose plan, now that he is dead and has time to plan things, calls for his return, but unlike, Jesus, no caves are involved; there are at least 6 prime plots of real estate in DMs realtor role as current Cpt., all multi-million dollar properties with incredible curb appeal, and available at a moments notice or later...no rush. Mormon underwear, his favorite, Mr Benny (he'll play Kenny Lovelace's fiddle sometimes after a show, by himself, frailing thoughtlessly, Benny's theme song, and he'll say to no one in particular, ' Jack Benny'll never die as long as I m living.' ready? He replies before you answer; before you even know it's a question - now ! With his lip moving up his right face-side... he used to yell at producer/pedophile Huey Meaux, the Crazy Cajun during the Southern Roots recording sessions in Memphis . 'Hey, hey, hey, hey, Thibadeaux! You coonass bastard! You'd look funny blowin' a horn without a lip!' be here all week. Hippodrome de Pantin was a permanent circus-style tent venue located in the Parc de la Villette near the Porte de Pantin Métro stop in north-eastern Paris.