Elvis had it all

I'm listening to Elvis while banging away at this f*%#ing computer. I actually forgot how good he was, and still is. I'm sure he's working behind some 7-11 counter in Encino with an Abdul nametag pinned to his polyester shirt flipping off the paparazzi when they come in for coffee.

That SOB sure could sing and gyrate.

Hell, he invented gyrating.

And he had the looks.

That bad boy look, with the sneer.

Every girl between 14 and 54 likes bad boys. I know a lot of girls won't admit it, but deep down inside, where they do their secret craving, they want a bad boy. Not too bad, mind you. No sense in getting raped, or arrested, or beat up. But bad enough to get on the back of a motorcycle or in a hot rod or sports car, and be seen with Elvis. Or one of his millions of wanna-bes.

I was an Elvis wanna-be, who the hell wasn't.

Dark slicked back hair, collar up in the back. Levis. No cheap shit imitations. You had to wear honest to goodness Levis. No rolled up farmer cuffs.

Life was easy back in the fiftys. You either looked like Elvis, or you were a homo. How do I dare say that? Easy. Straight guys wanted girls and girls wanted Elvis. Ergo, you became an Elvis clone. The guys who didn't care about getting a girl? They wore chinos with the stupid belt in the back and pastels.

Maybe the King of Pop is dead, but the King of Rock and Roll just keeps rolling along.

And a good portmanteau to you too sir.

Portmantau and chiasmus are two words worth knowing. Especially, if you're like me and pride yourself on a vast knowledge of totally useless information. Obviously, I'm not going to just figuratively pull down my pants and show you what the hell I'm talking about. If you hate running DFL in the one-upsmanship derby, you will probably quit reading right here and go look them both up.

Go ahead, we'll wait.

Ah, now that you're back, we'll resume.

I hope by now that it is not the size of the dog in the fight,

but the size of the fight in the dog.

That should tweek your jetavators.

Sorry, no pictures.

Well maybe this old one

Orange juice

I have lived in California most of my life by now.

Being I was in the Navy for over eight years, I moved around like some sort of Gypsy. But since I first moved here in 1961, I have considered this place home. I still feel, however, like an astronaut visiting a strange planet. At heart, I suppose, I am still this guy from Cleveland. Let me define Cleveland. Cleveland, like I explained to my kids, is everyplace between New York and Chicago. In Cleveland, you don't see forty year old cars whizzing down Pacific Coast Highway with surfboards on the roofs. Nor do you see 57 year old grandmothers with killer bodies and boob jobs in shorts and halter tops. And you don't see trees that have oranges growing on them. I can, and do, walk out of my girlfriend's house in the morning and pick three oranges from one of the trees and squeeze what has to be the freshest juice I have ever tasted. OK. I have had my morning rant. I'll get on with my morning chores. Like skimming the pool etc.