Elvis Presley. I know what we’re supposed to think: steamy hot southern boy with too much hip, too much smile. I went through an Elvis movie phase, which shows what classical style, what depth of emotion I achieved as a teenager. But I didn’t watch the movies because he appealed to me. I watched them because there were too many Saturday afternoons when I was a teenager. Saturday afternoon is a dumb time when you’re 15. You can’t really work, so there’s no minimum-wage cashier’s job to go to. The mall wasn’t fun until later, no one had a car anyway, and, in short, there wasn’t anything else to do.
Anyway, back to Elvis. Never had the urge to be one of the screaming bouffant girls. Until recently. I listened to “A Little Less Conversation”. And I wanted to be a bad girl.
Have you heard this song? I know. Me, too.
I confessed to Hal. He laughed. Right, throwing my bra on stage would attract no one, I know. Especially my nursing bras. And he verified the object of my new-found passion. “You don’t want to be bad with him, right? I mean, he’s like, decomposing.” Right. And not the “him” of the last 20 years of his life, either. And not really the black and white him, either, because I like my men in color. I mean the him of the song.
Excuse me now. I need to go shower and then call my ecclesiastical leader for absolution.