A gooood spot on an AIDS Telethon--my "Lady of Spain" reprise goosed ten grand in contributions and got me a surreptitious blow job from a college girl working the phone lines. _Daddy-O_ was released on video, and film critics hooked on '50s kitsch have been bugging me for interviews. Their questions have my memory turning cartwheels. It's '58 again--I'm an accordionist/singer top-lining a "B" flick for chump change. Did you write "Rock Candy Baby" and "Angel Act" yourself? Did you pour the pork to your co-star, that blonde from the Mark C. Bloome tire ads? Who did your wardrobe, who did your stunts--how'd you get that 'Si Ford airborne, the fuzz in hot pursuit--the footage looked real, but hastily spliced in. I always try to answer truthfully. I always write off the leaping car as movie magic. In all candor, I made that supercharged/dual-quad/cheaterslicked motherfucker FLY. There's a story behind it--my loving farewell to L.A. back then.1. I was bombing. Atom bombing: sweaty hands, shakes pending.
