Monday, August 11, 2008
Before there was email I was an active letter writer. A woman wrote me saying she loved "Quasi at the Quackadero" and wanted to buy a 16mm print. They weren't cheap then-- and this was the 70's. They cost $150. She was thrilled to get it. She was a big fan.
We became pen pals of sorts, because it turned out we both loved collecting old postcards. Her specialty was insane asylums: the best ones were written by inmates. She was married, had kids, and worked as a nurse. She also sang for a jug band.
She told me she was a nymphomaniac, and had written to the sex institute in St. Louis(?) offering to come there and be studied. I didn't encourage the confessions, but she liked to write about it. She often sent me really great old postcards. She had thousands. They weren't just from mental institutions.
At that time Delta Airlines had a great fare plan where you could buy a ticket for around $500 and fly to as many destinations as you wanted in a month. I bought one of these tickets, and included a weekend visit to the nurse nut.
As soon as we met at the airport I just had this gut feeling-- I didn't like her. She was loud, pushy and tricky. But not just that, it was visceral-- sometimes you can't explain why you don't like somebody, but it just hits you that way.
It seemed as if she was always talking to three different people, all different conversations, and repeating to each person what the other two had just said, even if they were all in the same room. Call waiting was designed for her.
Her husband was lanky and soft spoken. They lived in the country. There were so many ticks right outside the door that they kept a special tick jar in the kitchen where you were supposed to drop all the ticks you found on your legs on the way in.
We went to a club where she was singing one night. She had a nice voice. I think she got some nympho action in even while we were all at the club.
I couldn't wait for that weekend to end. (But I did like looking at her postcards.)
Later she asked me to do an album cover for the band's record on spec. The producers didn't like what I did. They hired somebody I know to do it instead.
Her brother tried to get me to do some spec animation for a basketball scoreboard when I first moved to L.A. I wouldn't do it. He was annoyed. (the jerk)
Years later I met her in the cyberworld. We were both bidding on the same postcard. I won it.
This is that card!