Cue The Camels, Chapter 5, Jerusalem Bed Sheets

 After a long day of shooting in Jerusalem I stopped at the Elvis Inn for a bite to eat. As I walked in a short, portly man stood at the souvenir counter waiting to buy a kitschy keepsake. He had greaser sleeves (extreme sideburns) and wore a white polyester jumpsuit with rhinestone shoulders; round his pot-belly was a crudely embroidered American eagle belt. He also had Elvis’ trademark gold-framed sunglasses. I felt I’d discovered a new psychiatric condition: Elvis Syndrome. I saw that another Elvis statue was sat across from me, staring me down as my spicy burger, (kosher beef, of course) French fries and Coca Cola were set down. ‘Thank ‘ya very much,’ I said to the waitress, giving her my best Elvis impression. ‘You don’t think I hear that every day?’ she scowled. ‘Must be the end of her shift,’ I thought.