Misti Rainwater-Lites Interviewed : Scot Young

Who can really do that and make it believable?
So, I asked her for something tender,
something outrageous, something totally
different. I got this.

Many of us look back at our bios once they are printed and wish for a retraction. The freshness or cleverness of the time turns into the same cranked out shit. This interview needed a unique introduction for the lady who screams pussy to the world. Not the same old recycled crap of she did this after she did that. Not another list of credits either. I needed to crawl into the mind of Misti, look out her eyes and say hey fuckers this is Misti Rainwater-Lites.

Misti Rainwater-Lites is a cracked teapot. She has tried to sell herself on eBay but nobody wants to bid on a bat shit crazy broke ass poet who has one mixed media painting to her name. The title of the painting was Screaming Pussy but is now Crazy With The Cheez Whiz. Misti is currently working on a comedic pornographic horror script with Matt Finney and Michael Lites tentatively titled "White Trash Werewolf" with Evan Stone, the best porn star on the planet, in mind. Misti will not give blow jobs for publication credits but she might send you a lipsticked autographed copy of one of her many self-published books because she's ditzy like that. If you would like to purchase a collection of 63 PEZ dispensers that includes Yoda (Misti's favorite) and a bunch of other exciting characters, contact Misti at ebulliencepress@gmail.com.

Misti is also selling metal lunchboxes, Barbie dolls and collages at rock bottom (with the depressed American economy in mind) prices. Misti is interested in writing children's books, teaching tap dance lessons to little gay boys and learning how to box so she can beat people up and get paid for it. Misti also dreams of someday reading her poems in rainbow sequins at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Speaking of rainbows, Misti also dreams of someday owning a retro motor court somewhere in the Land of Enchantment called Inn of the Rainbow, which will include a honeymoon suite for gays only. Misti will conduct gay marriage ceremonies at the motel. She will get her license online.

Scot:

What is a Misti Rainwater-Lite poem?

Misti:

The smart ass short answer is "a poem written by Misti Rainwater-Lites." Two words tend to

come up a lot when other people describe my poems: confessional and insane. I've come up

with a new word to describe my poems. That word is "crucifried." That is me being cute and

playful with the English language. Most of my poems are spicy extra crunchy crucifried, like

what you might find at Popeye's if Jesus had been a chicken. People might read this interview

and think that I think I am Jesus. No. I do not think I am Jesus. I do not think I'm a chicken. I

think I'm a survivor who throws a mean pity party. I think I'm a crazed clown banned from the

birthday party circuit. I think I could never hold down a job at Popeye's because I would eat all

the chicken and mashed potatoes and biscuits and would not get along well with the other

employees and would give the customers too much change. Also, I would call in sick a lot.

Scot:

A lot of male poets list Bukowski as an influence. Who first inspired you to write poetry?

Misti:

I first started writing poems in my Snoopy diary when I was nine but those poems rhymed and

went on about rainbows and unicorns. In college I wrote poems influenced by Jim Morrison. I

cannot name one lasting strong influence. I guess lately I've been most influenced by Anne

Sexton just because for the past couple of years I've kept going back to her poems. I've got

almost all her books. I've bought more books by Anne Sexton than any other poet, with the

exception of Bukowski. I don't like to talk about Bukowski. He's received more than enough

press.

Scot:

Do you mark your successes as a writer?

Misti:

I crow about my successes. I brag. I self-promote. In many ways I'm still the insecure kid

begging my mom to watch me cartwheel or jump off the diving board. I feel successful when

someone asks me to be on their radio show. I feel successful when someone publishes a book

for me. My small press success is pretty much the best I can hope for. The world is not banging

on my door. Oprah still hasn't invited me to sit on her couch. I've slept on Christopher Robin's

couch. Thus, I am successful.

Scot:

What makes a good poem? Do you have a feeling when you know you got it right?

Misti:

I know I'm onto something when I can feel my face burning and my hands shaking as I type it

out or when I'm laughing out loud or when snot pours from my nose and tears pour from my

eyes as my fingers fly. If I read one of my poems and it leaves me numb or apathetic how the

hell can I expect a complete stranger to get anything from it? I appreciate and adore all kinds of

poems. I like poems that play around with the English language and take risks but don't make

you scratch your head so hard that your scalp bleeds. I like narrative poems that don't make

me say,"So? Thanks for the page from your diary. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

Wipe my ass with it?" I like craft. I like complexity. I like poems that don't preach (I've been

guilty of writing those) or offer easy, pat answers.

Scot:

I have had some female poets tell me, I wish I had the balls to write like Misti. So tell

me…what does it take?

Misti:

I've received that compliment before and it always confuses me. I guess my tragic flaw is that

I'm like Ally Sheedy in "The Breakfast Club." I pour my purse/heart out and invite the whole

world inside. I don't think,"I can't dump the contents of my purse out in front of these strangers!

I've got tampons and Polaroids of my bush in there! Eek!" Some people have told me that I'm

brave. I really don't think I am. I am simply sharing my experiences and my insights, the horror

and glory of my life, the best way I know how. I'm not an extrovert. I'm extremely reserved. I

put it all on the page. A girl I'd "known" online for years through a poetry community called me

on the phone once and was shocked when she heard my voice. She said,"You are not what I

expected." I asked her what she'd expected. She said,"I don't know...combat boots?" I was in

the Army for a few months, by the way. People are always surprised when I tell them that.

Scot:

Has motherhood changed the way you look at life or poetry?

Misti:

Motherhood has made me more mindful of boundaries and time. I've never had much tolerance

for bullshit. Since giving birth I've discovered that I have zero tolerance for bullshit. The women

in my family tend to give to the point of depletion. The only female relative of mine who refused

to give everything away was my great-grandmother, Marie Crenshaw. Mamaw Crenshaw

would testify from her recliner in her trailer house, a can of beer (or in later years a Coca-Cola)

in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I remember the time she told me about her second

husband, about how he hit her once and she took off her high heel and gave him a black eye

with it. My grandmother, Mamaw Crenshaw's daughter, would coddle me and the other

grandkids and sugar coat stuff for us. Mamaw Crenshaw didn't play that. I had more respect

for her than any other person, man or woman, I've ever met. I am fiercely protective of my son.

I am also fiercely protective of myself. I touch on this in my latest chapbook, The Kitchen is

Closed, published by Jack Henry of d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press. If people don't get me, I don't hand

them Cliff Notes. I don't have time for that. The people who do get me are the ones I work on

maintaining relationships with.

Scot:

What books do you buy/read?

Misti:

I prefer to buy small press books but sometimes I buy mainstream books, like Love is a Mix

Tape by Rob Sheffield. I just finished reading that book. It depressed all hell out of me. I love

anything by Christopher Robin and Joe Pachinko, two of my favorite writers and human beings

in general. I buy poetry books almost exclusively but I've gotten into Chuck Klosterman lately.

He cracks me up.

Scot:

How important is marketing to the success of a poet?

Misti:

I'd say marketing is pretty damn important if a poet wants to actually sell books. I've tried

MySpace and blogspot to minimal success. I've done the guerilla thing. I've left business cards

and poems of mine in mainstream poetry books in used bookstores and chain bookstores. I've

sent letters to various magazines. I've sold chaps at readings. My next idea is to buy an ice

cream van and paint my blogspot url and some of my book titles on the sides. I'll drive around

blaring cds of myself reading my poems. I'll sell my books, copies of Instant Pussy, sex toys

and Atomic Fire Balls.

Scot:

Does the sense of place/location influence your work?

Misti:

I've discovered an ebullient resilient geography within myself. Texas and New Mexico have

crucifried me. Or have I crucifried myself? Maybe if I'd lived in Alaska and Oregon my poems

would be the same. I know when I lived in Albuquerque I got goddamn sick and tired of the

provincial poetry that saturates the scene there. I would drag my husband to the readings and

apologize to him afterward. We would have fun making fun of all the chile

pepper/coyote/curandera poems. I'm not talking about a specific ethnic group, either. All kinds

of Albuquerque poets wax poetic about the New Mexican landscape. Albuquerque is the most

gorgeous, culturally rich place I've ever lived. I'm now living in an ugly toxic culturally bereft

town that brings to mind the shit smear on Satan's shorts but I'm writing the same kind of

poems here that I wrote in Albuquerque.

Scot:

Print or online?

Misti:

I don't like online for numerous reasons. I prefer print. It's easier on my eyeballs and I like

taking books with me wherever I go.

Scot:

What makes Misti laugh?

Misti:

I have a weird sense of humor. I have never been a big fan of "South Park" or "The Simpsons."

I don't like most of the crap on Comedy Central. I laugh at scary movies that aren't supposed

to be funny. I laugh at pompous, ridiculous people, like the guy in Albuquerque who in all

seriousness read a poem in a kilt and a Scottish brogue. I laugh at myself. I'm ridiculous.

Scot:

What was your first published piece?

Misti:

My first published piece was a poem called Morning Musings. It was published in the campus

literary magazine when I was enrolled at Southwest Texas State University. I won over a

hundred bucks for that poem (don't recall the exact amount) and the Gates-Thomas Excellence

in English Award. I didn't know I'd won until Tuesday morning when I showed up at my British-

American poetry class and the professor congratulated me. The awards banquet was the

previous Friday night. I missed out because I was hiding from the world in my dorm with a

disconnected phone.

Scot:

What is it to be an underground poet?

Misti:

It's a bit of a tease. If you achieve any amount of success as a small press poet you might, if

you're me, trick yourself into thinking you're a rock star like Ronnie James Dio. I'm not David

Lee Roth. Not everyone has heard of me. The people who have heard of me bow down to me

saying,"We're not worthy! We're not worthy!" They buy my $35 t-shirt and say everything they

know they learned from me. I'm being facetious. I'm only semi-famous and that's only online

and among prisoners, thanks to Christopher Robin and Bran Scam. To be an underground

poet is to be a fan of masturbation, basically.

Scot:

Do you see a gender bias when it comes to being published?

Misti:

I don't see a gender bias.

Scot:

What is the next project?

Misti:

I don't know what I'll come up with next at lulu.com. I'm writing poems for Bill Shute of

Kendra Steiner Editions that won't be published until next July. He asked me to pick my

favorite month for a project he's putting together next year. I told him that October is my

favorite month (because autumn is my favorite season and Halloween is my favorite holiday)

but July inspires me more poetry wise, for some reason. Next Exit: Ten will be published by

KSE later this year. I've got a 69 flip chap coming out on Tainted Coffee Press. Justin Hyde

will be on the other side. I can't wait to see how that turns out. I've got a full-length poetry

collection coming out on Tainted Coffee Press called Cuntasaurus Rex. Rawr!

Scot:

How did Instant Pussy come about?

Misti:

Ever since I heard that Harvey Danger song in 1999 I've told myself,"Yeah, I wanna publish

zines,

too. That sounds cool." In 2005 I discovered Zen Baby. Then I met this crazy Hoosier

online. He wanted to put together a zine with me. I moved too fast for him. I published my first

Instant Pussy in December of 2005 with much help from my husband. We put it together at

Kinko's. Instant is because I reply to submissions with a quickness. Pussy is because I used

pornographic images. Instant Pussy just sounds right. Of course everyone knows pussy is never

instant. Pussy takes time.

Scot:

What advice have you been given as a poet?

Misti:

I haven't been given much advice. Christopher Robin sent me some poems once for Instant

Pussy and wrote something like,"If they don't bleed, send 'em back." That has stuck with me.

Poems should bleed.

Scot:

It is the last poetry reading on earth. What poem will you read?

Misti:

Oh fuck. I'm stumped. Shit. Let me go through my files. My son needs a bath and I need a

beer. Okay. Here ya go. This is a long motherfucker. I published it as a chap at lulu.com. It's

called :

Sex Tape

Texas flag

America flag

two bold

red white and blue rectangles

whipping majestic

over the parking lots

junked out with decal plastered

hunks of shiny metal

…I must be in Texas, America…

I'm sitting in the air-conditioned

haven of my mother's white car

I am listening to soft rock

I am crying

I am trying to strengthen myself

for Wal-Mart Supercenter

Texas America is not at fault

for any of this

this 35 year old mess

in a thrift shop t-shirt

purchased in 2004

made in the 1980s

that was when

the New Kids on the Block

were most popular

Daddy your raincloud girl is bloated

Mom your eldest is in a panic

when can parents

in good conscience

RESIGN???

what will I do

when you are both dead

and there are no more barriers

between myself

and God's immaculate yawn?

right at this static moment

you are both alive

and I am alive

and I am doggy paddling

spluttering

in this salty little sea

of same

not much changes

the struggle to survive

goes on and on ad nauseam

much like a Bee Gees record

that keeps skipping

"stayin' alive! stayin' alive! stayin' alive!"

staying alive slays me

taking plastic spare change bloated

bags to the store

hoping to find an operating Coin Star machine

hoping to have enough

for milk/bread/cookies, maybe

the sun is exploring my skin

steep some tea and make yourself

at home, motherfucker

thanks for the memories

sun spot souvenirs

from living a mile closer

to you, Goddess Sun, for five

glorious hellish delicious grotesque years

Goddess Sun you are my mama

always prying into my business

my pet name for you is Cindy

for spring break I want to take myself

alone to Portland or Peru

I want to make love to the moon

and create a black sheet blue bulb cave

that hums like a spaceship

floating aimless through an infinity of stars

but right this very cherry nOw

(just realized how fat the "o" in "now" is…)

(and wOw…how OW is now!)

I am quite stuck

I am in a box

surrounded on all sides

by jalapeno juice dripping barbed wire

imagine the scratch

imagine the burn

bravery has nada to do with it

I am not dumb enough

to attempt escape

imagination is what I got

in spades

I am afraid of variables, possibilities

I have broken bread with the variables

I have finger fucked the possibilities

a million and one crumbs later

I am what you might call cautious

a thousand cum stains since

I am what you might call careful

but is that the truth?

that

not

the

truth

you see I am the veteran of cups

you see I am the court jester of hearts

yes love to me is free like confetti like candy

I am not a hippie

although I do believe in astrology

and I do appreciate candles

and omens and symbology

and the Doors

especially "The Crystal Ship"

and "The Soft Parade"

but I'm not that kind

I'm not earth mama benevolent

I'm not kind to the Earth

and blatantly stupid people

my heart is NOT:

Come on in! The gang's all here!

Here's a bowl. Here's a bed.

We're all God's sugar cookies!

I dig your sprinkles!

but my heart IS:

wOw…you're smarter

than I could ever hope to be!

your style doth shine!

Snoopy Valentine!

you're the most brilliant writer

I've ever read! You should be PUBLISHED!

you should be AVAILABLE

in Barnes & Noble!

FUCK! I want to get naked

and crawl inside your BRAIN!

…I'm that kind of slut…

…I'm that kind of whore…

…I am not true…

…I am not faithful…

…I am not mentally monogamous…

…the world is filled with brilliant pens…

oh hell…write all over me, that's my fantasy!

me! naked! in YOUR bed!

dripping ink

covered in your words

scrawled all over with your genius

your penis

is an

afterthought

but hell…shit…piss…fuck…damn

cantaloupe

watermelon

honeydew

kumquat

that

too

bloody

much

ask

for

(I know.)

I am stuck inside my own box.

I am living small in Misti World.

I eat cardboard cake.

I lick my finger and stick it out.

Hmmm…looks like rain.

The claps of thunder are to be expected.

I was born and will die tornado dizzy.

The thing is…I'm a witch.

I created a candy house smack dab

in the middle of Diabetes Forest.

I specialize in impulsive decisions.

I don't think things through.

Nobody wants to blister their

sweet gingerbread tummies

in my witchy poo oven!

Lots of brimstone verbiage up in that bitch!

Ouch ouch ouch…no sugar daddy

on this planet can withstand that brand.

The brand is me.

I have created my own brand.

I am a kooky smeared unapologetic

circus casino survivor.

I'm purple.

I'm pink.

I'm black.

I'm green.

I lack the clarity and ooh pretty pretty

of a kaleidoscope.

My colors are not separate pristine

but fucking tangled incoherent

jumbled messy sloppy mixed…CONFUSED.

Welcome to my mindfuck where it is

kindergarten recess sack lunch scissors

paste mosaic plastic beads wooden blocks

all the day long…until it is Philosophy 101

until it is Theology Paint By Numbers

until it is Get in Touch With Your Inner

Pilgrim until it is Connubial Blistered

followed by the usual America is Powerful

and So Are You So Lose Twenty Pounds

Stay Married For The Kids Color Inside

The Dotted Lines And Be Happy Goddammit

seminars.

The coffee sucks.

The coffee is instant.

The cups are Styrofoam.

The sweetener is artificial.

The powdered cream is yuck.

And the banter!

God and all his tipsy cloud puking angels

SAVE ME FROM THE SEMINAR BANTER!!!

"Do you have any kids?"

"Where do you work?"

"Have you seen that new magic show in Vegas?"

"Do you have the new Celine Dion cd?"

"Who do you think will win 'American Idol'?"

I'm a snob but I do not speak French

and I don't have the Presidents memorized

and I never played an instrument…successfully.

Also: I buy purses and panties from Wal-Mart.

Here I am at Wal-Mart.

There is a full circle here.

I began at Wal-Mart and am back there

sitting crying trying in my mother's white car.

"It's too late baby now it's too late…"

oooh I hate this fucking song.

Where are the Pet Shop Boys

when I need them most.

I need some witty gay optimism.

Happiness is an option. Indeed.

I can go West.

Problem(s) solved. Neatly.

I really would be happy with life

if I lived in San Francisco.

The Mission district appeals to me.

I want to see rainbow flags but I don't

want to have to live in the Castro

to see them.

The Castro is too rich for my blood.

Too many boutiques, not nearly

enough drag queens.

I want the parade.

I want to star in it.

I have drag queen envy.

I'm not a lesbian but I love looking

at truly beautiful (not plastic fake trying

too hard) women.

I want to be that kind of woman.

The kind of woman who does not exert

too much effort.

The kind of woman who can walk

around naked but chooses not to.

I want to inspire Sting songs.

I want to inspire Robert Lowell poems.

The trouble is Sting is married to his muse.

The trouble is Robert Lowell is dead.

I can be all blustery bravado and bullshit

my way into heaven by saying:

I shall write my own songs!

I shall write my own poems!

The trouble is I am musically challenged.

The trouble is I have written too many poems.

Chiefly, the problem is me myself I.

I want to take myself out of the equation.

I don't want myself in the batter.

I turn as always to my maroon King James

Rainbow Study Bible for inspiration.

This book was written centuries prior

to my conception! Yes!

There is no Misti to be found in either Testament!

I like the lions roaring in the Bible.

I like the people fearing.

I like the old men believing.

I like the young women stirring shit up.

Law.

Wilderness.

Sacrifice.

Lust.

Blood.

Wine.

Without.

Faith.

Torment.

Asunder.

Persecution.

My kind of nigga.

My bag of Cheetos.

If life is a sandwich I want all of the above

in between two slices of rye.

Dry.

No condiments necessary.

I can chew chew chew my way

into Kingdom Cum.

Evan Stone will be there.

He will be standing at the amethyst onyx gate.

He will be wearing a black silk robe.

As I approach Evan Stone crucifried

extra crunchy slathered all over

with funky plum and pomegranate sauce

the robe will fall and reveal

an appreciable erection that is singing

my praises:

Misti is Worthy

Misti is Home

Misti Can Get Up On It

I Said GODDAMN

Get Your Fine White Eternally

Salacious Ass On Over Here, Sexy Thang!

I will get up on it.

I will wrap my legs around Mr. Stone

and take take take

what is so freely given.

But I said I wanted to take myself out.

But I changed my mind.

I can be in the equation so long as it includes

eternal sex with Evan Stone.

I can be in the equation if I am allowed

to Etch A Sketch away the senseless

doodles of my clumsy finger life.

I can be in the equation if given

a license to provoke rhyme

and slaughter reason.

I like myself inside my intent.

I love myself wrapped in desire.

There are hidden things, jewels,

Cracker Jack prizes, Happy Meal toys

I can't quite grasp.

Who am I, finally?

What am I doing on this planet?

Why am I here?

How brightly am I allowed/supposed to shine?

Well. I can tap dance on rock bottom.

I've said that before.

I throw pebbles at stained glass windows.

The pebbles turn into Hello Kitty cupcakes.

That, too, has been said but in a slightly

different way.

I don't have much to recommend

but I walk the mile regardless.

I invite myself to the banquet.

I don't beg for crumbs.

I don't ask, "Where am I supposed to sit?"

I sit at the head of the table.

I help myself to the prime rib

and mashed potatoes.

I take the cake.

I eat the cake like I'm starving.

I lick frosting from my fingers.

I can hear the whispers and titters.

I pretend like it's all applause

egging me on.

This is how I shine.

I'll stop shining as soon as I

am ready for the shadows.

Right this poisonous berry now

I am out of the box on a smoke break.

I don't smoke so I'm fuming instead.

I'm breaking plates over the heads of

all the spit polished pretenders.

They have been invited.

Love is requited on their playground.

Somebody is always there to swing

them to the clouds

and spin them dizzy with delight

on the merriest go round.

The dolls at my tea party agree.

I'm the hottest bitch in town.

I wish their mouths weren't sewn shut.

I wish they could hug me back.

I wish they were equipped

with applause meters.

I manufacture my own hype.

I must.

I am the believer in me.

You can call me trickster zero.

You can call me waifwifewonderblah.

You can call me wackadoodle poodle.

You can call me waa waa wack sheep.

Just call me, darling.

My number should be carved in stone.

I'm greedy for the tawny

rosy sprawl

lazily licking

moon puddles

from your

receptive flesh.

I give good hum.

I give good dumb.

I give good tingle.

I give good jingle.

I can play.

I can pretend.

I can be the decoration

in your dead sea.

Let me be

your anemone in state.

I will never be sated.

You should enjoy

that for a while.

I hope the weather forecast

does not include me.

I'm tired of being the tornado

that ruins picnics.

Let me be the rainbow

hanging over the raindripping

honey tree.

Truly, sweetheart…

I am mucho fragilistic.

I'm the dimlet lacking the olive

but sassy with lime pulp.

I'm Glowing Gimlet Girl.

I'm Kiss Bar.

I have omensity.

My clitscape offers instanteternity.

I'm gluetrue.

I'm zoopy with femineek.

My sprizzum leaves them

gasping for air.

My dumbbunnyhoppery

scatters pink and purple eggshells

across decadent dawn drenched lawns.

I enshadow your intent.

I make tents out of the tangles.

My gutscrape, your thumbscum.

The id is loose.

Juice it up, boy.

The tacos and Saturn tasks can wait.

It's pony time!

Giddyup shameless,

Venus trine Neptune style!

I want to run.

I want to hide.

I stand my small patch of ground

on shaky legs

with my fists to the sky.

I'm present.

I'm here.

I'm not going anywhere.

I'm spitting.

I'm cursing.

I'm singing.

I'm winging it like the batty motherfucker

you all know me to be.

Inside my mother's white car

I face down years like a firing squad.

I see more than I let on.

I am afraid of the bullets

but what can I do?

Regardless of my sweaty pleas

the bullets will fly.

There is no stopping the bullets.

Bullets: enter here.

Someday the bullets will be worms.

Right now I'll take the bullets.

The bullets can decorate me.

I am holy.

I am walking across the parking lot.

I am walking inside Wal-Mart.

It's almost like flying.

You could say I'm a ghost.

I give good boo.

Well…I give the best BOO

I can scare up

trampled underneath

the circumstances.

This will suffice.

This is my Valentine sex tape viscera blog

kissy kissy text message

to the

world at

large.

Barge in on my party.

Crash.

Rude voyeurs.

Autistic audience.

Notice

resolute

smile.

Bask, motherfuckers, in my

retarded resilience.

Scot:

You have a lot of work self published. What are your thoughts on this market?

Misti:

I know I'll never make my fortune at lulu.com. That really isn't the point. I'm just getting it all

down and having fun in the process.

Scot:

If you had a chance for a “do over” what would it be?

Misti:

I had the chance to go to Lollapalooza in 1995. I didn't go because I had to work at

Wal-

Mart. People can say whatever they want about Hole. Courtney Love rocked in 1995

and I

wish to hell I'd seen her kicking ass onstage in Austin. I also had a chance to drop acid in

1995. I didn't do it because of Wal-Mart. In 2004 I left my life in Albuquerque because I was

terrified. I'd just divorced my first husband and was freaking out. I wish I'd stayed in

Albuquerque.

Scot:

Tell me something about you that most people don’t know?

Misti:

I've been a mother since 1996. I gave birth to a beautiful healthy girl and handed her to

adoptive parents I chose in my second trimester the day I left the hospital. I've never

completely healed from that and never will but I think that was the best choice I've ever made.

Scot:

I f you could sit down with any writer, who would it be and how would it go?

Misti:

I'd sit down with Tim Murray. It would go well because I would shoot him with a red water

gun and he would share his onion rings with me.

Misti
Rainwater-Lites

Scot Young