From: rvacca@vyasa.helios.nd.edu (robert vacca)
Subject: The Curse of Jim Morrison
Summary: True story.  Really.  I Swear To God (tm).
Organization: University of Notre Dame
Date: Wed, 13 Jan 1993 01:27:32 GMT
X-Claimer: This is a work of non-fiction!  It really happened to my girlfriend and her mother!  Wow!  Gosh!  Gee!


	Late December snow turned to slush in Paris.  The
streets were slushy, the sidewalks were slushy, and the chic
Parisienne sidewalk cafes and coffee-houses were slushy.
	The tomb of Jim Morrison was not slushy, because the
Cult of Morrison had cleaned it off.
	They were there that day, the day after Christmas, the
same as any other day.  There were only ten of them, uncertain
of who they were or what they wanted in life, save that Jim
Morrison fit into it somewhere.  Some were Americans, some were
Swedes, some Brits, some Aussies, most of them French.  They
weren't sure who was of what nationality, themselves included.
It didn't matter.  They rarely spoke anyway, even to each other.
They just sat at His tomb, waiting for something.  In the summer,
they were an army. In the dead of winter, they were nothing more
than a rag-tag handful, as if the melting snow turned into members
of the cult.
	Farther back in the cemetery, two women were walking
towards the tomb.  The casual observer would have thought they
were related, as they were- mother and daughter.  Both were
exceptionally tall- the mother almost six feet, the daughter
perhaps three inches shorter.  They were talking, English with
an American accent.  The mother had a camera, the daughter did
not.  The daughter was speaking.
	"Mother, I appreciate your coming with me, but did you
have to bring that camera?  We'll look like tourists."
	"Dear, we _are_ tourists.  Or do you fancy yourself a
pilgrim?" asked her mother.
	The daughter thought about that seriously.  "No," she
finally spoke, "more of a surrogate pilgrim.  I'd like to see
this for myself, but mostly so I can describe this to Dave when
we get back to the U.S."
	The mother laughed briefly, and asked "Then why don't
you have a camera?"
	"I don't have a camera because that isn't how you're
supposed to do this.  Even I know that."
	"But I thought you weren't a big Doors fan."
	"I'm not, but Dave is.  Besides, the batteries for my
camera are dead."
	They both had a bit of a laugh at that, as they reached
the tomb.  The daughter climbed onto a neighboring tombstone,
and watched Morrison's grave intently, as if expecting it to
move.  Since this was acceptable behavior, the Cult of Morrison
left her alone.
	The mother stood to one side, and watched.  The grave
did not hold the same interest for her as it seemed to for her
daughter or the other scruffy types encamped around the grave.
	The other people did.
	She was an inveterate people-watcher, and found the Cult
of Morrison (as she did not know they were called) fascinating,
combining the mannerisms of monks and junkies, which she guessed-
accurately- they were.  At first she was content to watch, but the
impulse to record on film the people (she found the tomb rather
dull) became overpowering.  She readied her camera, then held it
at her side, and took a number of surreptitious photos, without
aiming.
	She'd gotten off almost the entire roll before one of the
Cult of Morrison saw her.  He drew himself to his feet, looked for
his voice, found it, and spoke a few words in French.
	The mother looked at him blankly.
	The man- more a boy, really, younger than her daughter-
then spoke a few words in English.
	"They will all be blank."
	"Wh-what?"
	"They will all be blank."
	The mother stared.
	"They will all be blank."
	Slowly, the gazes of the collected Cult of Morrison turned
towards the mother, silently.  She noticed her daughter among them.
She met their collected gaze for a brief moment, then quailed, and
turned to go.
	"Let's go now, shall we?" she called over her shoulder to
her daughter.  Her daughter shook her head, as if coming out of
a trance, then got off the tombstone she'd been sitting on.  She
flashed a sheepish grin at the Cult of Morrison, and ran after her
mother.
	A week later, the mother was arguing with a Customer
Service Representative for the pharmacy.
	"I tell you, ma'am," asserted the nervous young man, "we
did not ruin those pictures.  If we had exposed them to light, 
they'd have been black.  They're clear, and it's not possible to
develop exposed film, no matter what mistakes you make, and get
clear negatives.  I'm afraid you must have brought us a roll of
blank film."


---
David Vacca, Just an Excitable Boy.
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre