DISGRACELAND - Mama Cass Elliot (Pt. 1): Dangerous Drug Dealer Boyfriends, International Arrests, and the Solo Career That Should’ve Been

Episode Date: November 29, 2022

Cass Elliot, AKA "Mama Cass" from The Mamas and The Papas, broke the mold of female pop superstardom and shattered expectations of what women in music “should” be. She also was arrested in London for theft, dated international drug dealers, and tanked what was supposed to be a career-defining solo performance while flying high on Iranian hashish. To this day, the biggest controversy swirling around the singer is her connection to the 1969 Manson Family murders. Her actions during the so-called “Summer of Love” might even be why the motive for the murders America has come to accept as fact…is actually entirely false. To see the full list of contributors see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. This episode was originally published on November 29, 2022. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTokSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about the Mamas and the Pappas, Mama Cass Elliott, are insane. Cass broke the mold, shattering expectations of what a female pop star should be. She battled weight issues with extreme dieting routines that often landed her in the hospital. She was arrested in London for theft. Like most pop stars in the six,

Mama Cass did lots of drugs. But unlike most pop stars, she dated not one but two dangerous drug dealers. Mama Cass was also at the center of the Manson family murders, and her actions may be why the true motive for those murders has been hidden for over 50 years. But throughout her career, Mama Cass performed with a charisma and sang with a voice that was not seen or heard in pop music prior. And Mama Cass Elliott made great music.

Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Me Chacha-Suchat-Chacha, MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Monday Monday by the Mamas and the Pappas. And why would I play you that specific slice of ba-da-da-da-cha cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on May 7, 1966. And that was the day that Cass Elliott truly became a star, gaining her entry into a world of Hollywood celebrity and hedonism,

a world that her presence would perhaps forever alter with disastrous results. On this episode, a London arrest, Hollywood hedonism, California Dreaming, and Mama Cass. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. It was innocent entertainment in the city of sin. Mama Cass Ellie at Caesar's Palace. Circus Maximus. Mama Cass's solo stage debut, like the woman herself, was to be extra.

Mama Cass, formerly one of four uniquely compelling singers in the hip-pop group, The Mamas and the Popas, personified the 1968 American vision of Extra. Cass was extra everywhere. From her big, charismatic voice to her technicolor hippie fashion, to a physicality. She was the first plus-sized female pop singing sensation, and there was nothing subtle about her. America loved her.

The record buying and TV consumed public welcomed all of the extra that Cass Elliott brought to popular culture as an innocent version of the whole hippie thing. Mama Cass wasn't dangerous. Mama Cass wasn't dangerous. Jim Morrison, Mama Cass wasn't Jimmy Hendricks. Mama Cass was Mama Cass, a real straight shooter, whatever that meant. America could accept her, even if her former bandmates could not. Little did Cass know her bandmates were there in the audience that night, Michelle and John at

least, and so was half of Hollywood's entertainment industry, there to support their friend, Cass Elliott, as she dropped the mama from her moniker and embarked on her solo career in earnest with her debut performance. Mia Farrow, Sammy Davis, Jr., Peter Lawford, were right there up front. Joan Baez sent flowers backstage. Jimmy Hendricks was in the crowd, too. No shit.

Jimmy Hendricks. There to see her. Cass Elliott. She'd come a long way from Mama Cass. Mama Cass was yesterday. Mama Cass was fat jokes. Mama Cass was a John Phillips production. This debut at Caesar's Palace was a solo production.

John, that prick. He never wanted Cass in the band to begin with, supposedly because her voice didn't blend with the voices of him and his wife, Michelle, or with Denny Dardy's. Bullshit. Cass's voice was the voice. John didn't want Cass in the band because he thought she was too fat. It was that simple.

John, alfo fucko that he was, didn't hide his true colors from the rock press wasn't around either. After the Mamas and the Papa's first bit of success with their debut album, if you can believe your eyes and ears, and their megawatt hit singles, California Dreamin and Monday Monday, music that revolutionized pop music, music that took traditional folk and alchemized electric instruments and jazz vocal arrangements into some sort of irrepressible pop gold,

hits that radio could not deny, hits that Americans, both kids and parents, could not deny. Once that music exploded onto the scene, making tremendous stars of each of the four members of the Mamas and the Pappas, Inevitably, talk of solo careers crept into the band's conversations. John was unthreatened by Cass seeking fame outside of the group. At least he postured as such, telling Cass she could go right ahead and start a record label called Fat Records. It stung, but Cass took it in stride.

She knew there was power in her voice. She knew that whatever that extra thing was that took a singer from being just a deliverer of a song and transformed them into being a star, She knew that she had it. She knew that her voice was the voice. Sure, Denny could sing, and so too could John, of course, and Michelle was pretty enough even if she could just barely hold a tune, but Cass was a singer, born to sing, biologically designed to sing.

Who cared if she'd look like one of those beautiful young girls from the canyon that John's song seemed to soundtrack? Cass had it were counted in spades, and she was charismatic, too. Her personality was a new kind of hero. hippie innocence, but dig an inch deeper and there was a bawdy, funny, good time gal that everyone who came in contact with loved. John Lennon, her hero, Beetle John, was a fan and a friend, maybe even an admirer. That shit blew Cass's mind.

But it was true. It was right there on film. And Bob Dylan's tour film from over in London in 66, Eat the Document. Cass almost fell out of her seat when she heard none of the than Bob Dylan and John Lenin talking about her from the back of a limo, glowing beneath a haze of grass and the glare of D.A. Pennebaker's sun gun. Tell me about the monitors and pop-as, Bob. I believe you're backing them very bigly over there.

Okay, great. I knew we did that. I believe you're not interested in the big chick, right? You're interested in the big chick. She's got a hold of you, too. She's got a hold of you, too. She's got a hold of everybody I know. Everybody asked me the same thing, and I know what they mean.

That, of course, is a horribly cheesy recreat. The film, Eat the Doc, and we highly recommend you check. I knew what John and Bob meant, too. She was a novelty. No, her talent was too intense for that. But her size was immense enough to make her an aberration. She broke the mold, all that weight, and all that confidence. Big girls weren't supposed to behave that way.

Where did she get the gall to be that charismatic? Shouldn't she have been ashamed for not looking like Michelle for her? not looking like Mia? Both in the audience right now at Caesars watching her, how could Cass possibly stand the glare? Truth was, Cass could hardly stand the glare, but it wasn't entirely due to insecurities surrounding her weight. On stage, in front of a sold-out audience of Vegas hipsters, gamblers, mafioso, friends, and scenesters from the Hollywood entertainment industry, admirers she admired more than they could possibly know, all waiting for her to turn in what was expected to be a dynamic solo debut performance, Cass Elliott stood stone still in the spotlight,

preparing to show the world that she was more than just the fat chick and the mammas and the papas, that she was Cass Elliott to prove to them that she was an artist on the level with Jimmy Hendrix, on the level with Sammy Davis Jr. She staled herself to do the one thing that led her to this momentous point in her life, to sing. Except she couldn't. Her voice, her one weapon that no one could neutralize with a fat joke, was gone. She froze, and the band fumbled. Cass blurted out a weak melody. The band forced fake smiles.

Cass missed entire vocal phrases. And the audience looked at each other for answers, and there were none. Cass stumbled through the opener. The audience applauded weakly. The band kicked into the next number. Cass sang flat. The audience shifted uncomfortably. The band braced for a long night.

Cass smirked, Cass fumbled to the finish of the song, she made bad self-deprecating banter. Some in the audience got up and left. John Phillips sat satisfied. Michelle felt for her old friend. Mia wondered what Frank had going on at the sands. Cass kicked into another tune. The band buckled up.

Hendricks Van Moost, Sammy Davis scanned amateur hour, wondered what Frank had going on at the sands. Cass felt woozy. Her voice was fading faster and faster. And there was a second show. Oh, fuck! Would there even be an audience to not sing to? The Vegas hipsters bounced. The gamblers returned to their tables.

The tourists got a story to bring back to their barbershops and bingo parlors. Peter Lawford ran through blue fat girl jokes at his head to pass the time. Clock Sammy decided Frank at the Sands was the place to be and scatamooched. Cass apologized and promised a better second show. She failed to deliver. Two weeks of shows, two nights each, 40 grand a week, down the drain. Cass knew the rest of the shows weren't going to have. happened, not after this disaster. She knew it when she hit the backstage and she knew it when she saw

him. There he was. Still there. He was there before the set and he was there after the set. He was always there until he wasn't. And that was a problem. He was a problem. At least that's what Cass's friends thought. But to Cass, pick Dawson, International Man of Mystery, he of the violently handsome some good looks and endless stash of Class A substances was the love of her life. But don't tell Pick that. Pick was there for his own reasons, to rub up against history, to rub elbows with Cass's famous friends, to up his resume from drug dealer to Hollywood star, perhaps on the wings of one of his girlfriend's connections.

For that to happen, though, Cass had to perform. Cass had to keep her star in ascendance. Cass couldn't blow the show. despite the fact that before going on stage that night at Caesars, it was clear to everyone backstage that Cass was in no shape to perform. Blame it on her fever, blame it on her tonsils, blame it on the crash dieting she put herself through for the past six months in preparation of her solo debut.

She weighed 300 pounds when she started the diet and then lost 100 of it from basically starving herself. Then she resorted to a diet of mainly milk and cream and regained quickly another 50 pounds. Physically, she was in no shape to perform. Pick took matters into his own hands. He dipped into his supply of Iranian hashish, chipping bricks backstage and smoking Cass up to alleviate her pain.

When that didn't work, he turned to the hard stuff and shot Cass up with this heroin. By the time Cass hit her mark at Caesars, she was near Blotto on top of being fevered and with her voice failing. During the sets closer, Cass ran through the, emotions of her solo hit, her version of the 1931 Andre Schwant and Khan dance tune, Dream a Little Dream of Me. It was functional at best. Cass was gone, her head in the past. Just a few years ago, it was all so easy, so simple. She opened her mouth to sing and the world

opened itself up to her. The mamas and the papas were celebrated, fed it, accepted, which was, of course, all Cass wanted from her earliest days in the burgeoning folk scene back in Greenwich Village to be accepted. And then, that little dream she dreamed came true. It seemed that every day brought a new adventure. Cass remembered back to 67, just a year earlier. Off the coast of Massachusetts, on board the SS France and off to London where her crush Beatle John awaited. The Mamas and the Pappas were embarking on their limitless future. A five-day cruise across the Atlantic, everything seemed possible. When they arrived abroad, authorities were waiting for her, for Mama Cass to place her under arrest.

October 10, 1967, Southampton Dock, United Kingdom. America's innocent pop star Mama Cass Elliott in handcuffs, arrested on the trumped-up charge of stealing towels and soap from a hotel upon her previous London visit. But in reality, once British authorities got Cass in the cooler, all they wanted to talk to, was our international man of mystery slash on-again off-again boyfriend, Pick Dawson. The arrest in 1967 was, for a minute anyway, all anyone back home in the States could talk about. It would remain one of America's most infamous busts from the world of pop stardom until two years later in 1969, when another arrest for the murder of one of Cass Elliott's good friends would nearly eradicate Cass' seemingly innocent bust from the pop consciousness.

Last night, another bizarre murder in Los Angeles, the second in two days. Roman Polanski, the film director and husband of Sharon Tate. Called newsmen to hotel in Hollywood today, and there he made a long, emotional statement, told a good deal of what had been on his mind since his pregnant wife and four others were killed at their home on August 8th. 21-year-old Susan Atkins is involved in still another murder case. She appeared in the Santa Monica City courtroom this morning to enter a police. in a trial stemming from the July 31st murder of 34-year-old Gary Hinman. Los Angeles police have placed Ms. Atkins, also known as Sadie Glutz, at the scene of the Tate

murder. Saving-E-Glust. Taking into account the published report in the Los Angeles Times, the story that Susan Atkins told about what allegedly happened that night after the murder at the Tate House, we drove from Cello Drive at the base of Benedict Canyon, up here. We found some trousers and some shirts appeared to be turtleneck shirts or something dark in color. Did they appear to have any stains on them? This is where they live, among the stables, barns, and phony buildings of an old rundown movie location 20 miles from Los Angeles. They called themselves the family.

Five members are now in jail on other charges in the desert town of independence. The family's leader, Charles Manson, is jailed here. It is expected that he will be charged in the tape murders. A weird homicide. Charles Manson was arrested on October 12, 1969 in Death Valley, California for Grand Theft Auto. It took authorities a minute, but with Manson in jail and fellow Manson family member, Susan Atkins, also behind bars and blabbing like a schoolgirl, the investigators connected the dots, by the end of the year, formerly charged the career criminal and cult leader with the Tate La Bianca murders.

L.A. County Deputy District Attorney Vincent Buiosi went to work, piecing together a fantastical tale that supposedly detailed Charles Manson's motive for the murders. It involved uber dark acid-induced inspiration from the Beatles' so-called White Album, converting teenage runaways into savage murderers with orgies, endless amounts of drugs, verbose pre-reduced on Nouveau hippie interpretations of togetherness, ego, and the dangers of the establishment, some twisted idea of jump-starting a race war between America's black and white populations in which Charles Manson himself would remain in the end king of the world. His supposed motive also involved a healthy dose of spite, jealousy, and rage

aimed at Hollywood's music and entertainment industries that had rejected Manson because of his supposed complete lack of anything resembling actual musical talent. It was a lot to swallow, but somehow America did just that. It was an explanation, and after Mama Cass Elliott's good friend Sharon Tate

was savagely murdered along with six others, America desperately needed an explanation. Historians painted Charles Manson's arrest as the punctuating moment in mid-century American culture. That moment when the long time lights went out, when innocence was lost, when peace and love went dark. It was December 69. Charles Manson was on the cover of Life magazine. Woodstock was over. Altamont was death. The hippie dream was Dunzo. Charlie Manson and his dirty little hippie girls group sex the

summer of love in a 16-year-old Sally's living room right there on the six o'clock news. But this thinking was bullshit. Convenient Huey dreamed up by lazy rock journalists and hack historians. Anyone who knew anything about the history of Hollywood and or 20th century America knew, even back in the immediate aftermath of the Tate La Bianca murders, that America was never innocent, and that Los Angeles, even before Charles Manson, was a violent, psychedelic hellscape. Wats was on fire as far back as 65 when the Mama's and the Papa's first sang California Dreaming in Lou Adler's studio on sunset. There were snipers on the rooftops. Los Angeles was a flame. Rock had overtaken folk. McGuin's shimmery guitar. Sunny,

Cher and the what the fuck is that about of it all. Tanks, Rew, Venice Gym, Crazy Charlie, Terminal Island, Kim, the vampire, the road mongler. Sunset strips sizzling with sex, sex, sex, jack on the make, hop gone blotto, monkeys in the pool. The hippies were at the studio gates with the pitchforks. The kids were about to twist one up and abscond with the keys to the T-board and the castle, and Bob Evans was the only one with a fucking clue. After 65, Hollywood came alive. Everything went electric. But even in its analog days, Hollywood had always been its own little Gamora.

Studio heads were big bads who exploited young talent, male and female. Not only for profit, but for sex. Agents were pimps, publicists, ministers of propaganda. LAPD moonlighted as bagman for gangster Mickey Cohen. Studio security were nothing more than fixers who made problems disappear and pleasure perpetuate. Everyone was in on it. And most importantly, stars got what they wanted. Always.

Didn't matter the era. If Greta Garbo wanted to steal away with a young beautiful starlet in one of the Garden of Allah's private villas without anyone being the wiser, then Hollywood made it happen. If Marlena Dietrich wanted to kill a story about her maid raping her 13-year-old daughter, then Hollywood made it happen. If Errol Flynn needed to be acquitted on the statutory rape charge of a 17-year-old, then Hollywood made it happen. If director Raul Walsh, along with Flynn,

wanted to steal John Barrymore's dead body and take it on one last cruise through town, then Hollywood made it happen. If Robert Mitchum wanted to to choke up the evil reefer as early as 1948, then Hollywood made that happen too. And if Chep Baker wanted to waste his god-given talent as a first-rate jazz man by pumping the big age into his veins on a nightly basis, then you got it. Hollywood made it happen. Hell, if the president of the United States, John F. Kennedy,

wanted Marilyn Monroe, the most beautiful woman in town, naked in his bed, ready in waiting for him at Frank Sinatra's Palm Springs estate upon his arrival out west, then Hollywood made it happen. And later, in 1962, if the president's brother, Robert F. Kennedy, wanted Marilyn Monroe to keep a secret, then, well, that's a different story entirely. point is Hollywood was a company town. Anything went as long as the company made money. This was Hollywood's MO going back to its earliest days when the eventual president's father, Joe the bootlegger,

helped establish the town with gangster capital. Hollywood is forever frothing with sex, depravity, violence, and greed. There's never been any innocence. In 69, it was a fucking lie, and it still is. It's a cheap postcard they sell you over and over again in cheaper documentaries. Manson, the murders, it was nothing more than reality flicking the light switch on in the middle of the night in America catching a quick glimpse of the scurrying vermin.

But before the light flicked on, the vermin were happily partying with America's plus-sized sweetheart at her home in Laurel Canyon. And back in the late 60s, in a haze of grass and LSD, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference between the good and the bad guys. But one thing's for sure. All of them, the good. and the bad, we're all getting fat at the home of Mama Cass. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Cass Elliott was the unofficial den mother of Hollywood's music scene, and her home on Woodrow Wilson Drive was The Scene's unofficial clubhouse.

It wasn't a crash pad, but it was, as Cass put it, a very free house. On most afternoons, there was a pool party. David Crosby, Eric Clapton, members of the monkeys, Janice, Janice Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, were all friends of Cass, and as such, were all regulars. And the guests weren't just musicians. Up-and-coming Hollywood A-listers frequented Cass' parties as well. Jack Nicholson, Dennis Hopper, Warren Beatty, Ryan O'Neill, and a young, good-looking actor, Donnie Wayne Johnson,

who would later go as just Donn and split from Hollywood for Miami and its different type of Sunny Vice. Don Johnson, along with all the others, were all regulars at Cass's home. And true to cast Elliot's spirit of openness, the party welcomed newbies, friends of friends, anyone who seemed open and caring of the hippie ethos of creativity and togetherness, it being Hollywood, hustle, or to put it bluntly, young, ambitious men and women on the make. Her boyfriend, Pick Dawson, chief among them. Pick knew no bounds, no guardrails. Even within the context of the hippie movement, Pick Dawson colored outside the lines.

He moved serious drugs, kept bag company, came and went as he pleased, and had Cass convinced that someday he would marry her. But first, of course, there was the matter of whatever score he was trying to hook up. The new synthetic drug, MDA, was Pick's newest bag. Pick had some friends, Billy Doyle, who was only slightly less handsome and mysterious than Pick, and who in the spirit of the 60's sexual liberalism, was also romantically involved with Mama Cass, despite both of the relationships with Pick Dawson. Billy is a friend, Cass as a lover. Pick didn't care, though.

Pick had plenty of relationships, including another friend who was always around, another good-looking piece of Western trade, who Cass and everyone else in their circle seemed to be in awe of and for good reason. She was badass, butch, and mooey mysterious. She went by the name, Cowboy. Cowboy was different from most everyone else

who hung around Cass's home. Cowboy was a vibe and scary but attractive, tall, real tall, over six feet, broad-shouldered and stunning, but somewhat masculine. She dressed in the requisite denim and hippie leather and swayed of the day, but on Cowboy, her build made it all come off more Gower Gulch than Whiskey a Go-Go-Go. Word was Cowboy had a made-for-movie's background. Bizarre rumors had her origins in Tennessee post-war, born from some sort of country music royalty, and then a quick run through the seams of the studio system.

Some combo of honeypot, muscle, and fixer. None of it made sense, but then again it was 1969, so all of it made sense. Cowboy was way into guns, all kinds, and knives too. Cowboys screamed military. The kind of military you didn't hear about. The sneaky kind. The kind that ducks past enemy lines at night. Plants whatever needs planting and is gone before sunup

and way before whatever atrocity was just committed. available in the papers for you to read about. A cowboy liked to get high, too, and she always had the best grass. So Cass's crew let her in. Cowboy taught Crosby how to shoot. Cowboy taught a monkey how to swim. And Cowboy taught Mama Cass how to properly handle a man's unique set of needs, just like a big girl should.

Cowboy came and went to Cass's house freely, and so too did her friends, and Cass's boyfriends, picked Dawson and Billy Doyle, all of them mixing it up with Cass's rock star and celebrity pals and most notably introducing their own strange element into the unique Hollywood mix. Drugies, black magic shaman, straight-up hippie losers, most of these charlatans who entered Cass's home were too high, too dumb, too starstruck, or some combination of all three that most would just leave an embarrassment

and never return. But some, some gave off the vibe that they weren't ever going anywhere unless it was of their own volition. The English actor Michael Cain was not some drugged out sunset strip Rube who wandered into the A-list scene at Mama Cass's house by accident. Michael Cain was fresh off of the film The Italian Job. And he entered Cass Elliott's home brimming with unnoticeable excitement and understated cool. 1969 Hollywood was in full flex and Michael Cain had arrived.

Of course he had. He was the star. He put in the work constantly. And this was as much his destiny as it was Cass Elliott's or any of her other megawatt guess. It was a scene, man. Cass's backyard pool overflowing with 60s bash and pop, beautiful, caramel skin, bikini-class. young women everywhere, and the immediate smell of grass. A glass of something iced and wet quickly

placed in your hand. Neil Young in the corner looking out beyond his scraggly black bangs over his acoustic guitar. Peter Torque of the monkeys running around in a kimono. Jimmy Hendrix's experience blasted through the high-fi. Was that Mia Farrow? Who was the older gentleman in the ascot with a slicked hair? Was that Bob? Here? Who offered in that joint and how old was she? She couldn't have been more than 15, and where were her clothes? And that was definitely Dennis Hopper, wild-eyed and frantic. You couldn't miss him. But who was the young man on the sofa and the short shorts making eyes? And how young was he? Was that Candy Bergen? Such a beauty. But she was with her moon-faced boyfriend, the music producer guy, Doris Day's boy, Terry Melcher. And what were those women

at the edge of the pool chanting? And what was with their get-up? They looked like they had him bathed in weeks, and that was definitely Dennis Wilson from the Beach Boys in the middle of them, and he definitely didn't see them mind the funk. Cass went to work making introductions. First, Pick and Billy and Cowboy, Michael was unimpressed. So too were Pick and Billy and Cowboy. Then, intros to more familiar faces. Michael, this is Sharon, Sharon, this is Michael. Michael definitely knew who Sharon was. She was the hottest, at least physically speaking, actress in Hollywood at the time. Texas knockout, the very tall, the very leggy, and the very blonde Sharon Tate,

who was, as she was most always, with her ex and now close friend Jay Sebring, hairstyles to the stars, including Michael Kane. And though Sharon's husband, Roman Polanski, wasn't there, Michael could feel his presence, the whole town could. Roman was the hottest director on the planet at the time, Stewart of 1968 Psychological Horror Smash, the satanic thriller, Rosemary's Baby. But Michael didn't know the others cast proceeded to introduce him to, and he didn't care to get to know them beyond introductions.

One, a friend of Romans, a big Polish brute named Vueyke Freikowski, and his slight well-heeled girlfriend Abigail Folger. Another pole, even more brutish, and another fellow. A short, scruffy dude who was with yet another group of very young, very filthy girls. Girls who looked an awful lot like the group of girls assembled at the end of the pool around Dennis Wilson. And this dude, unlike Dennis, and unlike most everyone else at the party, did not appear to be the social type. Cass introduced him to Michael Kane shortly after making the introduction to Sharon. Michael, this is Charles Manson.

Charles Manson gave Michael Kane a weak smile, didn't offer his hand and skulked away. All of the dirty young women followed. Michael Kane felt something very strange emanate from the freaky little hippie. you just blew him off. He looked around, Sharon Tate, Jay Sebring, and this new weird, angry little man named Charles Manson. It wouldn't be until months later in 1969 that Michael Cain would fully realize what strange company Cass Elliott kept. I'm Jake Brennan, and this episode of Disgraceland is to be continued. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at

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