I'd just graduated (somehow) from high school in 1970, was single, and was looking to expand my knowledge of the world.  I moved from California to New Orleans, Louisiana in the summer of 1971.  My intent was to write songs and get some "star" to sing it and make me a million dollars.  Somehow, I ended up with Mingo. It happened as follows…

I wrote "I'm Your Mailman" one day on half a roll of toilet paper while I was on the shitter. The year was 1973.  I knew if I got it into the right hands, it would be a hit.  I spent most nights on Bourbon Street, drinking, dodging drag queens, and going to see Sandra Sexton. She was a stripper at the 500 Club and happened to have the biggest set of tits I'd ever seen.  The things she could do with her tits were a sight to see. This particular night was exceptional! Maybe it was the way she twirled them in opposite directions... or maybe it was the two weeks I'd had since my last blowjob, or maybe it was the sixteen Dixie beers I'd consumed during my walk. Whatever it was, I was "assholed-to-beat-hell"... and impressed!

As I was stumbling back down Bourbon Street , I passed Lefitte's Big Daddy's Outside Cafe. It had a band on one side and dancing naked girls on the other. The patrons sat in the middle, usually facing the strippers. Coming from the stage was this voice that sounded like Paul McCartney or Charlie McCarthy.  Through the booze, I wasn't sure. But it drew me towards it. I had "I'm Your Mailman" in my pocket. As I walked in, I didn't notice the waitresses.  I didn't notice the crowd.  I didn't even notice the naked broads dancing in the cages. All I saw was some skinny kid with round glasses on stage, singing his ass off to the back of people's heads and their asses. There he was! My singer to sing my song and make me a millionaire!

Now, contrary to what Mingo tells you in person,  I waited till he finished singing the song he was doing.  I walked as straightly as I could up to the stage and politely asked him if he could learn this song I'd written and sing it for me. He tried to brush me off, but finally did agreed to give it a try.  I stumbled back to the bar, ordered another beer and waited. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was the bartender waking me and asking me to leave. Hell, I couldn't remember where I was or what I was doing there. All I knew was that the crowd was gone, the band had stopped playing, and there weren't any naked women in the cages. I climbed to my feet and stumbled back to my apartment and crashed.

For 2 weeks, I couldn't remember what had happened to my song. I continued to take my nightly Bourbon Street walk, drink my Dixie 's, and visit the beautiful, huge, twirlling tits of Sandra Sexton.  One night as I was walking past Big Daddy's, coming from the Cafe was my "Mailman" song. Talk about sobering up in a second! I went from stoned drunk to full fledged pissed-off. I was gonna kill somebody! As I walked in, this son-of-a-bitch on stage saw me and smiled and waved like he knew me. I didn't wave back as I had no idea who he was or why he had stolen my song. All I could think about was how bad I was gonna rip off his ears and shove them up his butt so he could hear me kick his ass! 

I sat down at the bar, ordered a Dixie, and waited for him to finish his set.  As he walked my way, I readied myself for the ass-wipin' I was gonna give! To my surprise, he came straight over and stuck out his hand.  Before I had a chance to do anything he started explaining how he'd been waiting for me to come back, how he'd been doing "The Mailman Song" for two weeks, how the crowd loved it and actually faced him for 1 song at least, and how he'd been waiting for me to stop back in so he could talk to me about it. He spent the whole 15 minute break telling me how great it was. After two more sets of music and half a dozen more Dixie 's, he finished his show.  We went to a little all-night diner and talked till nearly 6:00 a.m. the next morning. 

Over the next few months, we became pretty good friends (friends, not "good-buddies") as I included the Cafe into my nightly walk. He would constantly tell me how well I expressed myself and how funny I was. I actually started coming to some of his shows and would come up on stage and do a 10-minute routine. Never anything planned, just bullshit that people seemed to love. Towards the end of ' 73, Mingo just up and left New Orleans, and I didn't hear from him again until the Summer of 1975 when he called and asked me to be part of his show. When I agreed… 

The rest is history as a hand became a permanent fixture up my ass!