It was time to check out Rev. Dickerson's Elvis church, Our Lady of the Perpetual Sideburns. The raindrops were just beginning to plop down on my windshield when I whipped my Chevette into the parking lot of "Our Lady" and pulled right under the giant neon sideburns. A portable sign out front announced that tonight's sermon would be on parallels between the screenplay to Clambake and the book of Ezekiel. As I walked to the entrance of the church, I noticed a gold Mercedes-Benz with a "Honk if you love Elvis" bumper sticker on it. It was Dickerson's. I'd read that he'd come under criticism for his extravagant lifestyle. He defended it by claiming he'd taken a vow of luxury.        Inside the lobby of the converted movie theatre, I noticed that some workmen were building a display case of some sort. "To display what?" I wondered. "The Elvis Diaries, perhaps?"        I made my way through the double doors that led into the chapel. The church's auditorium looked to hold a couple of hundred people. Tonight it was half full, or half empty, depending on whether you were an optimist or a pessimist. Frankly, paying a visit to Our Lady of the Perpetual Sideburns on a rainy January night tended to put me a bit on the pessimistic side.        I discreetly slipped into a seat on the back row. It became obvious that this wasn't going to be your average church service when a woman seated in front of me told her son--who was eating a candy bar--not to speak in tongues with his mouth full, advice which I thought to be sound for reasons of both etiquette and hygiene.        The lights dimmed and the organist lit into a rousing rendition of Elvis' old theme music, "Thus Spake Zarathustra.'' But instead of The King, this time it signaled the arrival of the Reverend Billy Sol Dickerson.        This was my first good look at Rev. Dickerson, and my immediate impression was that--as religious leaders go--he looked like the kind of guy who would scalp tickets to a Passion Play. I was reminded of something my brother-in-law once told me: Never trust anyone who spit-shines his suits.        Dickerson was a chunky fellow and stood about 5' 6''. The six inches of white hair piled on his head looked so much like snow that I had a sudden urge to check for school closings. The hair, along with his bright red suit, made him look like the product of a romantic encounter between the Pillsbury Doughboy and a raspberry tart.        Dickerson welcomed the congregation and then made his pitch for donations. I could tell I was dealing with a greedy man when, instead of a plate, he passed a satellite dish.        Dickerson then launched into his sermon, and I have to say, I wasn't impressed. Okay, so there are similarities between Clambake and Ezekiel--a lot of similarities. It's still not a substantial foundation on which to form a religion.        This straining for parallels between Elvis and other religious figures seemed to be a constant refrain for Dickerson. For example, he said that Elvis and Joseph were alike because each owned a coat of many colors. True enough, but he neglected to mention that Elvis also owned a pair of bikini briefs of many colors, not to mention 22 Cadillacs and a chimp named Scatter.        Even less impressive was Dickerson's version of taking communion, which consisted of washing down a Triscuit with a swig from a communal Yoo-Hoo bottle.        After his sermon Dickerson brought out his wife Nadine--a feisty little fireplug of a woman whose Jiffy Pop hairdo and Earl Sheib makeup job kind of made her look like a born-again hooker. I got the impression that if she were ever to have an audience with the Pope, she'd French kiss his ring. She belted out a couple of songs, alternating between traditional gospel numbers and Elvis tunes. It was a little tough going from "The Old Rugged Cross'' to "Blue Suede Shoes'' without getting the bends.        Faith healing was next on the program. Dozens of people with a variety of afflictions formed a line in front of the stage and waited patiently for Billy Sol to lay hands on them.        The first person up was an eighty-year-old woman named Hazel Fite who said she was suffering from a severe case of chilblains. Reverend Dickerson approached the woman, put his left hand to her forehead, and began to yell, "Be gone chilblains! I command you, be gone!''        He continued in this manner for several minutes, explaining to Hazel's chilblains in no uncertain terms that they should seriously consider relocation.        Just when it looked like Dickerson might be having some success in convincing her malady to take a hike, Hazel, possibly due to the excitement of the moment, began choking on a grape-flavored Gummy Bear she'd been chewing. Dickerson seemed flustered, uncertain of what to do next, so he just continued on with the healing.        "Be gone 'blains!'' he shouted, as though raising his voice would cover the fact that the woman he was attempting to heal was starting to look like a grape-flavored Gummy Bear. I couldn't tell if Dickerson was ashamed to admit that he didn't know the Heimlich Maneuver, or if he just figured that Hazel's last few seconds on earth should be chilblain-free.        Happily, the candy was dislodged from Hazel's throat after a blind man waiting in line to be healed accidentally goosed her with his cane. Unfortunately, though, the goosing caused her to expel the Bear with such force that it came out of her mouth travelling about Mach 3, striking the Reverend Dickerson smack dab in his left eye. This quickly diverted his attention away from Hazel's chilblains to his own injury.        "I've been Gummy Bear'd! '' he yelled, grabbing his face with both hands. He then began screaming, "Is there a doctor in the house?''        "What about my chilblains?'' Hazel shouted as Dickerson, half blind, staggered off-stage in search of a first-aid kit, only to inflict further damage to himself by walking head-on into a concrete crucifix. Personally, I thought he showed great restraint at that point in not suggesting a course of action for Hazel and her chilblains.        Dickerson finally returned, ten minutes later, sporting an eyepatch and a Band-Aid. He said the service would have to end early because of certain Satan-inspired unforeseen circumstances. I gathered he was referring to his run-in with the demonically possessed Gummy Bear, making me wonder if perhaps a Gummy Exorcist wasn't in order.        He went on to explain that it was not unusual for demons to take possession of inanimate objects, and that he had once seen a man attacked by his own shoes.        The image of some poor soul fleeing from a pair of "Hushpuppies from Hell'' seemed an appropriate note on which to end my visit to Billy Sol Dickerson's house of worship.        Walking out the doors of the church, I noticed that it was really bad out. A storm had moved into the area, and the rain was coming down like Danny Thomas spitting his coffee having just been told that his daughter was engaged to marry a Hell's Angel. I made a run for it.        As I was driving home, the rumblings in my stomach reminded me that I hadn't eaten anything since the two glazed doughnuts I'd had for breakfast, so I made a hard right turn onto Crump Boulevard and headed for the Arcadia.        The Arcadia was a small diner that was something of a local landmark. It was run by Ethel Merkin, a rather severe looking woman of indeterminate age. Funny, even though the place was open around the clock, I don't recall ever going in the Arcadia without seeing Ethel there.        Ethel was a little odd. For example, whenever she took an order, she would shout it back to the kitchen, translating it into a cryptic, short-order jargon, usually in terms that weren't very appetizing. This was particularly disconcerting since Ethel was the cook. Old habits die hard, I guess.        Sure enough, when I entered the Arcadia, there was Ethel waiting on a customer. "Sonny Bono on a waterbed! '' she shouted. "Damn the torpedoes! '' I headed for the last booth.        I plopped down, wet and weary, on the red vinyl seat and pulled about five napkins from the dispenser to dry my rain-soaked brow. I'd felt better--a lot better. My head still ached from my little run-in at the impersonators contest, and I'd just had the "pleasure'' of listening to a 45-minute sermon by a man who believes that Elvis Presley is the true messiah. Ethel teetered up and tossed me a menu.        "What'll you have?'' she asked.        I wanted to order but was finding it hard to read the fuzzy purple letters on the mimeographed menu. Feeling a bit irritable, I said, "Bring me a Sonny Bono on a waterbed. And while you're at it, damn the torpedoes.''        Without missing a beat, she yelled back to the kitchen: "Ricky Ricardo with a mohawk. Don't touch the aardvark! And what'll you have to drink with that?''        Needless to say, I was stunned.        "Coffee,'' I mumbled. "Just coffee.''        "Coffee! '' she screamed. She then scurried off to the kitchen to cook whatever it was I'd just ordered.        My order turned out to be scrambled eggs and bacon. What did that have to do with Sonny Bono or aardvarks? Go figure. I had bigger fish to fry. Illustration by Barry Willis