Long Live The King

Seventy two years ago, in a small Southern town, a baby was born that would change the world. No, he was not the "King of Kings", His birthday was last month, but he was in fact destined to become the King in his own right. That's right, today is the birthday of Elvis Aaron Presley. Thank you very much. I always like to take a minute on this date and on a sad day in mid August to remember Elvis and try to make sense out of my perverse fascination with him.

I don't know exactly when my admiration of the "King" began. I have faint memories of seeing a leather clad, dyed hair rock and roll machine on the TV during what I can only imagine was the 1968 comeback special. I would have been about five years old, and even at that tender age, I could tell cool a mile away. It wasn't until later in life that I found my way back to the temple of Elvis. All it took was a visit to his palacial estate, Graceland, to make me realize that he was truly "the man".

If you've never made a pilgrimage to Hillbilly Nirvana, then you are missing out on a true lesson in wretched excess. Visiting Elvis' house gives you a clear lesson on what too much money, too little class and too many sycophants will get you. Only at Graceland will you see the "longest one piece couch in the world, or a billiard room with fabric covered walls made to look like the tent of an Arab sheik. Don't even get me started on the "Jungle Room". This place is what the best frat house would look like if the fraternity had loads of cash. As funny as a lot of the estate is, there's something moving about seeing Elvis' tombstone next to his Mama's and the eternal flame that burns in his memory. It's also a bit unsettling to see what a carnival/flea market people have turned his memories into. There is no piece of merchandise unfettered by Elvis' visage. You can find everything from a phone that rings "Jailhouse Rock" with a dancing Elvis (which I have in my office by the way) to Elvis thong panties for your personal Priscilla.

On days like this, I try to forget the bloated, drug addled Elvis and focus instead on the lean, hungry, Elvis that co-opted the Blues and Gospel of the Black man and made it his own. No matter what you think of him, Elvis, in his prime was the ultimate entertainer. I've had audiences like me, but never was I able to induce swooning, and panty moistening from the ladies. This guy could rock the house, then after some wild karate moves, bring everyone to tears with a beautiful ballad. That's showmanship. The jumpsuits didn't hurt either. Maybe that's what I need to incorporate into my live shows. Yeah, jumpsuits and capes. Dig me now ladies.

I've been thinking about the ways I'm like Elvis and the many ways we differ. Like Elvis, I love Cadillacs, tigers, and women in white cotton panties. Unlike Elvis, I don't have a weird fixation with my mother, have never been in the army, and have yet to strain hard enough on the toilet to induce cardiac arrest. (I've come close, but I blame cheese not Vicodin.) While I'm not a fan of peanut butter and "nanna" sandwiches, I do always keep Pepsi and Hershey's syrup in the house like the king. If I could, I would fly to Denver to get my favorite meal, but alas, my private jets are still in the planning stages. I don't have a cool slogan yet like "TCB", takin' care of business, with a cool lightening bolt to symbolize "in a flash", but I'm working on a couple. I think RTS for "respect the schedule" might work. I think I may go with GFY. I tell people it means "good for you", but I know different. I'll let you ponder it. It can go either way.

So happy birthday Elvis. You beamed us to Hawaii and sent us to the ghetto, and now your face is adorning my underwear. The king is dead. Long live the king. Later...Brian