Side Dish - Graceland, 5/12/08

Is there a more essentially American home than Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee? Hell, a more essential destination, period? Everyone - Elvis lovers, Elvis haters, old and young alike - should visit, if only to set foot in the most famous abode in the history of the earth. Does it deserve to be? Perhaps not, but like it or not, no one will ever be more famous than the shy boy from Tupelo, especially in this age of manufactured celebrity and disposable, mid-crushingly marginal "talent". He was the real deal: spirited, revolutionary, charismatic, and yes, musically gifted, and no one before or since can match his undeniable influence. Even the bloated, drug-addled lounge lizard of the 1970s still resonates, if only as the most glaring cautionary tale for stars that burn bright, only to fade away. Only he never faded away. If anything, he's bigger now in death than he ever was in life, and the hundreds of thousands of loyal foot soldiers who come from around the world to stare at his bad taste and overstated gravesite are a testament to his timeless appeal.

Armed with VIP tickets and having a long day ahead of us, we ventured to Elvis Presley Boulevard, a once proud street that now has the distinction of being surrounded by a particular shady section of Memphis. No matter, as there are far too many people around to feel threatened, and at this point, I think it's safe to say that one has more to fear from a peanut butter and banana sandwich than any armed hoodlum. The entrance to the circus is across the street from the home, so we parked. The $80 for tickets wasn't enough? Sure! Take another twenty, you vultures. A sign informed me that video cameras were not allowed (don't want to compete with the gift shop's DVDs, I expect), so I had to run back to the car. At least we could still use the still camera, though only if we turned off the flash. We waited in line for our shuttle bus, and to pass the time, we had an all-too-typical picture taken in front of a Graceland backdrop.

The bus ride, all thirty seconds of it, was made glorious by a pass through those famous musical gates, and up the driveway we went, keeping an eye out for any sign of the King in the upstairs window. We know he's dead and buried, sure, but one can't help but check. There are dozens of busy bees taking care of every conceivable need, but mainly they're in place to make sure loony fans don't make off with the furniture. Audio wands in hand, we started our tour, desperately packing ourselves in each location, as if any of us failed to notice the curiously blocked staircase leading to a room so sacred that not even President Clinton was given a glimpse. Yes, it's the bedroom. The place where Elvis breathed his last, and left exactly as it was on August 16, 1977. I was tempted to make a run for it, but rumor has it there are guards blocking the door, as well as inside, loaded .45s at the ready. If I'm ever diagnosed with a terminal illness, I'm coming back and taking no prisoners.

The first floor is a mind-bending array of kitsch, eye candy, and ridiculous junk, yet it's all so very Elvis. The man could move any woman to tears, and an equal number of frightened men to earth-shaking fear, but I'll be damned if he didn't have the worst taste of any American celebrity, now and forever. He liked big colors and even bigger gestures, and to have been a frequent visitor must have sent many a man to the liquor cabinet. Still, no home better captures the person who lived there, and to pretend otherwise is to be as delusional as the sort of fan who believes Elvis faked his death, yet continues to go out in public with those trademark sideburns and loud jumpsuit.

There's a perverse thrill in seeing how an American icon lived and slept, ate and relaxed, and it all comes to a head when one heads downstairs to the yellow and blue TV room. For some reason known only to E's therapist, the King liked to watch numerous sets at a time, all while mirrored ceilings made the room flicker with a cascade of images. Oh, did I mention the carpeted walls? It's all there, including the most insane billiard room ever constructed. I'd post it here, but I'm not sure you could handle it without first dropping acid. It's at that moment that one considers how a good ol' Southern boy, the kind who loved his mama and voted Republican, found the inner strength to live and dress like a demented hippie. And that Jungle Room! Gallons of ink have been spilled on that bizarre inclusion alone, but it's where he recorded many of his final, most lasting hits, so all is forgiven. The kitchen also holds a few surprises, including what at the time was one of the world's first microwaves. One can only imagine the crap that came to a boil in that contraption.

After leaving the home itself, visitors are encouraged to stroll the grounds, including a pasture teeming with horses, a garage, and the racquetball court that has now been converted to a house for E's gold records. From there, it's a short, somber walk to the King's final resting place, which also features his mother, father, and twin brother who died at birth. Named "Meditation Garden," it's both tacky and moving, if only because when we stare at Presley's slab, we realize how sad those final days truly were. Still, he had to die (some would argue a car crash after the '68 Comeback Special would have truly frozen the legend in time), for what would a middle-aged Elvis have done but cheesy TV specials and even worse concert tours with similar has-beens? Dying young is not only good for business, but the only way to erase the memories of the bad times.

After reflecting on the curse of celebrity and how it grinds up even the best of us, we return to the bus and once again, across the street. As VIPs, we were able to visit the jumpsuit exhibit, the Elvis automobile museum, and yes, even E's jets - the Lisa Marie and the Hound Dog II. In addition, there's a whole hell of a lot of movie memorabilia, music history, and, shockingly, things for sale. It's as if the Colonel were back from the dead, selling the very marrow from the King's bones. We also passed the SiriusXM studios (Elvis has his own channel), which served only to piss me off, as the next day's in-house special guest was to be William Shatner. Only in America can one come to pay their respects to Elvis and bump into Captain Kirk. Only I would be in Little Rock by that time, damn it all. Life can be very cruel indeed.