Scribe-ls

When in Memphis for any useful amount of time, one must venture to that shrine of Americana:  Graceland, home of Elvis.  Nestled in a declining outlying area of Memphis, the Graceland complex indeed embodies American-ness.  You've two or three blocks worth of fascination with a musically-inclined celebrity (who may have been the most handsome man to ever live) in the form of greasy-spoon cafes, souvenir shops ranging from mega-cheesy to attitude-ambitious, a theme hotel, over-priced refreshments, and for-profit museums centered on the King of Rock.  For some reason, tourist-trap averse as I am, all this seemed right as a monument to the dirt-poor kid who became known for good-natured sparkle and glam as well as a heart-melting voice.  I got a real kick out of it even if it's a ridiculous $25 per person for the basic tour plus $20 in taxi fare!

We got to the Graceland ticket window prior to opening time (shush!), so wandered down to the Rock n Roll Cafe for a decent little pancake breakfast in perhaps the kitschy-est 50s-diner Elvis-themed place I've ever been.  For $5 a person, not bad, but watch out for the coffee - they charge for each refill!  Ouch!

Anyway, touring Graceland is a highly-controlled activity.  No hordes walking up to the door at their own pace here.  You get your ticket and wait for a short bus to whisk you up the hill across Elvis Presley Boulevard to the house at the appointed time.  While boarding the bus, you're issued a set of headphones and a player.  If you want to know anything about the place at all, you must wear them.  The plentiful staffers hardly speak except to remind you to not cross the velvet ropes, not use flash, not record and to please put your headphones back on so you don't miss any of the magic.   

The house itself isn't that big by today's standards.  It has a charming street appeal, however, and the rolling, grassy grounds are lovely.  Inside, it's like a time-warp back to the haute home fashion of the mid-1970s, with shag carpets, lots of glam, glitz and color, except in the all-white parlor which I know of having been copied by at least one Denverite (may Babs rest in peace).  I guffawed at the dark, clunky wood and leather of the Jungle Room and freaked out over the meadow-green shag carpet on the walls of a basement stairway.  The yellow-formica and black leather TV room with the monkey statue on the glass coffee table was also a memorable space. 

Outside, I was struck by the humble swingset Elvis had provided Lisa Marie.  I had friends as a kid whose grandma had given them one almost exactly the same.  The racquetball building features a room where Elvis plunked his last tune on a spinet.  That was touching - Elvis was my first crush after all.  The horse pasture, complete with a palomino (Elvis favored one) was pretty.  I marveled how tiny the swimming pool is!  The memorial garden is a meticulously maintained family plot, graced with many flowers and an eternal flame over Elvis' grave.  I sniffled a bit in spite of myself at this open display of how Elvis treasured his family. 

You can't help but feel while walking through the rooms of Graceland that Elvis was indeed a good man who just didn't know what to do with the massive riches and fame that life gave him.  You can see the fun while yet you feel the pervading loneliness lingering about the place.  Because of that, it's awe-inspiring.  Rest well, dear Elvis, my crush still stands.