Dead Elvis

You might have missed it last week. I nearly did. But Elvis is still dead, 30  years later. The week of August 17th in Memphis is known as "Dead Elvis Week".  I've been over twice to pay respects and view the spectacle.  One year, after lots of beer and BBQ, my friends put a painting that my brother did out in the middle of Elvis Presley Boulevard and invited all the mourners to put their candles around it.  It became a huge shrine right in the middle of the street, with a growing ring of wax slowly flowing from the painting.  We even got coverage on CNN.  My favorite moment had to be talking to some locals who lived around the corner from Graceland.  It went something like this:

"What do you think about having the King practically buried in your backyard?"

"Well, we know he's back there."

I know a lot of people use Elvis as a punchline.  Let me make it clear, that is not my intention. In fact, back in 1988, I was convinced he was "coming back".  It was something I believed in, and wanted to be true.  I needed it.  And I felt like the world needed it.  Badly.

It all came about because I read this book and listened to the accompanying cassette.  It was written by Gail Brewer-Giorgio and documented several reasons--including taped late night phone calls from a man claiming to be Elvis--why she felt Elvis was not only still alive but was planning a comeback!

Well, this was great news. Especially to a kid who was finishing up what he thought were the worst years of his life (aka Junior High School) and was looking for SOMETHING BIG to happen. Something that would shake up the world. Change everything.

It was not lost on me then or now that what I was craving was a religious experience not unlike the Second Coming. Now, this hope and desire to see Elvis Presley return to TV and radio and shock the world falls a bit short of the bloodshed and hellfire wished for by those who desire to bring about the Apocalypse in their lifetime. But if you could hear the audio tape I think you would understand what faith means--because there is no way listening to that tape that you could believe without a doubt what this bad Elvis impersonator was even saying. I pressed my ear up to the speaker of my jambox. I strained to hear his words. I wanted him to speak to me. I wanted to believe.

That was almost twenty years ago. And perhaps Elvis, like God, works in mysterious ways.  As for me, I'm of a suspicious mind. My original copy of the book and tape were sold in a garage sale several years ago when I lost the faith. But I still find myself thinking about it now and again. And when I saw a copy for sale in a used book store a few months ago I had to buy it. The problem is, I no longer have a cassette deck. My Elvis songs are all MP3s. So if he wants to talk to me, he'll have to call my iPhone.

Joe's Chicken Room

I recently spent a few days in the hills of North Carolina visiting my friend Joe Adams who is a folk art aficionado and a hilarious storyteller. Last year I had set up a blog for him, but he had lapsed in his postings (not unlike someone else I know). He had read in the New York Times about an older guy on YouTube who was doing video blogs. So I told him I would bring my camera and we'd shoot some short clips about his folk art collection. This is the first one I've put together for him.

What's Your Baggage?

This was a few months ago, but I felt it was worth telling, and these photos were still in my cell phone. I had been up to Chicago on business, and was waiting at the gate in the airport to fly home. John, whom I work with, was with me. Seated next to us were two men of Middle Eastern heritage. This is a picture of their luggage:

While John and I are sitting there, shooting the shit, waiting, one of the men asks me the time. I look at my watch, tell him. He and his friend/associate/partner/relative exchange words, stand up, and walk off together. John and I don't pay too much attention to this, but I do notice them walk across to the pay phone on the other side of the terminal. A few minutes later, the airline attendant at the gate counter looks up, and asks whose bags are sitting there--unattended. We let her know they are not ours. She looks around. I look around for the two men--no longer at the payphone. She looks back down and goes about her business, not too worried.
Now John and I have a dilemma. Do we commit a racial profile, label these two men as potential terrorists and alert the airport security about the abandoned luggage? If we tell the airline attendant what we know, will their bag be confiscated, sniffed, and blown apart only to reveal their underwear? Or do we say nothing, sit tight, and hope that a bomb is not planted in the bag, waiting the proper time to detonate, and kill all of the oblivious people around us? John starts to freak out a bit.
"I got kids" he keeps saying, "I got kids." And suddenly he is up, grabs his bag and walks off away from our gate. I could follow, but then I'm guilty of knowing, should something happen. I go back and forth. Do I tell someone, cause alarm, run away, or hope for the best. What seems like several minutes pass with me wrestling with this dilemma. It was probably just one minute. I had about convinced myself to say something to the airline attendant, just to let her know what I knew, when I see the two men walking back up to the gate. John passes them, and then turns around, looking back at me. He waits a second, confirms that they are coming back to the gate, and then he too returns to the gate. Nothing happens. It was a non-event. But for a brief moment, it was full of consequences and moral dilemmas.