In early
June of 2007, I finally realize a long-standing wish: to go
see Graceland. Although I am certainly a late-blooming
Elvis fan, not "discovering" him until 10 years AFTER he
died, I knew that I wanted to see his house. Unfortunately,
being geographically stupid, I always figured it was too
far to travel to Tennessee, and I really, really, REALLY
hate to fly. Once I sat down and studied a map, however, I
realized that traveling to Memphis would not be such a big
deal after all, so Jay and I began to plan for this trip in
earnest.
We stayed the first night of our trip in Rolla, Missouri --
a town we picked for no other reason than it marked a place
to stay after a long day of driving. We stayed in the
deceptively-named Quality Inn, which was as far from
"quality" as one might desire. (We actually went to a
Wal-mart and bought our own Lysol wipes to clean the
bathroom with, if that tells you anything. Oh, and we had
to request a new comforter for the bed because the one we
had sported an odd looking bloodstain on it.)
From Rolla we drove into Memphis, checking into a cheesy
Days Inn that was all Elvis themed. The only reason for
staying there was because it was pretty much across the
street from Graceland. In my fanatasy, I imagined being
able to gaze out my hotel window and see Graceland. Little
did I realize that Graceland has turned into a theme park
of sorts, and the area immediately across the street is
solely used for the purpose of the house tours and multiple
museums. All of this has purpose, however, because this
section of Elvis Presley Boulevard has begun to show the
"old downtown" decay, and visitors to Graceland would not
want to take a leisurely stroll down the boulevard unless
they were carrying a concealed weapon, in my opinion. The
tour building and museums provide a safe haven for visitors
who don't want to be bothered by the crazy drunks who
congregate outside of the gas stations, drinking their 40
oz. beers that they just purchased. We found that the
businesses on the boulevard are at a disadvantage, because
the area obviously gets rather scary at night, but the
freakin' gas stations sell the 40 ouncers ON ICE in buckets
for drunken convenience. We stared on more than one
occasion at the cartoon-like image of someone walking down
the street drinking booze or beer out of a paper sack.
Perhaps this is a product of living a somewhat sheltered
life in the Midwest, but both Jason and I were grateful
that we didn't have to deal with that on a daily basis.
It is somewhat sad, however, to see Elvis' awesome house
sitting in the middle of all of this. While Beale Street,
with all of its touristy cheesiness, seems well patrolled
by the police, the area around Graceland seems to be a
no-man's land for law enforcement. (Perhaps since Elvis
fancied himself an undercover cop wannabe, the real police
force has gotten used to not patrolling that area ... ha
ha!) We even experienced one of Memphis' finest
high-tailing it down the scarier sections of Elvis Presley
Boulevard -- no lights on, no emergency, just a desire to
get the hell out of Dodge. Can't say I blame him.
All this effort, all this desire to see Elvis' Graceland,
and I found a way to ruin it for myself. As I was walking
around the tour buildings and gazing across the street at
Gracleland, it hit me: Elvis has been dead for 30 years,
and millions of people still line up each year to tromp
through his house. What I had hoped would be an authentic
glimpse into Elvis' life began to have tints of cheap
tourist trappage. And I was one of the suckers.
I had to give Jason credit for being patient during the two
days we spent in Memphis. I suppose I should be grateful
for the characters we saw, for it gave him something to
look at. He has no interest in Elvis, but he didn't
complain when I continuously watched one of the 3 Elvis
channels that the hotel broadcast 24/7. I tried to make the
stay easier for him by avoiding the Elvis movies, because
even I think they're terrible. The concerts, however, are
always entertaining so we watched those, but that also
meant that Jason was unable to watch baseball on TV. He
never said a word.
We got into Memphis on a Thursday, too late to take a tour
of the house. We trudged through the humidity to go buy
advance tickets for the next day's tour -- the first one of
the day. I wasn't surprised by the number of foreigners and
characters that I saw in the Elvis complex, but it was
entertaining to watch, nonetheless. So many Elvis wannabes!
One such soul stayed in our hotel -- a New Zealand Elvis
impersonator -- and while Jason and I were eating breakfast
on the morning of our tour, we were "treated" to an
impromptu performance that the man gave for the benefit of
a tourist's video camera. Needless to say, we were not
impressed. The hardest part was trying not to crack up
laughing, since it seemed that our position behind the
Elvis wannabe would ensure our appearance on the tourist's
video. I'd hate to ruin it for her, although I think New
Zealand Elvis did that all by himself.
Our tour was at 9 a.m. on Friday. The weather wasn't going
to cut us a break yet; rain was forecast, but hadn't
arrived yet, so the heat and humidity persisted. I was
hoping that the early tour start would mean less of a
crowd, but I obviously underestimated the power of Elvis.
By the time we had redeemed our tickets and were waiting
for the tour buses to begin their constant runs across the
street, there was a good-sized crowd waiting with us. Lots
of foreigners, lots of retired folks. (The latter was
another reminder that I am an unusually young Elvis fan!)
The tours to Graceland run like a well-oiled multi-million
dollar machine, as was to be expected. We lined up, they
handed us earphones for the audio-guided tour, (of course,
they force you to walk in a line through a photographer's
lair to be trapped into buying an overpriced cheesy picture
with a painted Graceland backdrop), then we boarded the
mini-buses. I honestly don't know how these bus drivers
cope with their undeniably boring job, for the shuttles to
Graceland are constant, all day long. Making the trip
across Elvis Presley Boulevard more interesting is the fact
that the light to cross takes forever to appear and it's
lightning fast. Those shuttle drivers have to gun it to
make it across in time. I suppose for the "homefolk" who
commute down EPB every day the short light is a blessing,
for I can't imagine having to drive by that tourist trap
every day, having to deal with the traffic hassles that the
Elvis worshippers provide.
I don't know what I was expecting from Graceland, but I was
pleasantly surprised to see that the tour was audio-guided
so that we weren't forced to move along at a certain pace.
Aside from a brief introduction from a jittery youth on the
front steps of Graceland, we were free to explore. I was
amused that although the brochures and employees warned
multiple times that flash photography was NOT allowed (to
avoid excessive light exposure to artifacts, which would
ruin them), about 1/3 of the clueless mob either didn't pay
attention to the warnings or didn't know how to shut off
the freakin' flash on their stupid cameras. The poor staff
there were patient in saying, "Sir, would you please shut
off your flash?" and several of them had to help the idiots
figure out how to shut it off. I was grateful that my
digital camera was able to photograph the house well
enough, and I felt a little bit smug that I was one of the
mindful few who a) had listened to the warnings and b) knew
how to shut off my flash.
My anti-flash capabilities only had one minor slip-up. This
is what I call my "weird Elvis moment" -- just because I
want to have a "weird Elvis moment" to remember on this
trip. After photographing almost the whole house
sans-flash, Jason and I managed to wind up in the
racquetball court without a mob around us. The actual court
area is now used to house concert jumpsuits and other
artifacts, and while I took a picture of one of the
jumpsuits that I remember him wearing in a concert, my
flash went off. I was horrified and mystified, because I
had not changed the settings. I looked up the stairs to see
a dour-looking employee leaning down, having seen the
flash. I looked up apologetically and explained that I
didn't know what had happened -- that I had the flash OFF.
She didn't stay a word, probably figuring that I was one of
the countless idiots that she encounters daily. In any
event, the racquetball court was a cool place to be for me,
for that was one of the last places Elvis was before he
died. He played racquetball, went to his room (and the
bathroom) and, well, you know.
Anyone who has been to Graceland will probably tell you
that the house is smaller than they thought it would be.
The same was true for me. The house was built in the 30s
and would undoubtedly be glamorous for that era. Now, in
our supersized culture, the house appears small, almost
ordinary. Interestingly enough, the house itself went under
major redecorating during the mid-70's, when Elvis went
through his "red" phase. The carpet (formerly white, and
currently restored to white) was all replaced with red, and
the furnishings in his room (which visitors can't see, but
I've read about) are also heavily red-themed. All that red
undoubtedly made the house look way gaudier than it was
already, so Priscilla made a good call when deciding to
dump the red and go back to the white carpet when the house
opened for visitors.
The tour of Graceland could take a couple hours or a whole
day, depending on how long you linger in each area. In
addition to the house tour, those who purchase upgraded
tour packages can tour the several museums as well. The
Elvis After Dark museum was by far my favorite, for this is
where we saw glimpses of some of the off-the-wall
activities Elvis took part in during the night/early
morning hours, some of them undoubtedly fueled by the
excess drugs in his system. We get to see an interview with
one of Elvis' entourage -- a guy who accompanied him on
his meeting with President
Nixon. In
addition, you can see the outfits that Nixon and Elvis
wore for this encounter, and the WWII commemorative gun
that Nixon gave Elvis.
The highlight of my Elvis adventure came Friday night as
Jason and I were again walking through the Elvis plaza
across the street. Rain had relieved the awful humidity and
was still hanging around a bit, so it was not a great idea
to be hanging around outside. However, as I walked by the
Sirius All-Elvis channel that broadcasts from Graceland
Plaza, I stopped dead in my tracks as I looked at who the
DJ was. In all the Elvis documentaries I've watched and all
the Elvis books I've read, I have come across the name and
image of the Memphis DJ who was sitting before me: George
Klein. Now a casino host in Mississippi, George Klein does
the Elvis hour on Sirius Radio on Friday nights. Here was
one of Elvis' friends, doing the Elvis hour in a DJ booth
in front of my very eyes! Jason thought I was a little
loony for getting excited over a radio DJ, but I KNEW who
this guy was ... I wanted his autograph.
Keep in mind that I am NOT a celebrity freak. I don't drool
over autographs or wish to wait in long lines for them. But
George Klein -- I had seen his picture so many times and
watched interviews with him that it seemed natural to want
to talk to him. Plus, I was at Graceland after a long
20-year wait ... I had to have something to take back to
Iowa with me.
Waiting for Klein's show to end, Jason and I laughed as we
watched the clueless mob and their reactions to a live show
being broadcast. The DJ booth is all glass, so one can
watch the show go on. Both of us stayed quite a distance
away, not wanting to bother the DJs as they were doing
their show. However, several people thought nothing of
going up nose-to-nose to the glass and watching George
Klein as he talked. A few times he would look up, a mildly
annoyed look on his face, but they wouldn't move. One kid
looked exactly like the dorks in the Far Side cartoons --
pudgy, big square glasses, clueless look on his face -- and
he stood there for about 15 minutes, drinking his soda
through a straw, his bulging eyes boring through the glass.
I doubt this kid knew who George Klein was, but it was
almost as if the kid was amazed that radio was done by real
live people.
The crew waiting for Klein was amusing. I think I can
safely say that George was relieved when his show was over
and he saw that at least one normal person was waiting for
him. Aside from me, there was the New Zealand Elvis (who
had tried hard to dress Elvis-esque with a type of white
hat that Elvis wore in the 60's) and a lady who seemed to
have some mental issues. He was very nice and
accommodating, though. Although I was a little shy about
approaching him, he came right up to me and shook my hand
and asked where I was from. He noted that Jason was taking
pictures of us and he prompted me to look up and smile so
that we would have a good picture. Obviously, he's an old
pro at all of this. He signed one of his casino business
cards -- the back of which has a picture of him and Elvis
during the "Memphis Mafia" days.
By Saturday morning, Jason and I were more than ready to
depart Memphis. I had experienced Graceland, which was the
reason we came, and now there was nothing left to do. The
scary nature of Elvis Presley Boulevard outside of the
Graceland Plaza was something both of us were tired of, and
now we wanted to get back to civilization.
Civilization would be long in coming, however, as our drive
to Branson (our last stop) proved to be ultra-entertaining.
Who knew that southern stereotypes (run-down shacks with Pa
sitting on the porch) were actually not so far-fetched? We
saw oodles of houses that I wouldn't think were habitable,
but actually did have a family living there. Some of the
towns had a Deliverance flavor that made us hope that our
car wouldn't suddenly break down or get a flat tire.
Branson was chosen as our last stop for the sole reason
that it would give us a place to stay after our adventures
through Missouri and Arkansas. I have not had a great
desire to see Branson, and after seeing it, cannot say that
I ever wish to go back. If I thought Graceland was cheesy,
Branson outshines it by miles in that regard, and the
traffic is HORRIBLE. Think Cruise Night in Canton, with its
barely-moving cars, and that's what the entire strip of
Branson is like. All day long.
We did see a couple of neat things in Branson. Neither
Jason and I are "show" people, so we didn't bother trying
to find tickets to go see some washed-up songstress, but we
did want to check out some exhibits. We saw the Ripley's
Believe It or Not museum, the Titanic exhibit (which was
VERY cool) and the Predator Zoo, which was disheartening
because of the run-down condition of the animals'
surroundings. We found a steakhouse close to our hotel to
avoid the traffic, and then we crashed at the hotel. End of
Branson adventure, and none too soon.
From Branson we drove all the way up to my parents' house,
where Austin and Dallas were staying. It was a long drive,
but it was also a relief to get back on familiar territory,
so to speak. Although the landscape of South Dakota pales
in comparison to the beautiful prairie of Missouri (with
its millions of trees, wildflowers, and rolling hills),
much of the towns and houses we saw were nothing short of
depressing. So much of our trip consisted of viewing
flat-out poverty, and that was something I was glad not to
be completely surrounded with on a daily basis. I was glad
to be back in the upper Midwest, where people's main source
of income isn't selling their junk at a flea market in
their front lawn. No joke. We saw that too many times to
count.
Our trip was a bit of a whirlwind, but it was both
educational and entertaining. I'm not sure if we ever want
to take another driving trip that goes further South, but
for now, we can say we've seen part of it.
Check out the pictures for the visual accompaniment to this
narrative.