My little brother just reminded me that today is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the tenth anniversary of Elvis Presley's death—which is to say, twenty-five years since I drove him and eight of his closest friends, some of whom we'd just met at an "Elvis is Still Dead" party, from Nashville to Memphis for an impromptu crack-of-dawn celebration of the life and death of the King of Rock n Roll.
Didn't quite work out that way—the atmosphere was decidedly more funereal than joyous—and maybe if weren't a dyed-in-the-wool Beatles man I would have anticipated that, but the true story of the trip itself would rival Kerouac's On The Road (or The Hangover II, if that reference skews too old for you). If I ever get around to writing it.
In the meantime, a little Elvis:
Postscript: My brother tells me a more accurate image from that trip would be this one from Ralph Steadman. Certainly it's a better likeness of the Monkey himself ...
Modern Femmes Fatale: Part 114
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