Somehow I managed to sucker Courtney, Rebecca, Shane, and Phil into piling into my crapmobile and accompanying me to Dead Elvis Night at Graceland. Today marks 30 years that the King has been gone, and the fans and mourners were out in droves to mark the occasion. The place was packed. I had kind of half-planned to get a candle and walk up the driveway to the grave to pay my respects (which took an hour last year, and the line then was maybe a third the size it was this time), but the line was absolutely out of hand, even as we were leaving at 4 this morning. It was spilling out of the winding driveway, heading south to the end of the block, and then doubling up and back at least once more. I’m guessing the wait had to be at least three hours. And considering Phil had to be at work at 7, we weren’t about to hang around for that.

So, we set up camp with our lawn chairs and our liquor and just watched.

It is truly amazing to me that Elvis’ following just seems to grow with each passing year. A co-worker and I talked about the possibility of this year being the peak in terms of attendance, since Elvis’ core fans are getting older and less likely to make the journey to Graceland in such awful heat. But you just never know. He brings folks out of the woodwork. And they just seem to get younger.

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I made my first trip to Graceland today, tagging along with Rebecca and her mom and mom’s boyfriend, who were visiting from Texas. Ho. Lee. Crap. That place is furnished in suede and carpeted from floor to ceiling in the tackiest colors you can possibly imagine. And there are mirrors everywhere. It is kitsch defined. Kitsch squared. A bizarre little bubble of weirdness trapped in the amber of rock ‘n’ roll history. Such an interesting place: Small, compared to the cavernous mansions built by celebrities these days, and completely eccentric. It’s macabre enough to be traipsing around in a dead person’s house, around the eclectic accoutrements that comprise someone’s intimate dwellings, but it’s even more macabre to go stomping around a gravesite, taking pictures. But, that’s what people do, I suppose. I certainly didn’t think twice about snapping photos of every mundane swatch of fabric or ashtray in the place.

I just kept wondering what it must be like for Lisa Marie to know that her childhood home is a tourist trap. Talk about never being able to go back.

More pictures are here, if you’ve got the stomach for the fabulous midcentury color schemes.

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