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Fifteen years ago, on a cross-country drive, I stopped
to visit Graceland. By the time my tour hit the Jungle
Room, it was obvious that the thirty-odd people
walking through Elvis Presley’s mansion fell into two
groups. The first contingent was thoroughly, utterly
sincere in their devotion to all things Elvis. They were
hardcore fans, and Graceland was their Mecca, their
Jerusalem, and their Rome. Many of them sounded
convinced that the King was still walking the earth.
They gasped when they saw the jumpsuit collection,
bedazzled by its grandeur.
The second group of tourists was equally delighted
to be at Graceland, but for a different reason. These
people took great pleasure in the kitschy nature of all
things Elvis. To them, a mansion that preserved the
aesthetics of green shag carpeting and mirrored walls
was both funny and tacky. They too gasped when
they saw the jumpsuit collection, bedazzled by how
ridiculous they thought it was.
As we ambled along, the sheer professionalism of
our tour guide struck me. Her task was not an easy one.
She had to provide a veritable font of Elvis knowledge
to all of the intense devotees. At the same time,she also had to acknowledge the absurdist nature of
the experience for of the rest of the tour group.
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