I was thinking about Elvis today. I know that the anniversary of his death was a week or so ago. But today, for some reason, I thought about where I was when I first heard the news of his passing. I just moved back in with my parents after having explored the possibility of my having a career in the Christian ministry. Instead, in Martin Luther form, I went to prepare a place for me and my soon to be wife. In my early twenties and feeling the angst of perhaps going against my calling for the love of a girl, I moved home, found a job and as is always the case, I seem to stand out like a sore thumb.

I am an individual. Never follow the crowd. And not unlike Elvis perhaps, I have had some copy my personal trends. Don't forget. I am the inventor of the mullet! I didn't attend my graduation of high school or college because pomp and circumstance makes me ill.

So, I started this job at a furniture factory and smoked pot for the first time in several years. I had just stapled my left hand and a fellow employee helped me pull it out. Someone came by and announced that "they" had found Elvis dead.

I remember feeling that Elvis got in over his head. I thought that perhaps, given the chance, I could have gotten through to him. I felt bad knowing that he, like anyone else, can easily come to a point of clinging; a point whereby we seek to hang onto and manufacture what we were and ingnore the we of the present moment. Like dancing a dance. We dance from the start to the finish of the song. We don't just stop and try to hold onto just one note or a short refrain. No, we dance through and along with the music. But even at close to 300 Lbs, ladies were throwing their underwear up onto the stage. Not a bad deal! But he was far from happy. Money. Fame. Babes. How could he be unhappy?


I knew what he was feeling. Free of charge. Brother to brother. I was willing to kick his lame Karate ass and say, "What the Fuck, man!"

I never had the opportunity. And although I did work for several years within vocational rehab and as a mental health advocate, I wish that I had the chance. Just the chance, to say, "You stupid Mutha-Fucka. Shit it all out and go your own way. You'd be better for it."

But Elvis I suppose, just like the dance, was meant to burn out. Better to burn out than just fade away?


Loralee Choate said…
I tend to stick out like a sore thumb as well, my friend.

I will try to find some Guiness things while abroad for you (Please remind me in my comments when I'm there and blogging. I have a crap memory!)
Bert said…
Elvis, never had the opportunity to witness him live, but the memory remains. And yes, I too believe it's better to burn out then to fade away, specially after all you were standing for, no? Giving hope to those without is something not everyone is capable of ...

Anyhow, you're a Guinness man? I wish I could say the same thing, but I just can't, it's not my cup of ... eh ... beer :)
And eh, whiskey with ice? Are you sure about that? I've always tried to keep mine clear of ice, because the water mixes to much with the flavour. Although I'm familiar with some scottish whisky's where you are supposed to drink it with water.

But I'm into the Irish first. Let's explore them before moving on. It's already hard enough (and expensive too) this way :)

Grtz from across the pond!
Nicholodeon said…
The front porch photo is great.

Not sure where I was when Elvis died, as cannot remember it. I remember the first time I ever saw him on t.v. and that was in 1955 or 56...in Canada. He was on the Ed Sullivan Show, and my parents used to let us watch it. I was about 12. When Elvis came on I recall Ma and Pa sitting there, jaws almost on the floor.

To this day I cannot fathom what all the ruckus was about, unless it was the way he murdered the English language, wif his suthrun draaawwwl y'aaaaaaawl.
Tim said…
Crap memory girl...if you see any Guinness stuff while, "over there" I know you'll remember me!
Bert, ol' Bud. Bushmills too inexpensive for you? Powers is big here too. Whats your fave w/ no ice. We use ice here, usually.
Nic....I never really understood the ruckus either. But felt that I "saw" the man and not the image. That's all.
Bert said…
Hi Tim,

sorry I've been a little absent, I'm having exams right now ...

My favo is Red Breast, 15y old, without a doubt. And surely no ice!
Irish whiskeys have a more subtle taste than a scottish one, so ice (or water in general) would spoil the taste rather than to smoothen it.