Huckster and Tomsky (Marvin and Saul) discover more America
By
Saul Landau Read Spanish Version
Elvis
was to rock and roll what Marilyn Monroe was to Hollywood movies, a
great box office star, provoking teen-agers and, with Marilyn, the
world’s “sex kitten,” even “mature” men. Like Elvis, she
also failed to find contentment. At age 42, in 1977, Elvis overdosed
on “prescription” drugs. You can find Graceland, his 14 acre
estate with old fashioned white-columned mansion, on Elvis Presley
Boulevard in Memphis, Tennessee, just north of Mississippi. In 1983,
this “shrine” invited the public to a post mortem view of Elvis’
life. In 2006, it became a National Historic Landmark. Indeed, the
parking lot contains cars bearing license plates from many states.
He
paid $100,000 for the land and house in the late 1950s. Now, highly
organized tours begin by extracting a hefty parking fee, followed by
$24 per person fee for a minimum walk through. A small bus shuttles
crowds from the ticket office and store area across the road — a few
yards. The group of 25 snoops around Elvis’ mansion, not including
his upstairs bedroom and bathroom, because “he liked privacy,”
says the audio tape. In fact, Elvis pooped on his pooper and some
sickos now yearn to examine the exact place of his drug death.
The
tour organizers provide ear phones over which one hears a Clorox
version of Elvis’ life and career, replete with audio detours
promoting Elvis products from CDs to t-shirts, jackets, coffee mugs,
calendars and reproductions of Elvis’ costumes. Elvis guitars cost
over $1,000, but poor or stingy visitors can get an Elvis
refrigerator magnet for only $7. At the onset of the tour a bored
employee took our photo with a Graceland set as the back drop. At the
end of the tour, we bought the developed print for only $25.
We
peered into Elvis’ living room, dining room and other chambers,
decorated in mixed kitsch-nouveau-riche style, including a
mini-waterfall in his “jungle room.”
The
walls held photos of a young man dressed in fabulously gauche
costumes. He performed on stage with confidence, but never discovered
who his identity. His gold record sales poured in, and he built a
racket ball court and a recording studio in his house. Hey, compared
to Hearst’s Castle, Graceland is barely ostentatious.
The
overwhelmingly white tourists with whom we shared the Graceland
experience behaved remarkably well. Like much of what we saw on the
road, Americans tend toward plumpness and dress in an aggressively
casual mode. No one screamed “he’s still alive,” although the
tour provided no convincing evidence of his death. A gravestone
supposedly covers his remains. Next to his grave are those of his
parents Gladys and Vernon, and his grandmother. The mini graveyard
bears the name “Meditation Gardens.” Only God knows whether Elvis
really lives or whether he was Jesus reincarnated. Not one person in
our group swooned or fainted. Did they do so as teenagers?
In
the basement Elvis had three TV sets he supposedly watched at the
same time, next to the pool table and bar. Elvis had a jewelry
collection and a model of the Mississippi house in which he grew up.
His “Trophy Room” abounds with gold and platinum albums
‘’
denoting millions in sales. Needless to say, the tour would not be
complete without seeing Elvis’ spangled and studded outfits, copies
of which one can buy for $3,200. Elvis also owned two jets and
several fancy cars.
Graceland’s
pasture and stable area seemed downright bucolic. The audio tape
reminded us that Elvis the Pelvis, the “Nothin’ But A Hound Dog”
man, gave money and time to mainstream charities and non
controversial causes. If you buy a membership in “Elvis Insiders,”
one can get 10% discounts for lots of wonderful opportunities, like
access to the private Web site where you get a “view looking out of
Elvis’s bedroom window at the front lawn of Graceland.”
In
addition, members receive rare Elvis photos, artifacts, video clips
and documents from the Graceland archives. Other rewards include 10%
discounts on rooms at Elvis’ Heartbreak Hotel. The cynical Huck and
Tom remained un-lured. We decided to wait for the new 500-room
convention hotel and a redone and super high-tech museum — coming
within a few years.
Elvis’
widow, Priscilla, used her hubby’s estate to direct Elvis Presley
Enterprises. She shaped it, according to Wikipedia, “into the
second most visited private residence in the United States, behind
the White House.” In 2002, some 40,000 people assembled there in a
downpour — God always tests the faithful — to mark the twenty-fifth
anniversary of his death.
“Well,”
Huck said to Tom, “we saw it,” as we drove south into Clarksdale
Mississippi to visit the Blues Museum. Muddy Waters videos show how
Elvis and the Rolling Stones lifted his material as well as BB King’s
and the gyrating act from Bo Diddley. Some white academics wrote
about blues as music representing black pain. But they downplayed the
humor.
“I
got my mojo working, but it just don’t work on you,” sang Muddy
Waters.
B.B.
King moaned: “The iceman came by this morning, And you know he
didn’t leave no ice, The postman came by later baby, And he didn’t
even ring twice
I think you’ve been cheating on me, I think
you’re running out on me, I believe to my soul baby, that you’ve
given me some outside help, That I don’t think I really need.”
Not
the blues that come from slavery or from Nature flooding your house
and killing family members and friends!
In
Rosedale, Mississippi the levee protects the town — hopefully —
from flooding. We watched barges cruise downstream with the River’s
gentle flow. Who would have thought that the same waters were
inundating Wisconsin, Iowa and Illinois cities and towns? Will FEMA
officials have learned from their ignorance and subsequent judgment
errors during Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, and respond to peoples’
emergency needs? One Mississippi man said “FEMA officials will
learn when pigs learn to fly.” Another said: “Michael Brown lives
in FEMA and many other federal agencies.”
A
small town Mississippi doctor, the town’s only doctor, treated the
approximately 2,500 townspeople — the majority African American. The
nearest clinic was some 15 miles away and the closest hospital twice
that distance. “95% of my patients don’t have insurance. Some
have Medicaid or Medicare, but many have no protection.”
Some
paid him in kind with food or other “gifts.”
“Say
what you want about the drug companies,” he offered, “but without
those samples they offer to doctors I wouldn’t be able to give my
patients the drugs they need since they can’t afford to buy them.”
The
radio news warned of flooding further south as we drove from
Graceland to Oxford, Mississippi. We would peer at the gracefully
flowing River
as we
listened to deluge stories from Wisconsin, Iowa and northern
Illinois.
In
Greenville, a major Delta city on the River, we sat at Doe’s Eat
Place next to local farmers and their wives. The woman who insisted
we foreigners taste the local shrimp, almost spat out her contempt
for all things Bush.
“I’m
voting for Obama. I’ve had enough of that man [Bush] and his
friends.” Her husband shook his head in agreement at the negative
comment, as he cut into what looked like a three pound porterhouse
steak. “Yeah, farmers do better under Democrats,” he stopped to
chew. “But I don’t know yet,” indicating he still had not
mustered the assurances he needed to actually confirm his intentions
to vote for Obama. The couple at the next table shook their heads in
agreement with the farmer’s wife.
Marvin
asked if Mississippi might go Democrat in 2008, a comment offered by
an art gallery owner in Oxford. All four shook their heads. Yes, it
was possible. We finished our meal, Marvin his juicy steak and me my
superb hot tamales, corn ground with spicy sausage.
The
Mississippi of the 1960s, when I had made several trips related to
civil rights activities, had changed. A middle aged black woman
emerged from the back room of the restaurant. She shook hands with
several customers.
“She’s
our mayor,” informed the white farmer’s wife.
We
asked about her performance. She hesitated.
“She’s
alright,” she said, without enthusiasm.
Outside,
the “Security poster man accompanied us to our car so that
invisible stalkers would not attack. He graciously received the $5
tip and dramatically guided us out of the parking space — even
though there were no cars behind or in front of us.
As
we made our way south to Natchez, we shook our heads in awe and
wonder at the complexity and diversity of the people who populate
this great and crazy country.
Saul
Landau is an Institute for Policy Studies Fellow.
