A few weeks ago, Elvis had us over for drinks.
I have to say, for the King of Rock and Roll, he was a little stiff. But his digs were way groovy, man.
Hud had a rockin' good time. There were photographs covering the walls. Most were of Elvis kissing some brunette. We met her when we drove up. She was there with a tour bus, trying to crash the party. It was tribute week. Memphis is all about Elvis during the week preceding the sixteenth of August. It's a regular United Nations of lamb chop sideburns and sequins. Vernon wouldn't let her in. She wasn't on the list.
The pool has been filled in, but oh! The stories it could have told. Seems it had a leak that couldn't be plugged.
So they made it a patio.
Girls would jump the fence to tap on Elvis' bedroom window. It's on the left beneath the Japanese maple tree.
Don't be jealous, but I've been in the King's boudoir, drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon.
I even used the phone in in his bathroom.
I just called a friend to document that I was there. Heeeee.
In truth, the party was put on by our Drinking Team buddy, Tracy Patterson, for Rhodes College Alumni Association. Rhodes owns Elvis' first home. It is being repaired for party rentals and events. He had the house pre-Priscilla. The girls sneaking around, jumping the fences and peeking in his windows, had the neighborhood as itchy as a man on a fuzzy tree. He politely moved to Graceland.
Call me, Elvis. We don't have to do anything special. Maybe we could just watch some TV.