Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, September 26, 2007 Life of Crime and Addiction
I started a life of rebellion and civil disobedience when I was very young. Maybe I was just born that way. Or maybe there were strong influences in the home.
It’s usually that way. Bad seeds usually sprout from somewhere, there’s usually some influence, nature or nurture, which every now and then causes a leaf or twig on the family tree to bend a little differently.
Or sometimes the whole family is such a mess, so far gone that everyone just rolls their eyes in a “well, what did you expect” kind of way. There are no big mysteries in my case. I didn’t stand a fighting chance.
I was born to be bad. My parents actually were the ones who launched me into a life of rebellion. My law abiding, university educated, Scout troop leading, Rotary committee chair, churchonsunday pillars of the community parents were trouble, too. And they didn’t even have the decency to hide their wayward ways.
Funny thing is, scandalous as it seems, no one cared. No one was even concerned about the children. My parents’ friends and neighbors just let them drag us kids down into a life of debauchery. They even lauded both of my parents for their evil ways and what they were doing to their children.
So it’s not my fault, not really. This addiction, this need, this carefree attitude about rebellion, this lack of regard for social mores and a yearning to defy was bred into me at conception and then nurtured and developed by my conniving parents who thumbed their noses at the rules and society and encouraged me to do the same. I didn’t know any better, I didn’t know there was another way of life.
I didn’t know it was wrong.
My name is Trillian and I’m and addict. My addiction causes me to do all sorts of things I now know I shouldn’t do, things society doesn’t approve, things no self-respecting single woman should do on a Saturday night.
It started innocently enough. I guess.
Though looking back I’m not so sure. You have to understand it’s difficult to discern innocent from guilty because of the brainwashing I endured all those formative years. My sense of right and wrong, good and bad, innocent and guilty is skewed by the deeply ingrained way of life I learned from my parents.
I place my earliest memory at about age 2. It’s one of those fuzzy, weird, dreamlike memories which you know, deep down, is a memory, you feel it, you know it happened to you because you remember it, you were there, yet it kind of seems like something you saw in a movie. Except you know the actors and the surroundings are familiar, even recognizable. I’m in my little girl bedroom and my brother tries to take something away from me. I throw my bottle at him. My mother appears and scolds my brother for bothering and teasing me and taking away my treasure. She then scolds me for throwing my bottle and threatens to take it away from me because I’m too big for a bottle anyway.
“We don’t throw things at people, young lady. One more time and the bottle’s gone. You’re getting too big for a bottle anyway. And you’re supposed to be taking a nap. Now. See? Everything’s fine, no harm done, he didn’t ruin it. Let’s have a look, why don’t we find out what’s going on in Wonderland today.” And then I cuddle up to my mother’s bosom, lose myself in the folds of her blouse and smell of her Breck shampoo and the safety of her embrace while she tenderly lulls me to sleep with melodic poetry about “Wonderland.”
Wonderland. Wonderland! I mean, the nerve of that woman! Making it all sound so fun, enticing a child, a baby, really, to play with fire. There should be laws about this sort of thing. Some people should not be allowed to breed. Wonderland! Of all the euphemisms, of all the evil, sinister deceptions…
There are other memories, riding my tricycle, jumping into the deep end of the pool into my father’s arms, swinging higher and higher on the swingset, duck-duck-goose. Normal kid stuff. Stuff that made it all seem so normal. Now I know that was part of the sinister plan. Add it to the list of regular childhood activities and it won't seem incongruous. Just incorpate it into everyday life as if it’s perfectly normal, perfectly harmless, and no one will suspect a thing. Especially the children. They simply have no idea that this isn’t normal, that this is bad, wrong.
My first true cognitive, conscious continuing vivid memory starts around age four. By that time I was deeply entrenched in the daily rituals my parents performed. If you’d taken me away from them at that age I still would have been too far gone to save. I was already doing it three or four times a day. It was the first thing I wanted when I woke up in the morning and was lulled to sleep with it at night.
Frequently after dinner my dad would take me into the den and he’d indulge me, teach me. Sometimes my brother would join us. First my dad would show us how it was done and then my brother would do it and then my father would make my brother go do his homework and focus his attention on me, patiently “helping” me. My dad was, and still is, one of the all time undisputed masters. He, too, seems to have been born to do it.
My mother’s role is different. Perhaps more powerful than my father’s. Quieter, more sinister, more behind the scenes. Whereas my father is more of an eager participant, she was in on all of it, she even did it professionally before she met my dad, had three kids and moved to the suburbs to spin her web of corruption under the guise of happy normal life in the unsuspecting suburbs. Is there anything more sinister than the evil to be found masquerading as normal? She looked and seemed like the perfect loving mother doting on her husband and children, entrenching herself in the community, she was a Cub Scout Den Mother, a Den Mother for crying out loud! The woman’s malicious intent knew no boundaries. A Den Mother! Evil, pure evil.
I didn’t stand a chance. None of us did. I was four-years-old and addicted so badly Betty Ford herself couldn’t have broken my habit.
Looking back on it there is one redemptive characteristic shared by my parents. They never assumed we couldn’t understand. They never talked down to us. Never hid anything from us and never made us hide anything from anyone else. The minister, a teacher, police…anyone who visited our house was welcomed to join in, in fact my parents often sent parcels of evil off with visitors. They kept a bag in the pantry where “donations” were accumulated. They encouraged us kids to help. Often we didn’t want to part with our treasures, but they disguised this as a lesson in charity.
“Someone less fortunate than you would really love that and cherish it. You have others, you can spare a few. Don’t you want other people to share the joy you’ve experienced? Mustn’t be selfish. Must think of others less fortunate than ourselves.”
Bitch. Now that I know what was going on all her virtuous lessons seem so sinister. My parents: Resident evil. Who knew?
Once the bag was full they’d take it to a couple of drop off points: The library, the church or the school rummage sale. It sickens me to think about this now. Now that I know better, now that I know how vile and disgusting their behavior was. It was all an elaborate grand scheme to, I don’t know, I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but there was obviously a grand scheme and it was clearly very elaborate. A lot of people were in on it. Someone made the pick-up, someone helped carry out their evil plan. But, to their credit, my parents never assumed we were too young to understand. Oh sure, there was some monitoring for age appropriateness. There were some boundaries. But for the most part they just went ahead and gave us what they deemed “good” for us, regardless of the level prescribed. If there was something we didn’t understand they’d just explain it to us. Consequently, by the time I started school I was exploring and experimenting beyond the levels of a lot of my classmates. Though many of them, too, had parents who were in on it, so it didn’t seem too weird and I wasn’t isolated.
At least not at first.
I was suckling it in at my mother’s bosom and learning at my dad’s knee, taking it all in, asking questions and accepting their answers, learning by example.
But, like most addicts, I soon desired to seek the answers to my questions on my own. Thirst for knowledge and lust for adventure, a desire to take it further, experiment unsupervised.
I had no idea it could, you know, kill me, or at alter me, change me, make me bad.
All I knew was that I craved it, needed it, wanted it, begged for it.
By the time I was seven-years-old I’d learned enough to be dangerous on my own and I was a slave to it. I was openly practicing on my own. My parents were proud of my accomplishments and encouraged me to press on, go further, try more serious stuff. The more I learned, the less I knew, the more I wanted to learn.
It’s a vicious cycle, this evil. I developed a bit of a snobbery about how far I’d gone, what I’d already done and what I was attempting to do. That’s when some of the kids at school started teasing me. They didn’t understand. But there were others, other junkies, other kids in the cult whose parents encouraged them. Now I realize some of our teachers were in on it, too. Some of our teachers. Not all of them. I’d find that out later. But at that time most of our teachers were supportive and encouraging and even organized groups based on levels of accomplishment. So I still had friends, things still seemed normal to me. I didn’t think I was special or different. I mean, I did normal kid stuff. I looked and behaved like a normal, albeit slightly over-imaginative, kid. If anyone suspected I had a serious problem, or that my parents were as horrible as they were, no one said or did anything. No one stepped in to help me. No one seemed to think there was a problem. Many people knew what my parents were doing and just let them go about their evil business.
When I hit pre-adolescence it began to interfere with my social life. Kids were evenly split: Those who did and those who didn’t. Those of us who did were frequently mocked, ridiculed and outcast. And, sadly, our addiction tends to lead to solitary use and subsequent isolation. The deeper we fall, the more isolated we become and the more refuge we take in that world. It becomes an escape, especially when the ravages of pre-adolescence start rearing their ugly heads. It gives us users the confidence and defiant courage to bravely continue with our habit. “I don’t even want to be popular! I have better things to do with my time! There are worlds to discover, I can push this farther and farther, there’s a never ending supply, who needs those stupid popular kids?”
And all the while my parents supported me.
Encouraged me.
Enabled me.
Indulged me.
I know it’s wrong, now, but in my defense I never would have survived those troubled, turbulent pre-adolescent and adolescent years were it not for my habitual escape. It may be wrong, it may be bad, it may be illegal in some states and countries, it may be sacrilegious and blasphemous, but it kept me from becoming a teen suicide statistic.
And it helped me learn about myself and the world around me. It unlocked doors and opened my eyes. It gives you, like, this really wild perspective, you know? The experience, the trips, can be phenomenal. The buzz, the head rush…it’s amazing. Sometimes euphoric. Often mind blowing. There’s always a little tingle of fear of the unknown, but that’s all part of the experience. Sure, you know it can be dangerous, and sometimes unpleasant, but the more you do it the more you want to test the limits. You become a thrill seeking junkie, you want more and you want bigger, stronger stuff.
My habit only intensified at university. I met other addicts. We shared our stuff. We talked about our experiences. “Whoa, this is amazing, you’ve got to try this, it’ll rock your world.” None of us ever questioned the legality or ramifications of our actions. Most of my friends had parents like mine, parents and teachers who got them hooked and encouraged their dependency. We didn’t see anything wrong with it. We thought it was a good thing.
Oh sure, we knew there were people who didn’t approve. People who didn’t understand. People who like to mock and control that which they fear or don’t understand. We weren’t oblivious or naïve. We knew there were people trying to stop us. But we just boldly and blindly continued on partaking and indulging in our habit, hoping they would one day find enlightenment and change their perspective, rules and laws.
Then one day I had to face the facts of my evil way. I was cornered and confronted.
I was volunteering with a group of young girls. I was helping them with art projects when the subject came up among a few of the older girls. One of them, like me, had parents who encouraged her use of the contraband and she was raving about a recent experience. The other girl, whose parents were obviously virtuous, God fearing carriers of the cross and burden of reformation, was piously, sincerely, without fire, brimstone or elevated heart rate, calmly stating all the errors of our ways, the truth behind the popular lies, busting the myths and patiently showing us the clear path to redemption.
What we were doing was wrong.
Period.
She told us The Truth.
God doesn’t like it and He doesn’t like anyone who does it. Neither does the president. That’s why it’s not allowed in churches or schools. Because God and the president say it’s wrong.
A child shall lead the way.
I could feel my blood pressure rising. How dare this sweet child’s parents fill her with such ridiculousness? Her parents are perpetuating the narrow-minded, “it’s for their own good” party line. This little girl could grow up unwavering in her parents’ beliefs and continue the tradition, carry the cross, and also perpetuate the hatred and condemnation of that which they do not understand.
But she was not my child, her mind was not mine to persuade, cajole or confuse. How could I set her straight, explain another point of view, without sending her into a state of confusion and mistrust? I could hear the dinner table conversation, “Miss Trillian says it’s okay. She does it and she and Jenny had fun talking about it. Miss Trillian says there’s nothing wrong with it, she does it all the time.”
Her outraged parents could then not only get me fired from a volunteer gig I really enjoyed, they could cause a lot of problems for the school sponsoring the after school program. I didn’t want to jeopardize the program or my role in it. Especially not over something already deeply rooted in public controversy. My place was to share, mentor and educate these young girls. Not corrupt them.
I’d never seen it that way. Before that day I saw myself as a beacon of truth and understanding.
That young girl made me see the real, deeper Truth.
The Truth that there is a lot more to it than unenlightened and ignorant naysayers.
Religion and politics.
Oh sure, I’d known that all along. Religion. Politics. Money. Sex. The roots of all controversy. But I didn’t personally know anyone who went to those churches or voted for those law makers. I thought it was just a few people stirring up a lot of trouble and brouhaha for the rest of us.
But they are strong in numbers. And their religion and politics define them. And they will stop at nothing to uphold their values and way of life. Regardless of the hypocrisy of their intolerance. Some issues are beyond reason, beyond hypocrisy. God and the president. You have to stand up and defend your beliefs and your values.
Which is why today I am coming out, standing up and publicly admitting to years of habitual use and addiction.
My name is Trillian and I read banned books.
My parents read banned books. My friends read banned books. Even some of my teachers read banned books and encouraged their students to read banned books.
My drug of choice, my crack, my demon lover, is books. Even, especially, banned books.
A recent random spot check of a book shelf at my parents' house revealed five banned or controversial books on one small shelf alone. I didn't stand a chance.
I can’t speak for God and I don’t want to speak for the president (because he certainly doesn’t speak for me), but, if they don’t like Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Tintin, Deenie, Harry Potter or James and his giant peach I have to question their rationale.
But then, I would, wouldn’t I? I’ve spent a lifetime reading and enjoying banned books. I’m one of them. The independent heathens who run around willy nilly reading books and question everything, especially God and the president.
Worse, in the eyes of the morality police, is that in many cases I didn’t even know the books were controversial, much less banned. My parents gave me the books to read and I eagerly devoured every word. I didn’t know they were bad books, I just knew I loved reading them. Ignorance is bliss.
My mother was an editor and manusript reader. Consequently she accumulated a lot of books. The publishing company she worked for prior to the birth of my brother gave her a steady supply of books, both new titles and reprints of classics. Banned? Huh? My mother's company printed and published these books for crying out loud. My mother. We're not talking Playboy® Enterprises, we're talking an established, prestige publishing company with a solid reputation. It never even crossed my mind that any of these books were bad for me. The only thing which embarrassed me about them was that they were dated editions - old and sometimes frayed with use - as opposed to the new "cool" paper back editions the other kids at school had. "Tom Sawyer? Oh yes dear, we have that, look on the living room shelf." Sure enough, much to my dismay, I'd find an old fashioned copy of the book. The only shameful thought I had was of disappointment. "Darn. I don't get to buy a fancy new edition. I'm going to look like a dork with this old copy."
That's not to say I didn't have plenty of new books. Other kids got candy or small dolls or toy cars as little treats. I got books. My mum would regularly come home from a day of shopping with a couple of books for me. Every couple of weeks my dad would come home from work with a) records and b) books. I'd gulp down my dinner and coax my dad to hurry up and finish his dinner, too, so we could dive into the new book. He'd pull me onto his lap and read the new book to me and teach me to read along with him. If my brother or I misbehaved, eventually, usually sooner rather than later, my dad would gather us after dinner and read us a passage from an appropriate book. Usually some Dickensian hardscrabble urchin surviving on his cunning and learning lessons in life and ethics along the way. You know, to make a point about our misbehavior or to help us understand there were kids who had things a lot worse than we did and we should be grateful for all we had. (My parents, being the evil influencers they are, also subscribed to the mother of all corruption, National Geographic which often served as not only a monthly world studies lesson, but lessons in humility, compassion and gratitude were also discussed. But in spite of all which can be learned on a monthly basis, National Geographic is not allowed in some school libraries because of "questionable content." You know, erupting volcanos are just a little too salacious for young minds and heavens, we can't have any of this evolution propaganda clouding their judgment.)
Reading and books were just a way of life, but, we never took books for granted. Every new book was special and exciting. And I was thrilled with each new tome. Even if there was a disciplinary lesson to be learned.
Little did I know my parents were weaving a web of evil and corrupting my young mind.
For instance, the first book I remember, the one I was so upset about my brother trying to pry from me, was a baby-fied version of Alice in Wonderland. I was no more than a baby but that controversial-to-some book was my cherished possession.
And in spite of her best efforts, Laura Ingalls Wilder did not turn me into a racist.
Little House in the Big Woods and Little House on the Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder’s lauded biofic long adored by 8-year-old girls and a much truer historic representation than any inane American Girl dumbed down marketing pabulum, were banned and are held in contempt in some circles. I spent an entire Summer captivated and held spellbound as the story of Laura and her family played out for me on the pages of those books. Since my father and his family were Nordic immigrants to Minnesota I felt a strong connection to Laura and her family. Her people were my people. Their land was our land. Those long family road trips to Minnesota were forever after much less tedious because I imagined Laura and her family pioneering the same land we were traveling. I learned a lot of things from those books but racism, hatred and derogatory stereotypes of First Nations people aren’t among them. Hard to believe beloved Michael Landon would have anything to do with anything sordid, but his highway to heaven was tainted with the stain of offensive literature.
Yes, I do recall references to "Injuns" and even Indians, and yes, there were some fearful passages wherein the Ingalls clan were facing the then rumored to be violent tribes of "red skins" as they pioneered across the prarie. But thanks to my parents, schools and community, I already knew times had changed and it was wrong to use those words. That was then, this is now. Further, I knew why it was wrong and I fully understood those stories happened a long time ago when things were very, very different. What I learned from those books was how different life was back then - for all skin colors. I learned about racial tolerance. It was my first lessons in how the West was really "won" and the injustices against the First Nations people living on the plains. I didn't put down those books and start my own little Children United Against Injuns club. Just the opposite. It prompted me to learn about the different tribes of First Nations people living in the area. So inspired was I that I started wearing my hair in braids and took up Chippewa beading for a few weeks. (And I also learned that Choctaws were often vegetarian which was terrific fuel to the fire already smoldering against my parents for making me eat animals. Now, for that my parents might have a valid argument against Ms. Ingalls Wilder.) Basically: The only thing Laura Ingalls Wilder did regarding racism was inspire me (and a lot of other young girls) to learn more about First Nations culture. If some kids misunderstand the books and skew the stories and twist them into some awful hate manifesto, the problem lies in the behaviors and examples their parents are giving the kids and what is taught, tolerated and accepted at their schools, not in the Little House books.
Roald Dahl and Judy Blume changed my life.
Mr. Dahl took me on my earliest and most exciting, life changing adventures. His way, his style, his humor, his words spoke (and still speak) to me, touched me, inspired my imagination to go places I dreamed into being after reading his words. His stories, yes, but more to the point, his words, the actual words and the way he put them together, were catalysts to dizzying heights of imagination. To this day traces of his humor and the visages his words conjure end up in most of my creative work. I owe so much to him that words fail me when I try to express my love and regard for his words. Some people sing a favorite song or think about puppies and kittens when life gets difficult. Me? I go to my happy place: Deep in the pages of The Witches or James and the Giant Peach or Charlie and Chocolate Factory or Matilda et al.
Had it not been for Judy Blume my difficult adolescence would probably have ended more like Go Ask Alice than in an AP lit class reading Slaughterhouse Five and Lord of the Flies. And I can say that with authority because I read my sister’s hand-me-down copy of Go Ask Alice and I knew I didn’t want to end up like that. After reading that banned book I was scared straight. That slim edition did more to keep me on the straight and narrow than years of Sunday school or the local cop addressing us kids about the dangers of drugs ever did. Yet parents, educators and religious leaders habitually declare it to be an evil tome of corruption.
I'm not a parent so I'm not fully qualified to make this statement, but, I was once a pre-adolescent and teenaged girl and I have volunteered and spent time with many other peoples' young adult daughters. Here's what I suspect regarding the Judy Blume Situation. Judy Blume is not to blame. She writes books which speak to young readers without condescending to, preaching at or accusing them. She addresses issues many (most) kids face. They identify or are at least sympathetic to her characters. The blame lies in parents not accepting that their children, especially their daughters, are young adults facing problems and issues far beyond a lost My Little Pony. The blame also lies in parents who have not developed strong communication with their children. Maybe they're afraid, embarrassed or just apathetic, but whatever the reason they haven't or don't talk, really talk, to their children and their children consequently feel alienated from them. A Judy Blume book appears and forces parent to confront their denial, fear, embarrassment or apathy. They could take the opportunity to open a meaningful dialog with their child, or, they could raise a stink with their local school or library for giving their child access to the book and form parents' coalition against the outragious corruption between the covers of Judy Blume's books. Apparently it's easier to go through all that than just sit down and talk to their child. Ban the books. Why not burn them? Heck, why not burn Judy Blume at a stake? "Are you there, God, it's me Judy. I heard you and the president don't like my books."
Flowers for Algernon. Catcher in the Rye. The Outsiders. Of Mice and Men. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. A Doll's House. Lord of the Flies. Brave New World. To Kill a Mockingbird. Ulysses. And yes, even Carrie. If we weren’t “allowed” to read them as class assignments my parents and teachers made sure they were available to me for extracurricular education and enjoyment. Some of the teachers at my schools towed the safe party line and didn't assign any controversial books as reading assignments. One term I landed in one of those classes. Was it misery? No. Did my education suffer? No. But. My parents augmented my class assignments with books not on the "safe list." Instead of book reports there were conversations between my parents and I about the characters, plot and opinions of the books which came as easily and normally as discussions after seeing a movie.
I cannot imagine who I would be today had I not read these books in my formative years. Maybe my life would have been better, more successful, easier, if I hadn’t been corrupted by the words in those books.
It’s impossible to say. The damage is done.
But it will be interesting to see how that young God and president fearing girl’s life turns out free of the influence of banned books to enlighten and present new ideas and points of view to her. It will be interesting to see if obediently following the rules and staying away from what They say is bad will lead to success and happiness for her. You don’t know what you don’t know. Ignorance can be bliss.
I know this … a man got to do what he got to do.
A few years ago I was on a "date" with a man I met online. He seemed intelligent and normal enough. Educated. Professional. Conversation turned to the topic of bank profiteering. (As it naturally does...) I referenced Grapes of Wrath. He a) didn't understand the reference, b) said he'd never read the book, and c) said his school didn't allow it.
Okay. Sure. I understand that. But what I don't understand is why, in all the years since he became an adult and left that school, he never bothered to read one of the greatest books of all time. And worse—because, you know, maybe he was just really busy and hadn't got around to it—worse, though, was that he felt that the ban at his school was justification enough to never read the book. I wasn't crazy about this guy anyway, and he showed little interest in me, but the fact that he was okay with going through life avoiding books simply because they were on his high school's banned list made me scream, "Check please!" and high tail it out of there. If he were simply not interested in the book or didn't like Steinbeck's style or had valid personal reasons for not reading the book I would have been okay with that. Not everyone has to or needs to read every great literary work. But, to diligently avoid books simply because they were on your school's banned book list is something I can't tolerate in a potential suitor.
Maybe my parents and teachers were wrong. Maybe my friends and I are wrong. Maybe we’re all too brainwashed, too corrupted at too early of an age. Maybe we know too much.
Maybe we read too much.
If God and the president don’t like it, well, we should change our ways while we still can. Maybe we might have a shot at redemption and salvation. Maybe censorship isn’t bad. Maybe freedom of choice is bad. Maybe we should just stick to what They tell us to read and ignore the rest. Maybe it’s for our own good. You know, like communism. And Catholicism.
It could be nice to have a break from all that thinking. And it sure would be a lot easier and faster at book stores and on Amazon.com if our reading lists were given to us. No more browsing and perusing endless aisles and possible reading adventures. No more having to open your mind to new ideas and opinions. No more scary topics beyond the approved comfort level. No more corruption. No more having to think for yourself. No more reading about difficult situations and complicated concepts. No more gray area. No more horizons broadened. No more coming to uncomfortable realizations. No more stretching imaginations. No more wasted time, just stick to the approved list and away you go. What They say goes, the rest is bad and worthless.
Brainwashing 101.
Seems like I read something about that somewhere…was it back in 1984? Is it hot in here? Feels like it’s about 451° F.
Banned Book Week begins September 29. My advice, while I still have a few synapses firing independent of church and state, is to read or re-read a book on a banned list. Even if just to see what all the fuss is about or to feel naughty or rebellious, it’s a good time to ingest some words put together in sentences you may not have read for a while, or ever. There’s something on the lists to interest everyone. I’m certain you can find at least one "controversial" book which will appeal to you. Remember, unlike Mein Kampf which in a twist of laughable irony is not banned in the US, Canada and England (among others), even the Holy Bible regularly appears on banned book lists.
Thursday, September 20, 2007 C'est la Viva Las Vegas
Goin' to Graceland It's gonna be great! I'm so happy I just can't wait!
I am now another statistic. 1 of ~600,000 per year. I knew it would happen one day. It was only a matter of time.
I did it. I finally did it. I’ve been musing, threatening, and sometimes (mildly) yearning, to go to Graceland for a lot of years. And now the deed is done.
I had no expectations other than a laugh and the right to say I’ve done it.
But in true form I came away from the experience with something I didn’t predict. Nothing profound or original, but something unexpected. Especially from Graceland.
Before I share my Graceland experience, let me state loudly and clearly for the record: I like early Elvis®. I respect and admire what he did, the ground he broke and the way he did it. King? I don’t agree with that. Any kind of monarchy in rock and roll is wrong. But. I’ll go with original innovator, perhaps even father of rock and roll. What he did with and for music in those early years is indisputable. 50 years after the initial recording, That’s All Right still scratches an itch like no other song can. And if you’re not weepy mid-way through Love Me Tender there’s something emotionally missing in your life.
But. Then success happened. The spoils of victory and an apparent lack of self respect combined with an addictive personality and questionable management. The mighty fell. Hard. And became a joke. And took a lot of pills. And died.
Apart from getting misty eyed listening to Love Me Tender my emotional attachments to Elvis® are minimal. And they have little to do with Elvis® and more to do with my dad. No, no, my dad is far from an Elvis® “fan.” But, throughout my life (to this day) there have been peaceful suburban Saturday afternoons jolted into raucous spontaneous dance parties by my father dropping the needle on an Elvis® record signaling the beginning of Saturday night. Sometimes my dad just gets the urge to shake it up a la Elvis®. And really, who doesn’t? My emotional Elvis® attachments are of my dad picking me up and twirling me around the living room to the beat of Don’t Be Cruel. As far as I’m concerned it has nothing to do with Elvis®. What I feel is all about my dad goofing around and dancing with me. Elvis® just happens to be the catalyst. I don’t hold Elvis® aloft at a higher status than the rest of us mere mortals and I attach no emotional significance to him personally.
Consequently when I found out business was taking me to Memphis Graceland wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind. I was so wrapped up in the details of my business trip that I forgot about the significance of Memphis for reasons other than my work. It wasn’t until a client suggested we go to Graceland that it all clicked in my mind. “Oh yeah, Graceland. Oh! Graceland! I’m gonna go to Graceland!”
And that’s where it all began, my trip to Graceland.
For reasons I cannot explain there’s some part of me that wants to see Graceland.
Like most non-Elvis® fans I have a mocking interest in Graceland. You gotta go, right? You have to go for the pure mockery of the whole thing. You just have to go. It’s on many “before I die I want to see...” lists and has been the goal of many road trips where the destination bears little significance to the journey. To wit, the night prior to my departure a friend toasted me with: “The journey of thousand laughs on a Graceland tour begins with one shot (of vodka).” Also like most non-Elvis® fans, I have just enough respect for his early work to shell out the money for the tour. I don’t feel quite so bad about spending the money touring the place if I justify it with, “hey, Love Me Tender is a great song...” I’ve never bought an Elvis® recording. I didn’t have to - along with the myriad other musicians, albums, singles, tapes which were always around the house, my parents, my older siblings, cousins, geeze, I think even my grandmother had an Elvis® Christmas album - Elvis recordings were available to me. After listening to them all these years paying for tour Graceland seems like the right thing to do. I should contribute something to Elvis®, right? Some tithe for all the times I’ve heard and enjoyed an Elvis® song seems fair. Okay, well, you’re right about the estate not needing any more money, and right about me not being much of a fan and consequently getting minimal enjoyment from Elvis® recordings, but at the very least I owe Elvis® a little financial compensation for all the times I’ve laughed along with the Dead Milkmen shouting Going to Graceland at the top of my lungs.
See what I mean? Graceland is so woven into the tapestry of our Western lives that it’s not just the epitome of our zeitgeist, it defines it. The Dead Milkmen and Paul Simon wrote popular songs specifically about road trips to Graceland. Alice Cooper, Merle Haggard, Richard Thompson have songs about Graceland.**
It’s Elvis® but it’s also beyond Elvis®. It’s a marketing business model. It’s a global cultural cosm of sociological behavioral study. It’s just, well, it just is Graceland.
And I was going. I was going to Graceland.
It is sad that for all his early greatness, for all he did for modern music, that he is reduced to a megamillion dollar marketing scheme. But hey, when in America, live like an American. Market, spend, get bored, throw away, rinse, lather, repeat.
Yes. I am jaded and cynical. Yes. When I learned I was going to Graceland there was a permanent sardonic smirk affixed to my face. Every time I said, “I’m going to Graceland” the smirk would turn to a wince, then I’d guffaw, laugh and the sardonicism would return to a smirk. I was taking the whole thing seriously, very seriously. I don’t mess around with mockery, I take my mockery very seriously.
And now I know that’s the problem with Graceland. For us non-Elvis® fans it’s difficult, if not impossible, to take Graceland seriously as anything other than a really good joke. And Elvis®, the man, gets lost in that joke.
And I mean really, in fairness to us non-Elvis® fans, it’s very, very difficult to take any man who wears a jumpsuit seriously. We might have been able to get past the horrendous movies, it was the ‘60s, after all, and we might have been able to get past the mutton chops, it was the ‘70s, after all, but a jumpsuit? I mean c’mon, that’s asking a lot.
But in the end the joke’s on us. We’re the ones who pay the money for the tour. We’re the ones who are willing to fork over hard earned money for the right to gawk and mock and say, “yep, I went, I saw Graceland and oh my goodness what a riot.” And Robert Sillerman is $10 - $68 per visitor wealthier. Better Graceland than American Idol, but I'd feel better if Lisa Marie were getting the tourist dollars instead of the bazillion dollar corporation behind American Idol. Oh well. C'est la viva Las Vegas.
Who’s laughing now?
Well, for one, me. I’m laughing. Still. At Graceland and at myself.
I got off “easy.” I had clients who wanted to go to Graceland. So I procured advance V.I.P. tour passes on my company’s dime. Hey, if you’re gonna go, go big, go all the way. Especially if you can legitimately pass it off as a business expense. (And here’s where I have to say: This perk almost makes up for some of the crap I’ve endured at work in the past year. Almost.)
I know the clients quite well so I was comfortable with their level of enthusiasm and mockery of the whole thing. So when I got to Memphis I headed straight for the first Elvis® shop I could find (like shooting fish in a barrel in Memphis) and bought Elvis® t-shirts.
Hey, hey, rock and roll.
We planned to go in the afternoon, after our meetings concluded. We were going to leave the meetings, change into our Going to Graceland outfits and, well, go to Graceland.
Unfortunately our last meeting went into double overtime. A few issues arose. There was a long winded question and answer session. All the while us Graceland goers were shifting uncomfortably in our chairs, passing furtive concerned glances at each other, checking our watches, fidgeting, and in one case (who shall remain nameless, ahem), doodling caricatures of Elvis® and peanut butter and banana sandwiches.
When the meeting finally wrapped up we were like children released early on the last day of school. Business schmusiness, we’re going to Graceland!!!
Going to Graceland, going to Graceland, going to Graceland!
We'll get to make some cheap jokes And buy cheaper souvenirs If this were Disneyworld I'd buy a pair of Elvis ears
We donned our Elvis® shirts, comfortable walking shoes and made sure we had spare batteries for the cameras. I secured directions to Graceland from the concierge. One of my clients acted as navigator. “Right on Third! Watch out for the school kids! Left on Winchester! Right! Right! Elvis® Presley Boulevard! Turn right here! We’re here! We’re here! Get in front of that tour bus! Cut him off! We don’t want to get stuck behind those senior citizens!”
Okay, so, like all good tourist traps, you don’t actually just drive through the gates and up to Graceland. You have to navigate a mammoth parking lot with car, truck and tour bus parking areas, then make your way through a bunch of gift shops, an ice cream parlor, vendors hawking commemorative photos, caricature drawings (hey! maybe a new career!), and your name and Elvis’® spelled out in real gold before you even get to the visitor center. If The Amazing Race people really want to give the contestants a real challenge they should just drop them at the Memphis airport and challenge them to get to the actual front door of Graceland before closing time.
And yes, yes, of course the gift shops are important. Heck, really, in terms of Graceland that’s as important as the site itself. Marketing, baby. Like a Turkish bizarre they flock from all over the world to be teased and tempted by goods found nowhere else on earth. But when you’re running late and you just want to see the Jungle Room, snow globes, shot glasses and Love Me Tender underpants can wait.
And then there are the teaming throngs of tourists. The masses of gawkers, mockers and loyal fans on their pilgrimage. Thousands of them. Every age, color, nationality, language, religion, political inclination, social and cultural status is represented. Young leather clad and scarily pierced hardcore punks mingle with double-knit pant suited middle aged church ladies. Japanese teenagers in über cool garb rub shoulders with Pakistani Elvis® impersonators. French businessmen in really nice suits make way for young entwined cooing smitten couples. Senior citizens, pre-schoolers, high school bands, and the day I was there, a Russian rugby team.
It is a small world, after all.
Fortunately the advance V.I.P. passes carry some clout. If you’re going to Graceland to be a tourist but can’t stand being with other tourists, I highly recommend procuring advance V.I.P. passes. I was told this is how all the rock stars see Graceland. I’m not sure I believe Bono doesn’t get a private tour, but hey, the first thing I learned about Graceland is that they take V.I.P. status seriously.
While the minions throng and wait in line for their tickets, us V.I.P.s go straight to a special, calm check-in desk. There we were given special fancy tickets and even more special fancy V.I.P. “backstage pass” type badges to dangle around our necks. You know, like V.I.P.s at concerts. Rock on. Despite the silliness of the badge, especially hanging against our Elvis® t-shirts, we dutifully donned our passes. We all wore them, like a badge of honor, throughout our stay at Graceland.
Hey, when in Rome. And you know, really, if you’re going to go to Graceland, why not just throw yourself into the spirit of the whole thing? It’s an all or nothing adventure. If you’re going to do it, do it right, do it all, embrace the experience.
We were escorted to a special V.I.P. coach, a large van, a cushy comfy transport vehicle to take us across the street and through the gates and into the promised land of Graceland. Unfortunately because we were so pressed for time we didn’t get to stop at the gates for photo ops.
We were on a mission. Jungle Room or bust.
That’s when it hit me: The tour guides, at least the tour guides on the V.I.P. tour, are really, really nice. They’re proud of Graceland and thankful and respectful of the visitors and it shows. They’re just really nice. As in almost weirdly nice. I know, I know, Southern hospitality and all that. But still, really, really nice. Maybe it was our Elvis® t-shirts. Maybe they assumed we were huge fans and they were being extra nice to us.
Which made me feel bad. Because I wasn’t there for the “right” reasons. I assumed they assumed that because we paid the money for the V.I.P. tour and wore Elvis shirts we were all respectful, adoring, reverent fans on a pilgrimage worthy of their warm hospitality. But I, we, weren’t there as loyal, caring fans. We were there in our ironic t-shirts to mock the place, see how bad it really is, and cross off an item from my “before I die...” list.
I was: Disingenuous. And the super nice guides made me feel ashamed and bad about my intentions. I don’t deserve this tour, I don’t deserve to be here, I don’t deserve to be treated so well by the tour guides. In short, I don’t deserve their respect. With so many true, respectful fans in the world who would love to be in my place, I felt bad. Really bad. I began to regret the whole thing. I had to either conjure up some respect and reverence for Elvis®, pronto, or at least get my mind in a place to fake it really well because these people are sincere and nice and it’s just wrong to mock that which they hold dear. (And in the case of the tour guides, that which pays their salary.)
Heretofore I thought most people who go to Graceland are going for the same reasons I wanted to go: Mockery. Curiosity. A quest. I mean, do you know anyone who wants to go to Graceland to pay respect to Elvis®? Even the Elvis® fans I know don’t take Graceland seriously - they’re all about the music, not the weirdness or merchandising. In my defense, I couldn’t have known there are so many people who take Graceland, and Elvis®, so reverently. And there I was in a cushy comfy V.I.P. tour van driving up to Graceland with two very enthused and nice tour guides pointing out all sorts of insider Elvis® trivia. As if we cared. I pretended to be in rapt attention out of respect for the super nice tour guide.
Life is funny.
Lessons in humility are taught when and where you least expect it.
One for the money, two for the show...
As we glided up the driveway Graceland came into view. There, looming in front of us, perched on the crest of a hill flanked by large trees, was a nice but modest sized home. I’ve seen photos, of course, but somehow I never grasped the scale of the place. It’s small. I wasn’t disappointed, but I was surprised. Kind of like going to the Alamo. And like the Alamo, my first reaction was, “That’s it?” I’m not kidding, it reminded me of the houses in my hometown. Nice but modest suburban homes of the ‘50s and ‘60s. Nice, pleasant, but nothing special and nothing huge, certainly nothing ostentatious.
Because we were V.I.P.s we had a special window of opportunity to view the front of the house on our own, in privacy, for a few minutes before the next tour started. Again - no lines, no one else but us. Just us taking in the modest size of Graceland.
The tour guide lined us up, placed us on the perfect Kodak picture spot, and snapped photos for us on our cameras. As a group and as individuals.
After the photoshoot I made a disturbing discovery. I’m not a Graceland scholar. I read the news releases when Lisa Marie sold most of her shares of the place because I was interested in the business and marketing aspects, but beyond that I haven’t kept up with Graceland news. So I was more than a little surprised to learn that, along with the Alamo, the White House, Mt. Vernon and Monticello, Graceland is a National Historic Landmark. The honor was bestowed in 2006.
Erm. Seriously. You know I rarely, if ever, use this, but if ever anything deserved it, it’s this: WTF???
Are we that hard up for historic landmarks that we’re scraping the murky bottom of the barrel? A pop-culture phenomenon? Yes. A merchandising mecca? Yes. A megamillion dollar licensed trademark business model? Yes. But a National Historic Landmark? Huh? What’s next for the historic landmark crew, the Mystery Spot?
Our tour guide proudly pointed out the designation. She was beaming like a soccer mom over her child scoring a winning goal. There was no hiding my surprise and concern over the state of the nation. Graceland is a National Historic Landmark? What does this say about us as a country, as a society? Speak for yourself, Historic Landmark voting committee, Graceland's cool and everything, but historic? Hardly. I should have known I was in for it, this should have been my first clue that what I was about to witness was more than the mirth and mockery I thought was the whole point of going to Graceland.
Then we were ushered to the front door. The front door of Graceland.
Upon entering the house I was once again surprised at the scale of the place. It really is very much like houses in my hometown. Formal living room on the right, formal dining room on the left, both “normal” suburban house sized. And, even more surprisingly to me, tastefully appointed. I mean, considering it was the ‘70s and assuming it’s decorated the same or similar to how Elvis® had it done, it’s, you know, nice. A little showy, a little mirrory, a little tacky, but what did your parents’ house look like in the ‘70s?
Yes. I’m defending Elvis®. I’m defending Graceland. The front rooms are not at all what I expected. Apart from a blue and yellow stained glass peacock room divider, they’re normal. Formal in a Leave it to Beaver house kind of way. Which made me wonder if Elvis® watched Leave it to Beaver. My clients, my co-V.I.P.s and I mused about that. 2 votes yes, 1 vote no. The nice tour guide laughed but said, “You know, I just don’t know if Elvis® watched Beaver.” I had to hide my giggles at her innocent naughty double entendre. One of my co-V.I.P.s leaned over and whispered, “Oh, I’m quite sure Elvis® saw a Beaver or two.” Which made me laugh out loud. The tour guide seemed unaware. (I hope she was because I don’t want her to think we were laughing at her.)
From there we traipsed down the hall to the back of the house. There is a small, yes, small suite where Elvis’® parents stayed. Their bathroom has the cutest poodle wallpaper you ever did see. But the bathroom is small. The bathroom in my condo is tiny. Teeeeeeeny tiny. Elvis’® parents bathroom appears to be smaller than mine.
I know I’m going on about the diminutive size of Graceland a bit, but really, this is Graceland. This is Elvis®. I mean, if I were suddenly as wealthy as Elvis® I don’t think I’d go for a huge sprawling estate, either. And props to him for staying humble in that regard, but, I can say without a doubt I’d give my parents a comfortable sized bathroom.
And now for Moment of Enlightenment #1. The kitchen. Holy peanut butter and banana sandwiches. It is almost an exact replica of my parents’ kitchen circa ‘78. I had chills. Shivers up my spine. I was immediately transported back to my youth, back to my parents’ kitchen. I fully expected my mother to come around the corner and ask if I wanted to help her make cupcakes. I just stood there lost in a moment of memories of my youth and my mother. Seriously freaky weird. I mean, of all the places to slide back in time and lose yourself in memories the kitchen in Graceland is not exactly the most obvious location. I was pulled out of my memories by my co-V.I.P.s who were nudging me along on the tour. Lots to see, schedule, gotta move along... As I walked away I felt like each step was a year of my life, walking from youth to adulthood with each step away from that kitchen. It felt like I was walking back into my body, that I hadn’t quite been in myself for a few minutes. Thanks Elvis®, thank you very much for that trip back in time. Very, very odd feeling. I’ve never experienced anything like that. But, apart from my personal experience, the kitchen is, well, unimpressive. Modest.
Then we shuffled downstairs. And that’s where the fun begins.
First we gathered in the billiard room. Again, nothing too unusual or grandiose. It looks like a lot of the basements in my friend’s houses when I was growing up in the suburbs. Okay, a little overdone with the fabric tufted ceiling, but my friend’s mother did that to pretty up their basement rec room, too.
And then, oh my goodness then, the TV room. Oh boy. Now this is why you go to Graceland. This is more like it. This is what you expect. A yellow bar with mirrored walls lined with glass shelves full of, well, tacky stuff. Some of those gawdawful blown glass clowns. It’s overwhelming. Glass, mirrors, bright yellow and blue walls and furniture and...the huge lightening bolt mural painted on the wall. I was disappointed there wasn’t a TCB with the lightening bolt, but hey, at least there was a lightening bolt. And, better still, the mural appears to be painted on paneling. You know how really awful old apartments have paneled walls the landlord tried to long ago pretty up by painting but it ends up looking worse than the horrible paneling? Yeah, well, welcome to Graceland.
And this is where the infamous three televisions lined up in a row reside. Those were the days before picture in picture technology. And cable. There were only three networks - well, three which mattered to Elvis®. I’m going to make the presumption that Elvis® wasn’t into PBS. And wasn't Betamax still the new big thing in technology in 1977? This is the first room which I could imagine Elvis. I could almost see him lounging in there, sprawled out on the big blue velveteen sectional couch watching three televisions with drinks and snacks within easy reach on the mirrored cocktail table. If he haunts Graceland this is where he hangs out. TCB, Elvis®, TCB.
Back upstairs and into the mecca, the promised land, the divine purpose of the pilgrimage: The Jungle Room. I can’t fully explain it, and really, it’s all been said thousands of times. I’ll leave it at: It doesn’t disappoint. The Jungle Room delivers the Graceland goods. It’s more than I could have ever imagined. From the green shag carpeted ceiling to the alligator furniture, it’s glorious. Wise men say only fools rush in. But I can’t help falling in love with this room. Elvis® gave us some great records, true, but, he also gave us the Jungle Room. And for that we owe him.
As I stood there trying to take it all in, trying not to miss any detail, I had Moment of Enlightenment #2. It’s a fun room. Tacky, sure, odd, yes, over the top, of course. But, it’s fun. There’s a strong sense of “oh what the heck, why not?! Let’s just go for it!” And as I stood there going over the details it occurred to me that for all his fame and fortune there were obviously problems (look no further than his early and lifestyle related death) and clearly Elvis® had some dark days. Maybe this room, this bizarre ode to wild and crazy kitschy exoticism, was fun for him. Maybe, hopefully, it was a place where he, like the rest of us, would walk in and smile. It’s difficult to remember that before he was an overmerchandised joke he was just a kid from Tupelo. Oddly enough, it was the Jungle Room which reminded me of that. Get past the songs, the tours, the women, the exploits, the jumpsuits, (I know, it’s a lot to get past) he was actually a human being. Okay, a human being with questionable taste, but a person like the rest of us. Money doesn’t buy taste. Or happiness. But money does buy a Jungle Room and I hope the sense of mirth it exudes reflects a spot of happiness in Elvis’® life.
Moment of Enlightenment #3 After we got our fill of the Jungle Room we headed out back for the trophy room and racquetball room. On the way we passed by Lisa Marie’s swingset. Which is an exact duplicate of a swingset I had when I was a kid. Okay. Now this is getting a little weird. First the kitchen now this? I mean, c’mon. This is Elvis®. Lisa Marie should have had some really amazing jungle gym and play area. Not a swingset like mine. I mean, nothing wrong with my swingset, I logged a lot of good hours on that thing, but this is Lisa Marie. The King’s daughter. You’d think she’d have a whole carnival in the back yard. I wonder if she attempted to swing so high she would try to defy physics and swing all the way over the top. I wonder if she habitually ran up the slide instead of sliding down it. I wonder if she climbed on top above the swings and flipped off it. I wonder if she broke her nose on the glider. I wonder if Lisa Marie was ever just a normal kid playing on a swingset. I mean, she probably was, but, it’s weird to think she and I share the very same swingset experience.
Onto the Racquetball and Trophy Rooms. By this time we were running short on time. We had to high tail it through the rest of the tour. Lots of gold and platinum records, costumes, guns, bullets, and Elvis’ Army uniform. These buildings are smallish and crammed with memorabilia. And tourists. No V.I.P. status here - everyone’s equal. So into the throng of tourists with self guided tour headsets we went. We stopped only at items of special interest or where there was a break in the crowd. There were several large tour groups clustered around the displays. This made getting through the rooms even more difficult. We were growing impatient with the crowds and wanted to leave. (because we’d become spoiled, pampered V.I.P.s, it went to our heads really quickly)
One of the groups was a group of about 15 mentally disabled adults, many of them appeared to be moderate to severly autistic. They were gazing at different items and wandering around, frequently re-corralled by their two caregivers. They weren’t any more in the way than any other tourists, but some of the meaner tourists, obviously also trying to take it all in in a very short amount of time, were impatient and rude to them. I have a problem with this kind of attitude toward people with disabilities. A big problem.
So I had to fight to keep my temper in check and my mouth shut when a jerk made a rude comment about one of the disabled tourists. I can get real lippy real quickly in that kind of situation even though I know there's no sense trying to embarrass or talk reason to anyone who is rude to disabled people. Letting them make fools of themselves and dig their own graves is a lesson I'm trying to learn, but it's really difficult for me to not rush to the defense of disabled people.
Fortunately one of the caregivers obviously used to dealing with that kind of atrocity responded by trying to herd the group together and into the next room. Which was difficult because the people in the group didn’t have the best communication skills. They weren’t “bad” they were just overwhelmed and having difficulty navigating the room full of shiny stuff and music. Some of them were enthralled with particular items and didn’t want to leave. This caused mini-tantrums which only added to their caregivers’ urgency to get the group moving along to the next room. It’s cramped quarters so under the best of circumstances there will be congestion issues.
We backtracked to get out of the way and make room for the caregivers and other tourists who were rude and annoying and in more of a hurry than we were.
Once we were able to get into the next room what I saw humbled me and made tears well in my eyes.
Moment of Enlightenment #4. There standing in the middle of the walkway, next to a display of early Elvis memorabilia, was one of the mentally disabled guys with his self guided tour headset on, bopping up and down and trying to snap his crippled fingers singing, at the top of his lungs, “hound dog...hound dog...hound dog” He was blissfully oblivious to everything around him. Completely lost in the music, clearly enjoying every beat of it and utterly lost in “his” song, “his” Graceland moment.
I dare you to be touched when you conjure that image. It transcends Elvis®. It’s about music. The pure joy of hearing a favorite song. Singing and dancing along no matter how off key or off tempo, just giving in, letting go and enjoying music. Bliss. Pure heartfelt bliss. Music got through to this guy who is in many ways unreachable. His disability prevents him from communicating at a “normal” level. But music, music got through to him. Music touched his soul.
Behind all the merchandising, all the hype, the glitter, the rumors, the trivia, the jumpsuits, the pills, the ridiculousness of it all, Elvis® was at one time about the music. The bopping around stage, swiveling hips, the snarly lip - he used to feel the music, too. No. I don’t have newfound deeper respect for Elvis®.
But I am grateful for the timing of my visit to Graceland. That guy bopping and singing hound dog reminded me to let go and sing and dance more than I have lately. Sure, I sing and dance horribly. Embarrassingly bad. But so what? Who cares? I love music. I feel music. It’s my one unwavering source of joy and entertainment. If I let myself, if I take the time, I can let go and be swept far, far away in the first few notes of a favorite song. I cut loose and belt out off key renditions of my favorite songs and I’ve been known to dance around in my pajamas. Why don’t I do this more often? I dunno. Work. Bills. Doctor appointments. Errands. Life, I guess.
And then it hit me: That’s what happened to Elvis®, too. Life. Okay, sure, his life was tainted by success whereas mine is tainted by failure, but still, yikes, I don’t want to end up like Elvis®. One day singing and dancing, enjoying the music for the sake of music, the next a washed up joke in a jumpsuit keeled over the toilet dead.
It wasn’t just me. My clients were touched by the hound dogging guy, too. A path cleared and we went on our way. Once we were out in the bright late afternoon sun we snapped out of our sentimentality and forged on to conclude our tour. We made Elvis® jokes and mused about what we’d like to buy in the gift shop. And tried to find a restroom. If you’re going to Graceland be sure to use the restroom at the visitor’s center before you head across the street to Graceland. That’s all I’m going to say about that.
There was a huge line. HUGE line wrapping around the side of the house. Our V.I.P. tour guide led us past the line and behind the crowd. I wasn’t exactly sure what we were going to see.
I forgot, in the moment, that Elvis® is buried at Graceland.
Ahhh. So that explains the somber crowd of mournful fans lined up across the lawn. Again, I felt unworthy of the special treatment. I’m not sorrowful like them. I don’t miss Elvis®. I don’t feel much of anything about or for Elvis®. So I don’t deserve to be whisked to the head of the line and placed in front of his grave.
He ate his weight in country ham Killed on pills and woke in disgraceland
I’ve lost heroes. I’ve lost my share of poets and musicians who touched me deeply with their lyrics and/or music. Sure, they weren’t Elvis. They were just Joe Strummer. Kurt Cobain. Ian Curtis. James Honeyman-Scott. Three of the Ramones. But they’re not exactly lightweights.* And they’re as important to me and “my” generation as Elvis was to his - and, more to the point, they were important to music, rock and roll. Carriers of the torch, leaders of the pack, saviors of faithful, icons of talent and defenders of the genre. But. If their homes were to be opened for tours I don’t think I’d feel compelled to shell out the cash to have a look at where Kurt pulled the trigger or Joe’s heart stopped. I could be wrong, but somehow I just can’t see it happening. There are lots of reasons why.
1) The idea of cashing on their names and death would go against the grain of everything Kurt and Joe wrote and sang about: The dumbing down of society, the spoon forced pabulum of pop-culture. Selling out. Most of their fans would feel that way and would boycott out of respect. 2) They didn’t desperately sell-out their legacy before they tragically died too young. 3) They didn’t make really bad low budget movies. 4) They inspired dozens of legit musicians and left behind legions of fans - not impersonators. 5) They didn’t wear tight rhinestone jumpsuits. Or jumpsuits of any type, for that matter.
But Elvis’® people are different. They are compelled to Graceland. They love Elvis®. They love Graceland. The mourners, the pilgrims, the fans feeling such deep and raw emotion while at Graceland is, well, curious to me. I’m not disrespecting them. Feelings are feelings and I respect their sorrow. People on their knees in reverent prayer. Men with eyes welled with tears. Women with mascara runny tears steaming down their faces. A few choked sobs the only sound in the somber silence in the queue of people lined up toward and around the grave. It’s been 30 years and yet, still, visiting Graceland dredges up all their sorrow and mourning and puts them in a state of grief as if Elvis® died yesterday. I’m hoping it’s cathartic for them, I’m hoping a visit to Graceland will give them closure. But somehow I suspect it won’t. These are diehard fans, loyal fans faithful to their feelings about Elvis®.
I was sad when Kurt died, surprised when Joe Strummer died, I had some bouts of melancholy for a few days but tears were not shed, work did not cease. Life went on. I listened to some of their music in remembrance and that was pretty much the extent of my grief and mourning. I don't mark the passing of their birthdays or deathdays, I don't shed tears when I listen to their music. I don't send flowers to their graves.
Am I a bad fan? Insensitive? Not as loyal and devoted to them and their music as I should be? No.
Jaded? Well, yes.
The average life expectancy of a rock star in the US is 42 years old. European rock stars fare worse with a life expectancy of 35 years old. I suspect the chasm between American and European rock stars can be explained by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards obviously defying odds, living to be senior citizens and skewing the data. The average life expectancy for us non-rock stars is 78 or 79 depending on your gender and lifestyle. This is easy, easy math. Even I can do it. The odds of us outliving our rock star heroes are very good. Unless you’re a post-Brian Jones Rolling Stones fan, you will most likely go through the loss of a musician who touched you, moved you, and entertained you. This is an accepted, expected fact of life.
Basically: We’ve learned to expect the death of rock stars. It’s sad when it happens, but not shocking. Elvis didn’t pave the way with this. Buddy Holly, Brian Jones, Keith Moon, Lynyrd Skynyrd, John Bonham…and so on…by the time Elvis® died we (society) were all used to hearing about “tragic” overdoses, suicides, questionable circumstances and plane crashes.
I will admit that John Lennon was an innovator in rock star death, being shot by a delusional disillusioned fan was beyond what anyone could have predicted or expected. That one was a surprise.
But other than Lennon, it’s reasonable to anticipate the death of our rock heroes. Especially when they’re obviously having issues, problems, in decline. Did Elvis’® fans really not see what was happening to him? Did they really not see all the warning signs? If not they were kidding themselves. By ’77 everyone knew the indicators of substance abuse and destructive behavior. It simply could not have been surprising to anyone who’d observed Elvis® in his last years. Clearly something was very, very wrong in his life, clearly he was having problems. At 42 he looked more like 62. He looked tired, old, washed up and sickly. Which is sad, of course, even tragic, but could anyone really have been surprised by his death? Why the tears? Why the 30 years of mourning? Statistics show, experience teaches us, our rock star heroes are not long term fixtures in our lives.
I don’t understand mourning and crying over Elvis® but I want to understand it. I want to understand what it is about Elvis® that touches them so deeply. But that’s part of the point: I don’t get it so I can’t get it.
And unfortunately the absurdity of the whole thing hit me at the worst possible time. A woman in her ‘60s crossed herself and started counting her rosary, tears streaming down her face. At the same time the man next to me, in his late ‘50s dressed in jeans and a leather jacket and sporting an impressive slicked back salt and pepper pompadour haircut picked up a young child, pointed at the grave and whispered, “Honey, that’s the king, take a good look, it all begins and ends with him.” The little girl blew a kiss to the grave. (Or maybe to her mother waiting on the other side of the fountain.) The praying woman and the graying rocker got to me. But in the wrong way. At least the wrong way in that moment. The ridiculousness of the whole thing got to me and got a fit of giggles.
Well. Not so much giggles as guffaws.
The last thing I want to do is offend anyone, especially people in reverence and grief. Just because I feel little or nothing about Elvis®, just because I see the whole overmerchandised Disney-esque joke side of Graceland doesn't mean I don't respect other peoples' feelings. I wasn't laughing at them, I was laughing at the situation, at the juxtaposition of personalities, feelings and Elvis'® grave. It's a unique kind of weirdness you have to experience to understand. The whole thing is absurd - the Jungle Room is just right over there, mere yards from the Presley "cemetery" for crying out loud. Of course this is a situation where the harder you try to not laugh, the harder your inclination is to laugh. All I could think about was getting out of there, fast, because I didn¹t want to offend the people in mourning, and, more to the point, ridiculous situation or not, I don't want to laugh at someone's grave, even Elvis'®.
Unfortunately there was a huge crowd around the grave and getting away from there, beating a hasty retreat, was next to impossible. I tried to pass off my badly stifled guffaws and choked sobs. I looked at one of my clients who apparently also was on the verge of busting out in laughter because the second they looked at me trying not to laugh they let out a laugh. The dutiful pilgrims looked at us with the "you should be ashamed of yourself" looks. My focus, my mission, was to get the heck out of there ASAP. TCB.
We shouldered and excused ourselves through the crowd and finally, finally got away from the gravesite. After we stopped laughing we returned to the front of the house and waited for our V.I.P. coach. They drove us around back, pointed out more buildings, told more Elvis stories, told us we could get married at Graceland for as little as $550.
And then it was over. The infamous gates swung open and our special air conditioned V.I.P. cushy shuttle bus passed through the gates and back into the real world of gift shops, vending machines, souvenir stamp-a-penny machines, food courts and more gift shops. We're caught in a trap. A tourist trap. I can't walk out because I love you too much. Baby.
My clients dropped a good chunk of money and came away loaded down with Elvis® merchandise. I escaped with tins of mints for some friends, a couple postcards and an Elvis® dashboard statue. No. I do not own a car. My Graceland memories are the only souvinirs I need. My parents' kitchen just like Elvis'® kitchen. Lisa Marie and I sharing the same swingset experience. The happy karma in the Jungle Room. The guy dancing and singing hound dog lost in the joy and delight of hearing a favorite song.
I'd like to think Elvis® would want it that way, that he wouldn't approve of the overmerchanised licensing of his likeness, that he'd want it to be about the music.*** But since I'm not a fan I can't speculate. I can only take the memories of my personal Graceland experience and cross Graceland off my list of places to go before I die.
*As an interesting aside, when I was musing about this, thinking about dead rock stars who mean something to me, Sid Vicious came to mind as the ironic sole "Yeah, I could see the Elvis thing happening" member of the club. Sid's very marketable. A rebel and an icon. Yet in the end a sad but stereotypical joke who, if he could have, probably would have sold out his persona, home and whatever else he could to make some cash for drugs. We can feel mad at Sid for not getting help and kicking the habit, and we can feel "superior" to Sid because we're not junkies too strung out of control to save ourselves. Therefore we can justify mocking him.(Pete Doherty are you listening?) I'd pay $5 for a Sid Vicious snow globe or "Cuz tourists are money" fridge magnet. But $5 for a Clash shot glass or squirt gun with "Come as you Are" stamped on the barrel? I couldn't do it. I couldn't let it happen. (however, you can get a $20 replica of Kurt Cobain here. Don't say I didn't warn you.)
**Alice Cooper's Disgraceland and the Milkmen's Going to Graceland are my personal favorites, depending on my mood it's a toss up to which I'll listen. I like Paul Simon's Graceland, too. I find it an interesting coincidence that three of my favorite artists have songs about the absurdity of a trip to Graceland. I'd like to think there are lots of people who like Paul Simon, Alice Cooper and the Dead Milkmen. It would be super cool if they had a triple billed show in Memphis and all us fans could go to Graceland for the concert and it could be like SXSW and we'd all hang out in Elvis shirts and talk in silly Elvis voices.
***Bubba Ho Tep is a great movie which delves into this very issue. I highly recommend it, cannot say enough good about it.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Here we are again. Tuesday, September 11.
I dunno.
Life is weird.
One day you’re going along living your regularly scheduled life, normal was normal as you always knew it. Then in the span of a few minutes normal would never be normal again.
Change is good. Even seemingly changes for the worse are supposed to hold linings of good – wisdom, awareness, strength, courage, character building life lessons.
Are you wiser, more aware, stronger or more courageous than you were six years ago?
I just feel more confused, despondent, helpless and scared.
We’re not supposed to admit that. We’re supposed to put on a brave front, stiff upper lip, shoulders back, chest up and peer defiantly into the future. The second we show any sign of weakness is the second we’re prone to attack.
Funny, though, it wasn’t showing vulnerability that got the US into this mess. It was a defiant show of egotism and bravado which made people hate America so much that they wanted to attack and kill us, bring us to our knees, teach us a lesson.
Maybe if we (collectively, elected officials included) had shown the world how human we were, how humane we can be things might have been different.
Or maybe not. It’s all hindsight and conjecture.
But I’m not embarrassed or concerned to admit that I am more confused, despondent, helpless and scared than I was prior to 9/11/01.
I know.
That’s unamerican.
And me, the daughter of a Marine.
That’s really unamerican.
Although.
My former Marine father also is confused. And I sense, lately, helpless and despondent, too. And if you ask him about his grandchildren the first thing he’ll say after rattling off their various virtues is that he’s scared for their future.
Maybe I’m too sensitive.
Maybe I have difficulty letting go.
Maybe I am too nice.
But if being too sensitive, caring and nice is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
It’s not that I look at other people as disrespectful or irreverent.
In fact I’m kind of jealous, somewhat curious and a little awed at how other people seem to talk and blog on as if this weren’t 9/11.
I wonder what it’s like to have words about Transformers or last night’s Chinese take-out or Britney. Life goes on, the American Dream continues, we have not been defeated, we are not on our knees begging for mercy. 9/11 schmeven. We’re American and nothing is going to stand in the way of our zeitgeist.
The only words fighting their way out of my head are a melancholic confused jumble of sadness. Most of them could be replaced by smirk, sigh and closed eye slow shake of the head.
It’s not that I don’t think about this on other days. In some ways it’s ever present and omnipresent.
Never Forget they say. That slogan is insipid and insulting. Who could forget? How could anyone forget?
Maybe it’s because the day feels so similar. September always feels a certain way to me. The sky takes on specific vivid hues of blue, nature has a particular September attitude. 9/11 was the perfect example of a textbook September day. And as it turns out, it often is a perfect September day. Today in Chicago it looks and feels precisely as it did in ’01. That’s probably a lot of it. My mind can’t help but wander back there. Sigh. Slow shake of the head.
See what I mean?
I don’t live in the past. I have one, and only one, huge regret, but, I don’t live in the past. Big picture. Forward momentum. I may be confused, despondent, helpless and scared, but I do focus on the big picture. I set goals to get there. I work at them. Sometimes I even accomplish them. But it is, after all, a big picture.
And much as I would love to have other words assaulting me, go along all “tra la la, leave it in the past, get on with your future,” there’s an ingrained respect, empathy and awareness which won’t allow those words or thoughts out today.
Oh sure, I still have work and deadlines, a doctor appointment, dry cleaning to fetch and phone calls to make. Let freedom ring. Life does go on, the American Way is preserved. Democracy reigns supreme.
In that context I suppose it is important for people to slide 9/11 on the back burner of their subconscious. After all, Britney was a mess, Transformers was a top grossing movie of the Summer and what’s more American than Chinese take-out?
True enough. But I would like to have the victims of 9/11 enjoying their freedom to trash Britney, see movies and order Chinese take-out. And the fact that they had those privileges taken away from them bothers me. A lot.
The time honored conventional wisdom when someone dies is that they’d want us to carry on with our lives, remember their life, not their death.
But that doesn’t seem quite right in this case. If I died in 9/11 I think I’d be annoyed (though not the least bit surprised) that the top blog buzz topic on 9/11/07 is Britney Spears.
I'd like to think it wasn't all for nothing and that it wasn't reduced to some ridiculous pithy slogan and a glittery American flag ribbon web-banner on blogs.
But there again, that's hindsight and conjecture. I didn't die in 9/11. So how can I have the nerve to even presume what a victim would want or think if they were to observe life six years post-9/11? I can't.
Yet I don't have the nerve to blog about Britney or movies or Chinese take-out, either.
1:15 PM
