We’ve heard it all by now over the years, as the tales of ELVIS’ life—physical and metaphysical, from here to the hereafter—have been told and retold ad infinitum. Some of it has been pretty pathetic . . . like when that nutty Lisa Marie Johansen wrote this book, I Lisa Marie, in 1999 claiming that she was the real Lisa Marie Presley and had been replaced with an imposter by Priscilla, because she wouldn’t embrace Scientology like the fake girl did. Johansen was represented by a lady that came off nearly as insane as she did, who claimed that she was a descendent of Pocahontas and then went on about knowing what it was like for “Lisa Marie” being dogged every step of her life by the paparazzi because her father, John Skully, was famous like ELVIS too . . . after a round of head scratching and grunts of . . . Huh . . . who ?. . . we learned that her father had gained his anonymous fame because he helped work on some political speeches for Kennedy and others . . . prestigious, but not quite ELVISIAN . . .

The book signing took place in the backyard of a house right behind Graceland that is owned by a husband and wife who had a fan club at the time—until their charter was immediately revoked thereafter—and they represented a contingency of wackos that were actually demanding that Mrs. Jackson turn over the deed to Graceland and the holdings of E.P.E. to their Lisa Marie candidate. The sorry spectacle was saturation covered by the sniggering media, and the place was surrounded by more police and security than the real Lisa Marie ever is . . . When I saw this on the local news the next day, I saw Billy Stanley in the audience. Thorne and fellow fan club President Mary Hinds had hosted an ELVIS fashion show there earlier and they beat a path out the side gate to show their contempt for this shameful exhibition. They were soon followed by Cousin Harold, Billy Smith, Sergeant Ira Jones, Colonel Bill Taylor, Mike McGregor’s daughter-in-law, Dawn, fan club President Sherry Wallace, and a host of others . . . but many more stayed and bought her ridiculous book . . . after Gail Brewer Giorgio and Lucy De Barbin’s respective relative successes and notoriety from their books I can’t say that I was surprised, but it’s always disappointing to see the fans flock to the schlock . . .

One psycho around these parts claims that he is actually Jesse Garon Presley, who in fact did not die at birth, but rather was sold by Vernon and Gladys to a family in St. Louis for cash. In order for this to be true of course the whole damn town of Tupelo would’ve had to have, been in on it and you can just imagine how baby peddlers would’ve been dealt with in rural Mississippi circa 1935 . . . think bloodhounds, shotguns, a tree and a rope . . . Also you have another head case that runs around claiming to be ELVIS PRESLEY, Jr., a love child, begotten when ELVIS was about 11 . . . But the one that takes the fruitcake in my estimation is the guy that says he’s ELVIS and Marilyn Monroe’s love child, even though he was born around 1970 . . . you see, his story goes that Marilyn didn’t really die when they said she did either . . .

Oh how the media loves to play up the loony fringe that surrounds ELVIS as a means to negate his immense popularity and unprecedented impact on world culture. If you watch the national news coverage of ELVIS world, the only people interviewed are the ones who say that ELVIS’ spirit lives in their cat or that he changed his name to Max and moved in to the trailer court across from Graceland . . . The lady that bought up Jimmy Velvet’s old house, on Dolan and Charles, just down from Vernon’s, and changed her last name to “Presley,” claims that ELVIS’ image has been astroprojected onto her filthy sliding glass door and that his ghost wanders around the premises, so the national media rolled their cameras out to her place to do condescending interviews as a means to insult ELVIS and his fans. In fact that same lady had to be dragged away from Harold Loyd’s funeral in Tupelo, because she was trying to film him in his casket and get pictures with the bereaved family. She was crowding Harold’s widow, Marcella, so close that she cried out for her sons to drag this lunatic away . . .

Also on Vernon’s old street you have a guy who dresses up like ELVIS—but sings like Alfalfa— and does bible readings in the living room of the elderly lady’s home where he and his family stays. When the night gets quiet and only a few of the gullible remain, he and his mother reveal that he is in reality . . . you guessed it; ELVIS’ love child . . .

Then there’s this zany redheaded broad that lives in a subterranean apartment next to Graceland who claims that she was the lady that ELVIS was going to take on the last tour with him and that she was going to move into Graceland when they got back from the tour. She believes that when various pictures move on her wall it is ELVIS sending out a message and has nothing to do with semis and mobile homes driving 30 feet away from her ceiling . . . she never moves them back, so you need to take Dramamine when you walk into her place. She worked at Graceland until she told that story once too often and got canned . . .

By far the worse shrine to ELVIS I’ve ever seen is this place called “Graceland Too,” in Holly Springs. The caretaker takes you on a tour through this broken down house filled with stacks of newspapers and other worthless debris—the place doesn’t have a working restroom, so he and his guests must go to the filling station up the way . . . The walls are filled with ELVIS pictures, but mostly the same one . . . He pitifully warbles along a minute to an ancient wobbly 45 record of “Teddy Bear,” as his false teeth clack around, and then he charges you $10.00 for the experience . . .

I’ve heard rumors that the upstairs at Graceland is closed because ELVIS is still up there or that he’s out on the Circle G Ranch . . . or at Neverland Ranch . . . It’s all pretty disgraceful, but fans, in their need to be nearer to ELVIS than thee, often cling to these people as their only toehold into the world that they want to be an inside part of. These frauds actually build a following and take advantage of fans in ELVIS’ name. There are fans walking around believing or pretending that that they know ELVIS’ sons, his brother Jesse Garon, his imaginary relatives, his make believe friends and his wannabe daughters, Lisa Marie Johansen and Desiree . . .

You have all these alleged ELVIS fans that spend their days and nights in the E.P. chat rooms flaming everyone and spend far too little time discussing the impact of his life and his artistry . . . those people should go join a Bob Dylan fan club, where their acerbic outlook on life will be well received . . .

Thankfully there is Patsy Andersen, head of Fan Relations for ELVIS PRESLEY Enterprises, who erases all of their negativity with one of her radiant smiles that is as warm and bright as the sun rising over Graceland on an Indian Summer morn . . . She is an effervescent angel sent by ELVIS to watch over his fandom with all the love that he had in his heart for us, and she has added her own in a way that touches people deeply, because of the genuine depth of her sincerity . . . it’s not just her job; it’s her calling . . . She presides over the 700 and growing worldwide ELVIS Fan Clubs with sagacious élan and, much like ELVIS, she has the ability to speak to a thousand people and direct it only to you . . . My most endearing memory of her is seeing her sitting on J.D’s lap during ELVIS Week ‘98, just before he passed away. J.D drawled, “Hey, I got me some of that Viagra stuff and accidentally put it in my ear . . . I’ve been hard of hearing all week . . .”

I remember when the news came out that Graceland Mansion would be open to the public for tours. It reshaped the city overnight. Merchants were able to get expansion loans based on the international economy coming our way, the airport grew, more jobs were available—especially at Graceland—and the hotel industry tripled then quintupled, and will continue to grow exponentially with the arrival of each new generation of fans. The unfair criticism that has been leveled at Priscilla for not persevering in her chaotic marriage to ELVIS has been as disproportionate as the undeserved credit that she has received for being the entrepreneurial genius responsible for the prosperity of Graceland. Let’s face it, she opened the front door and hollered, “Does anyone want to pay $20.00 to come in?” So far 15,000,000 people stopped by with more that in the wings, who have been or will be saving for years to one-day walk through the front door of Graceland. None of that has anything to do with Priscilla and has everything to do with ELVIS. In fact Graceland has often succeeded in spite of Priscilla’s administrative ways.

The enterprise that bears his name has gone about recreating him in their image. Priscilla has been embarrassed by the displays of our affection over the years and has been at odds with his fans since she was 14 years old. The very idea of her disallowing fans to wear jumpsuits when they perform around Graceland property is an insult of the highest order to the fans and to ELVIS. The fans are shown little overall hospitality from their hosts. For the thousands of fans that come to Graceland every day, ELVIS PRESLEY Enterprises provides one public bathroom for each sex; in August when tens of thousands stop by, they supply Porta-potty outhouses that are a special kind of hellhole at the end of a sweltering Southern summer day after a thousand people have used it. Rather than erecting a park or comfort area on the land that they own around Graceland, they lease it out to car dealerships and low rent businesses. The finest all-ELVIS-all-the-time restaurant—ten TV screens of various ELVIS movies and specials from open to close—is some 20 miles from Graceland at Anna’s Steak House, owned by Class of ‘65 Humes High School alum, Anna Hamilton, who was also a client of mine at Auto Chlor . . . Her establishment is a labor of love; a shrine to the man as well as their alma mater . . . and to top it off the food is sumptuous, and the staff is engaging. Anna’s love for ELVIS flows through the place . . .

Inside the mansion the changes have been drastic and it’s too bad. Most of the money Priscilla had to borrow to open the place up originally went to her re-decorative touches. Graceland was not, nor will it ever be, a stately Southern manor; it was and shall forever be in spirit, an indoor amusement park . . . the ultimate party and crash pad . . . Priscilla’s desire to play Jacqueline Kennedy reform Graceland has been self serving; Graceland should’ve been maintained in ELVIS’ image not his ex-wife’s . . . By redoing the place in subdued tones she has made it Priscillaland and to have so absolutely commercialized “The Gold Room” with so many cheesy placards and movie billboards, they may as well rename it “The Parker Room.” I’ll tell you, the first time that I took the official tour, the place looked entirely different to me. That blast of RED was so dramatic when you walked through the door that the place seems gutted without it . . . ask anyone who saw it the way ELVIS had it at the end of his life and they’ll back me up on this. This is the kind of fundamental problem that has manifested itself over and over again when handling his legacy.

When the television show “ELVIS- The Early Years” was on the air, many of ELVIS’ friends and kin stepped up to tell Priscilla, E.P.E and the producers the way of things, but they didn’t want to listen—they had come up with their own story and they were sticking to it . . . To me, the most insulting part of the show was depicting that ELVIS took his first lousy $500.00 royalty check from Sun Records and used it as a down payment for the legendary Pink Cadillac that he purchased for his Momma . . . like ELVIS would’ve done such a thing while they were still struggling to make ends meet and not overlap while living in the federal housing projects . . . ELVIS paid cash on the barrelhead for his Caddies . . . In fact ELVIS actually used a portion of that royalty loot to buy probably his favorite car ever—a 1948 Crown Victoria that he had painted purple . . . this revision by those entrusted to perpetuate his legacy does a disservice to his image, his memory and his fans . . .

Priscilla obviously has resentments toward ELVIS and she lashes out at him, his fans and even herself. When you see her wearing those horrible prints and plaids, with her hair bobbed and dyed red, she is disobeying ELVIS’ edicts of keeping her hair long and dark and only wearing solids, never prints . . . If she wants to cut off her nose to spite her face that’s fine, but she should stop whittling away on ELVIS’ image; she couldn’t change him over to suit herself when he was alive and we won’t let her get away with it now that he’s dead . . .

So was Priscilla the love of his life? Hmmm . . . She certainly brought him the most sorrow when she had her public affair, but does that denote undying love? No one but ELVIS will ever know for sure. After Priscilla left, everyone thought that he chose Ginger Alden based on her superficial resemblance to Priscilla, but maybe it wasn’t that way at all . . . You see, when a man goes back in his memories the woman he burns for with the most intensity is the one he just missed; the one he really wanted and couldn’t quite get, or keep. Topping this list of women for ELVIS, far and away, was the lovely Miss Debra Paget, his first on screen leading lady and one of the few he struck out with. His fixation over Debra may explain his unusual fascination with Priscilla when they met a couple of years later; a girl who was as close in looks and physical stature to Debra Paget as anyone I’ve ever seen . . .

It’s interesting to watch the leading ladies of ELVIS’ life come full circle with their stories. For years they all disavowed their intimate knowledge of him and said that they were just pals, or that they just laid in bed together for days reading the bible with him . . . and nothing more . . . Now that he has again weathered the storms of controversy and ridicule to re-re-emerge as the dominant Pop Culture icon of them all, they now line up to do interviews and confess in detail the sins that they committed with ELVIS . . . After listening to Cybill Shepperd’s interview detailing ELVIS’ shall we say taste in foreplay and remembering his outtake response about not seeing the launch because he had his face buried in a beaver, we now may know where he was having his “hot launch,” that day.

After ELVIS died, the pundits of the press corps stated that the whole “ELVIS fad” would die down after a couple of years and he’d be forgotten. I laugh each succeeding year, as they stand there agape at the outpouring of love and grief, which has continued unabated. They figured after the 10-year anniversary we’d have expended our emotions and would move on. By the 20-year anniversary they reckoned that all the core ELVIS fans would be dead and feeble and it would be over. They couldn’t figure out what all the teenyboppers were doing out there crying and singing, since ELVIS had died before they were born—they’ll never get it . . . But at the 25-year celebration of his life, as his songs and albums topped the charts around the world, as a whole new generation of children discovered his music in the Lilo & Stitch movie, as tens of thousands of fans stood with candles held high on vigil night, during one of the most torrential downpours I’ve ever witnessed, they have finally begun to realize what we have known all along; this will never end . . . But let me put it into a simple perspective, so they can begin to grasp the expanse of what is before them . . . On August 16, 2077, fans young and old will be gathered around Graceland dancing and singing to ELVIS tunes, cheering with pride and then they’ll stand before the gates in tribute, weeping with love for their KING . . . and I’ll be there to tell the naysayers, “I told yous so!”