We spent July 4 communing with the ghost of Elvis, who incidentally died on my birthday. All the moms wept into the Carvel cake at my fourth birthday party.
Don’t let anyone tell you that Graceland isn’t worth the trip because it’s fantastic. Scott maintains that we can’t name the child we’re adopting Elvis because the baby might be a girl and either way will definitely be coming from Ethiopia. He said the same thing about buying the miniature Elvis jumpsuit in the gift shop of the Peabody Hotel. He thinks it’s a faux pas but he’s wrong. The jumpsuit is now living in my hope chest along with lots of hats with ears and a onesy I got at Wicked in New York.
The fireworks that night hung in the sky like streamers and made the Mississippi shine. We strolled through the drunken throngs back to the hotel and visited the famous Peabody Ducks in their rooftop palace (which isn’t very palatial). I got all sentimental about William Faulkner hanging out there in the 30s, looking over the city on that same stretch of river.
I loved everyone I met in Memphis. One favorite was a homemade-arm-gauntlet-wearing blonde goth named Phoenix, whom I met while standing in line for barbecue at the July 4th celebration in the park. He classified everyone he talked about with a label that included the following: their choice to side with Good or Evil + their religious affiliation (optionally add the instrument they play). It went something like this…I grew up with an Evil Born Again Mother and a Good Athiest Father and my sister Leanne, who is a Good Pagan Accordionist. I’m in a band with my buddy Ed, an Evil Satanist Drummer, and my Girlfriend Misty, a Good Former-Christian Wiccan Bass Player. It’s really handy, actually. Feel free to use it.