Tomorrow night, when I finally get around to writing about my weekend in Memphis, I'm probably going to end up tearing into Graceland a little. I know it's the kind of place that's either kitschy or camp or maybe a holy shrine to some people, but I found so much of it to be deliberately, unspeakably tacky.
I have no particular loyalty to Elvis. I have none of his songs on my iPod. On the other hand, I have no particular hatred for Elvis. He isn't Nelly Furtado, after all. Still, it seems to me that you can have a museum to someone and a tour of their home without plastering their face on any
that you could name. It seems vaguely distasteful to sell ashtrays, shotglasses, action figures, lamps, pillows, purses, blankets, and spice racks emblazoned with a dead man's face a stone's throw from his grave, and this is coming from a person who loves the town of Pigeon Forge. The whole place is exploitative and somehow sad, as if the Presley family has forgotten that Elvis was a real person rather than a hip shaking caricature that they can make a buck off of.
Tonight while I was uploading photos I realized that I felt bad for Elvis.
I felt bad for a dead millionnaire. That's how terrible Graceland is.