What's the old saying, "Money does not buy taste." Graceland is a tacky continent unto itself. One must leave all sense of aesthetic excellence at the door, as garish flash is definitely king in Elvis' neck 'o the woods.
Paid $18 bucks ($2 discount...AAA member) to secure my place in line in the gawdawful heat to view the King's digs. Had a chat with a fellow named Bobby ("It's Bobby, not Bob," he told me. Of course!) and his wife Sue who visit Graceland every year from the far-off environs of Alabama. Bobby sports a mean set of porkchop sideburns, and has loved the King since he was "an itty bitty boy." Also heard French, German and a Nordic language being spoken during my visit.
What's most interesting about the place: 1) peoplewatching the folks who come from all over the world to pay homage, and 2) reading the graffitti scrawled along the brick walls and sidewalks that surround the house.
I have also concluded that a) spandex should be outlawed, as it does not look good on any human form, male or female, no matter how skinny he/she is and 2) this far south, it's so hot, you even sweat when you swim.
After I graciously left Graceland, I drove along the mighty Mississippi to downtown Memphis and Beal Street, looking and listening for W.C. Handy. It's being gentrified, methinks.
But B. B. King's blues club is there, and there is a hint of Handy still.
And I ate a small helping of pork bbq that was pretty darned good.
Moving west now. More about Arkansas when I get there.