Imagine how awful it would be to die in the 70s only to have your house immortalized as a tourist attraction. Almost as bad as having your name be synonymous with dying on the toilet, I'd imagine. Never are the 70s referred to as a period of style and grace—they're mostly regarded as the twentieth century's apex of all things aesthetically misguided. This was, after all, the decade of disco, polyester, and avocado green being an acceptable color for kitchen appliances. Elvis had the misfortune to die at a time which made Graceland forever preserved as a monument to all things kitsch. However, this is very fortunate for the world's tourists. Very fortunate indeed.

Having given myself time to get lost, I arrived in Memphis a couple of hours early for my 2:30 "Platinum Tour Package." I would eventually get a chance to tour Graceland, Elvis' two jets, the collection of Presley family cars, and a memorabilia exhibit called "Sincerely, Elvis." Before the big fun began, I went to a souvenir shop half a block from Graceland. Never let it be said that tourists don't love kitsch. Elvis routinely tops lists of "The Year's Top-Grossing Dead People," and the reason for this is evident in his estate's marketing. If modern technology can put an Elvis face or signature on it, modern technology will license the rights to do so. Some of the more noteworthy items include ViewMaster reels, potholders bearing a recipe for fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, a bar-b-que spice mixture known as "The Elvis Blend," and special edition dolls which look a lot like creepy little dwarves dressed in Elvis garb. Slightly disappointed in the lack of actual velvet Elvi (this, I have decided, is the plural of Elvis), I purchase an Elvis Christmas ornament whose hips swing back and forth. This will have to do. As I leave the store, I notice a plexiglass guitar case in the shop's window. Patrons are invited to write a note to Elvis and slip it through a slit in the case. As I have already sent Elvis an email this week and don't want to appear stalkerish, I step past the couple who are videotaping in the shop's doorway and head back to my car. I notice something on the sidewalk: one of Memphis' fine residents has scrawled "Elvis iz hoar" in the once-wet cement. Make of that what you will.

Having checked in at the reservation desk, I get in the long line to wait for my turn on a shuttle to the house. I look around at my fellow tourists: there is a higher percentage of young people than I expected, but that doesn't keep the line from having general "grandma whiff." The lady to my left wears a denim jacket literally covered with souvenir pins. Fifty bucks says she travels the country in an RV. At the security checkpoint, my pepper spray and camera are no problem, but security puts the proverbial kybosh on my mini audio recorder. I am directed to put it in a locker, but I don't have two quarters and the tour group is almost ready to leave. Now, what would you do? Damn right - I put that tape recorder in my purse and crept back into line, avoiding security. I have no fear of Graceland jail! Anarchy!

My tour group is held up at Graceland's front door by a couple who have just gotten married at the "Little Chapel in the Woods" on the grounds. They snap a few pictures, and my group heads up to the door. I examine the concrete lions on either side of the door while some lady tells us about the building's history and architectural style. The crystal chandelier in the foyer is almost directly beneath where Elvis was sitting when he died, but I'm too distracted by the living room to remember to look up knowingly. A white fifteen-foot sofa leads to a room with mustard yellow (called "Harvest Gold" in the 70s) drapes. There are two matching chairs and a ten-foot coffee table in front of the couch. Ten feet? Of course! Everybody knows that a simple nine-foot coffee table would be gauche when paired with stained glass peacocks and a mirror wall!

The dining room boasts black and faux-gold chairs, turquoise and faux-gold drapes, marble floors, and another crystal chandelier big enough to repay my student loans if pawned. Brace yourself for the repeated use of the phrase faux-gold. You're going to be hearing it a lot. One of the nooks in the dining room holds a statue of Buddha which seems odd even here. Naturally, I snap a picture of it. The kitchen is dark and surprisingly unremarkable. Most likely the peak of technology in the 70s, it just reminds me of my grandmother's kitchen: dark wooden paneling, "Harvest Gold" fridge, boxy television and cheesy stained glass lamps. The tour moves through quickly.

The stairs leading to the TV room are surrounded in mirror. Our guide reminds us to use the handrails while we stare at the mirrored ceiling. How does one follow such a mirrored spectacle? Why, with three televisions, a giant sectional couch, a bar and a big ceramic monkey! Both the ceiling and coffee table are mirrored, presumably to provide continuity with the stairwell. One doesn't want to be tacky, you know. The navy blue, yellow and white décor of the TV room is brought to its height on the wall behind the sofa on which the lightning bolt from Elvis' "Takin' Care of Business" logo is painted.

My theory behind the décor of the Pool Room is that Elvis was hoping to distract his competition. The walls are covered in the same fabric as the sofa: a multi-colored, multi-patterned fabric most likely named "I Threw Up a Quilt Factory." Never being one to ignore a ceiling's décor possibilities, Elvis even had the ceiling done in a starburst pattern of the same fabric. Rumor has it that Elvis had a suit made of the fabric and then slept on the couch in the Pool Room for three days before anyone spotted him. Not really...but it's possible.

One would think that the legendary Jungle Room would pale in comparison, but one would be wrong. The tour guide says that Elvis got the inspiration for the Jungle Room from a trip he took to Hawaii. He liked Hawaii so much that he wanted a room in his house to feel like being there. Naturally, he was inspired to cover the floor and ceiling in olive green shag carpet, upholster the furniture in faux fur, and adorn the room with various ceramic monkeys and wild animal skulls. By this point in the tour, the ceramic monkey count is up to five. The lion statue count stands at four. There has been but one lonely paper mache tiger. This will soon change.

Tiger number two is spotted in the next room, a collection of Elvis artifacts. The tiger was brought down from Elvis' personal dressing room from the upstairs of the house, which is not open to the public. What, you ask, goes with a paper mache tiger, other than ceramic monkeys? A white fur canopy bed. With a mirrored canopy. The next artifacts are from the living room suit that preceded the fifteen foot sofa: an 18th century style red velour and faux-gold couch and chairs, crowned with white ostrich feather pillows. A faux-gold lamp and faux-gold side table also accompany the sofa.

The tour's next stop is the racquetball court/recording studio. The racquetball court has been turned into the Trophy Room, which is wallpapered with various gold and platinum records (an interior decorating job of which Elvis would surely approve). The floor of the room is a display of some of Elvis' many bedazzled white polyester stage costumes, many with matching capes. Tiger number three (the one that prompts me to scrawl "tiger fetish!" in my notes) comes in sequin form, jumping across the chest of one of the suits. Other suits have patterns ranging from the famous "eagle suit" to the lesser known "black sequin bird" and "Incan sun." But let's face it: very little tops a sequin tiger. Very, very little. As I busily snap pictures, a boy behind me asks his mother if Elvis is alive. Though the answer to that probably depends on who you ask, I proceed to the Meditation Garden, which is the end of the tour.

While I stand waiting for a shuttle back to the main tourist area, an employee proudly talks about how "Lisa Marie just visited us about a week and a half ago." This sparks the conversation of the women next to me on the shuttle, which centers around whether or not Lisa Marie is currently married. "Well, she was married to Nicholas Cage for a while, but now he's dating some twenty-year-old," one says. I consider suggesting that Cage only married Lisa Marie so that he, a big Elvis fan, could finally get to see Graceland's second floor, but keep quiet.

Back at tourist central, I'm only half finished with my Day o' Elvis. The "Sincerely, Elvis" exhibit is an unremarkable array of the various things that have been licensed and sold over the past fifty years, with some family items thrown in here and there. I hope for a more entertaining exhibit as I head for the airplanes.

The bigger plane, Lisa Marie, boasts a gold sink (maybe real gold this time), bedroom, meeting room, and living room. Every piece of furniture is covered in plastic, not unlike the house of the aforementioned grandmother. The video taped presentation tells us that Elvis kept a full bar but, since he didn't like the taste of alcohol, kept Gatorade and Diet Dr. Pepper on board for himself. I wonder to myself whether Diet Dr. Pepper tasted more like regular Dr. Pepper even in the 70s. While exiting through the bedroom, I almost lose by balance and fall on the bed. After stopping myself with a mere one hand on the bed, I turn to the couple next to me who have been watching. "You didn't see that, okay?" I say with a wink. They chuckle and then promptly get the hell away from me. They must have already heard about my audio recorder infraction. Stay away! She's poison!

The smaller plane wasn't very newsworthy, but the lime green and lemon yellow interior did justify the short wait in line. It was like being in a very cramped Sprite commercial. The car collection was also pretty standard and had about as many 70s Cadillacs than the average Snoop Dogg video.

So, I survived my Graceland TKO (Total Kitsch Overload). I have lived to tell the tale and have not yet covered my home in olive green shag, but beware citizens: should you visit Graceland, you just may be overtaken by kitsch. I leave you with these cautionary words from Mojo Nixon: "We're all moving towards Elvisness. Soon, all will become Elvis. Everything everywhere will become Elvis. Why do you think they call it evolution, anyway? It's really Elvis-lution!!"

Touch him!
Love him!