When I was a teen I got ALL SHOOK UP over Elvis
You would all know by now that I can be a little obsessive… A friend introducing me to the song All Shook Up was all I needed to launch headfirst into a love affair with Elvis Presley.
Since then, I’ve owned every piece of Elvis memorabilia and merchandise you can think of—and then some. I currently have an Elvis fobwatch, doll, keychain, sunglasses, umbrella and beach towel. Oh—and magnets, shot glasses, mugs and posters.
But who cares? No big deal. I want mooooooore!
I’ve owned every song he every recorded (my fav is a toss-up between If I Can Dream and That’s Alright Mama). I’ve watched every movie he’s ever been in (nothing competes with his first movie—Love Me Tender. His character dies in the end and reports are that his mother was inconsolable at the movie premiere. So SWEET!).
I’ve visited his house—Graceland—in Memphis, Tennessee (and have written my name on the front wall, alongside THOUSANDS of others). I’ve stayed in the Heartbreak Hotel across the road from Graceland. I’ve sung into the very microphone he sung into at Sun Studio in Memphis. I’ve seen the house he stayed in during his army posting in Bad Nauheim, Germany. And I’ve been to the Elvis Festival in Parkes, New South Wales, Australia.
I even subscribed to the conspiracy theories around his death, firmly believing for many years it was faked (I’ve finally accepted reality). I must say there were some compelling arguments, including his middle name being misspelled on his tombstone (his middle name was Aron, not Aaron, in reference to his stillborn twin, Jesse Garon).
My spidey-senses are tingling…
My relationship with Elvis may not have worked out for many reasons—not least, him passing away six years before my birth—but I’d like to think it led me to my true love. Before I fell in love with Elvis, I was all about the blonde boys—being a bit of a beach bum. My husband’s more Elvis than Thor though—with almost-black hair. In fact, he’s the most Elvis-like of any REAL boy I’ve liked (now loved). The irony of it all? Elvis was actually blonde. His hair was a dye-job.
Which leaves me wondering: does that make my husband more Elvis than Elvis?
On Sundays, I let myself get all dewy-eyed, particularly about my teen years, which weren’t that long ago, thank you very much! Join me for a wander down memory lane and read all of my sentimental posts here. Just watch out for the puddles caused by my tears of angst.
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