Author: Jenn Hall

I was strolling about the Internet recently (is that we do now — virtually stroll?) and stumbled upon a website, www.wordspy.com, that chronicles the progression of the English language through its acquisition and alteration of words and phrases.

While chewing on such juicy phrases as time-porn, privatopia and belligerati, I began to think about the ways in which the words that we use define the parameters of what may be possible in terms of addressing social issues, be they economic, cultural, or political.

As an example, let’s consider the term “pickade,” which is a linguistic cocktail blending the terms picket and blockade. This weekend, as many of you may know, there was a “Life Chain” that spread from downtown Memphis all the way to Collierville.

As far as I could tell, the gist of the event was for involved parties to stand along the side of the road toting banners that expressed their stance on the pro-choice/ pro-life issue.

Now technically, this would be a picket scenario, not a pickade, as said protesters were not in the street, but standing along its edge. However, I think there could be a case made that this was an ideological pickade.

To be frank, I think that if somebody wants to broadcast their values, then more power to them. Who am I to say that those particularly involved in the aforementioned controversy should not be free to express their take on it? (To say otherwise I would run the risk of becoming a member of the belligerati — or one who uses anger and controversy to make a point.)

That’s not to say that I agree with the methodology, and to be honest I don’t agree with the political statement either. But that’s not the point.

When it comes to a topic as delicate as the abortion issue has grown to be, I often wonder about the effectiveness of a non-interactive model of communication.

Here’s why. In a recent survey completed by Self magazine, published in their October issue, Memphis was given the dubious distinction of being the unhealthiest city in America.

This um, honor, was calculated when Memphis was compared to the 200 metro regions included in their analysis. Wow.

Factors contributing to this ranking include the occurrence of violent crimes and rapes at nearly double the survey’s average, an above average STD rate, and an elevated number of vehicular deaths.

With this taken into account it seems that an effective model of decreasing the perceived need for abortions, whether you think that there should be a choice or not, would be to take an active stance in bettering the community. I am not convinced that picketing is the way to go.

And I’m especially unconvinced that the women effected by said rates of violent crime and rape, who may have become pregnant in the process, need to be subjected to a barrage of signage that would have to make their decision-making process that much more devastating. Sure, this is a hypothetical possibility, but nevertheless, a group that bases their politics on their compassion for the unborn might do well to show the same compassion for the women involved.

The model chosen this weekend seemed more like a “pickade,” then, in terms of the public presentation of an extremely emotional debate in which there is no dialogue with the opposition.

Why not take the time spent creating that signage, and go work in a local community center helping people? Why not take an active stance that speaks louder than a piece of cardboard, and help some of the women involved rather than vilifying them?

Again, I don’t think it’s up to me to decide for people whether they want to be pro-choice or pro-life, but unless people come together to understand the factors that create the problem in the first place, I don’t think something like a Life Chain can be effective model of sparking change.

DID THIS LAW HICCUP?

To drink or not to drink, is that the question?

Starting this week, it may well be–at least if you’re planning to drive in the process.

Tennessee is toughening its stance on repeat DUI offenders statewide. Provisions include a stronger emphasis on treatment programs for drivers convicted two or more times in a five-year period. In addition, a lower limit will be placed on the legal blood-alcohol level as of July 2003.

Though I’m sometimes hesitant when it comes to the implementation of legal measures that run the risk of over-parenting, for lack of a better term, my experience here leads me to believe that this may be more or less necessary.

If you’ve braved the roads on a weekend night, or hell, even on a weekday night, you probably know what I mean. Cars scattering in every direction like they’re in a city street snow-globe that’s been freshly shaken. Utter lack of attention to any sign, traffic light, or moving (or stationary) object.

Where, oh where, has our survival instinct gone?

Ultimately, I would like to be able to refute the new law. I mean, we’re grown-ups, right? We can handle it.

But maybe we can’t.

Perhaps I’m naive and never looked for it before, but I have never in my life encountered a population so blasé about drinking and driving. And when I say that I am referring specifically to drinking AND driving.

At what point in the partying process does this become acceptable?

This may be why the new laws are geared primarily toward repeat offenders. However, this is also the point at which I question a certain aspect of this imminent crackdown.

Apparently a test program is in the works in Shelby County for a new gadget designed to slap the wrists of said offenders before they can even rev their engines, sober or otherwise. Essentially an onboard breathalyzer, this gadget may be installed in the dash of convicted driver’s vehicles, rendering their cars inoperable if a blood-alcohol level greater than .024 is registered.

Here’s the interesting part, though. In addition to the initial reading, these drivers will be subject to additional readings throughout the course of their time operating their vehicles. Sounds like a bit of a distraction to me.

Maybe the intended point is to prevent those with the desire to enjoy Miller time onboard from getting drunk between point A and point B, but I’m not sure this would work. What would prevent the driver from having a passenger take the test instead? Or from ignoring the possible consequences and guzzling down the juice of their choice?

The question that needs to be asked is whether this is perhaps somewhat symbolic.

The justification offered is that this punishment is aimed towards curtailing the “alcoholic” drivers. Not the drunk drivers, mind you. The alcoholics.

You know, lots of people drink and drive in the world, alcoholics or otherwise. Using the term in this way, however, may create a mindset in the driving population that could defeat the entire purpose of the stricter laws.

How many alcoholics that you know run around referring to themselves as such?

Not many, I would guess.

But, if the presentation of this measure includes the use of a term such as alcoholic lightly, it will most likely function to create a false sense of security in the minds of those who don’t categorize themselves as such.

As in, well I wouldn’t drive home tonight, but I’m not an alcoholic so…

Fine. Perhaps I’m being over-analytical about the whole thing. Obviously a society that desires to keep its populace, well, alive needs to address issues such as these. It’s important, though, to frame and discuss it in the right manner.

Otherwise it’ll quickly become another measure that’s ignored until one is on the side of the road in the dancing blue lights.

And that would be the best case scenario.

FESTIVE IS AS FESTIVE DOES

The passing of the Cooper Young festival may well mark the passage from hellfire heat to autumn’s welcome cool down, finally, here in the city.

Held this past Saturday, it was hot enough that we might as well have all been walking on the sun. (You’ve got to love television commercials- arbiters of our pop culture references. Ugh. )

Oh, wait! You probably just got that really annoying song in your head. Sorry about thatÑplease think about something else now.

To be sure, the festival’s offerings were much richer than that which can be encapsulated in a really overplayed theme song. Cooper Young, at least symbolically, represents that vast undercurrent of creativity that is the real river here in Memphis.

And, similarly, the festivities were not limited to the event itself. Throughout the neighborhood eclectic revelers did their thing.

At a block party of sorts around the corner from Java Cabana, I stumbled across part of a set by The Gabe and Amy Show, live from somebody’s front yard.

Most memorable was their rendition of the well worn classic, “Let’s Have a Party,” blasted out Wanda Jackson style. It sort of made me sad that I missed Jackson’s recent performance in, uh, Jackson.

Big kids and little kids could be found dancing in the streets all over the Cooper Young district. (Except where the throng was too thick to allow for motion of any kind whatsoever.) Bodies lined the curbs, clinging to shifting patches of shade and watching the spectacle in motion.

There were people everywhere.

People on roller skates, rocked out hipsters, families, ballroom dancers, lingerie models, musicians, painters, metal workers, potters, and jewelers. Old people. Babies. People in togas. Drunk people. Lots of drunk people, come to think of it.

There’s something about the combination of extreme heat, creativity and beer that brings something out of a person, I guess.

One of my friends spontaneously created a “joke toll” at one point, at which passersby were accosted for humor to gain passage down their friendly public sidewalk.

And the best joke? OK, I’ve got it. What do Santa Claus and three ho’s have in common?

Ho, ho, hoÉ

I know.

A bazaar’s worth of crafts and artistic works were up for grabs from vendors along the streets, ranging in price from the completely affordable to the modest investment.

As for me, I went home with a pair of sunglasses, a Yeigermeister dog tag (for some reason), a paper fan with moons as blades, and the momentum to carry on with the celebrating until dawn on Sunday.

Which, from what I have been told, is exactly what you’re supposed to do.

MAZE EN COURS!

Are you corny?

Are you looking for a good time?

Do you have $7?

If you answered yes to all three of these questions, you won’t be getting an hour with a call girl without spell-check. But you should go check out the Corn Maze nestled behind the Agricenter at the intersection of Walnut Grove and Germantown Road.

The “Maize,” as it’s called, offers up about 3 acres of fun, confusion, and of course, corn. Lots and lots of corn.

Corn stalks as far as the eye can see. A cornucopia of fun, as a friend of mine said. Fun, puns, maize, and a maze. OK, I’ll stop.

Ever since my Funhouse days at the Jersey Shore I’ve always loved getting lost. This here is probably about the safest place in town to do so.

Crafted “Memphis style” in the likeness of Elvis, the attraction is the creation of the world’s largest corn maze company, which boasts at having attracted about 2 million people to their mazes nationwide since 1996. And you thought there were no jobs out there for those offbeat creative types!

The maze runs now through October 31st, and is open from 4 PM to 10 PM Wednesday through Friday, from 10 to 10 on Saturday, and from 1 PM to 8 PM on Sunday.

But really, you should try to go at night, because you will get lost. And getting lost when the sun is bearing down like a tyrant probably isn’t quite as enjoyable. Besides, it’s spookier that way.

Ever arrogant, I feared that I, divine navigator, would find my way through the twisting stalks in no time and feel cheated out of my $7. Two hours later I felt much better about the whole thing.

Plus, being lost in the symbolic likeness of the King, you can play the guess where I am in Elvis game. As you round a turn, are you in his left sideburn? Or is it his puckered lower lip? His well-oiled pompadour? Oh, the possibilities are endless.

I’m not entirely sure which part of Mr. Presley serves as the exit, but we don’t really need to think about that.

There are some rules now, prohibiting things like smoking or running through the maze with a machete. But, I’d say that’s fair. Flashlights are allowed if you brave the paths during the evening hours, but I’d say leave them at home. If, for some reason, you just can’t find your way out of the damn thing (sort of like how I felt once when driving across Iowa) there are heroic yellow-clad “Corn Cops” on hand who will come to the rescue.

But you do get some hints along the way. Ten of them to be exact, in the form of multiple-choice questions that will point you right or left depending upon whether you get them right. I mean correct. But I’m not going to spoil the fun and give you the answers.

Good luck!

IT’S THEM MEMPHIS VIBES

Code orange. Ozone. Still–creepily still–air, and gravity that grabs you by the ankles and sucks you toward the ground like a pair of strong invisible hands.

It seems that after a summer of ornery storms and temperature vacillations, the atmosphere in Memphis decided upon a little Labor Day celebration of its own.

This here is some porch sittin’ weather. Unless, of course, age or infirmity makes it a good time to stay inside.

There’s a mythological element to the porch, something uniquely Southern, though porches can obviously be found anywhere.

The related stereotype that we’ve all heard has to do with pace. But though the old refrain that stereotypes are based upon some sort of reality (or created by “reality” on TV, nowadays) this doesn’t mean that the resulting label gets it right.

The ability to slow things down, to take in the world rather than constantly engage it, is an asset. It’s an especially valuable one, too, in this the age of the handheld PDA, video-gaming, Internet accessible, video and picture-capturing (global positioning) cell-phone that can organize and facilitate one’s life in three seconds flat.

But is that really so? Does one really need, or want for that matter, EVERYTHING in the palm of their hand?

Memphis, in particular, has a strangely social culture for a largish American City. There are literally a thousand things to do here, though 95% of said things are hidden treasures of a kind–diamonds in the rough, as cliché rears its ugly head once again.

And when you get home from whatever choice you’ve made from amongst the myriad, its nice to be able to reclaim and redefine the “things are slower in the South” concept.

Take this weekend for example, which started with the 6-hour extravaganza on the new bridge involving a dagger-toting crack head with a reported taste for child pornography, and the undivided attention of local news media as he threatened to hurl himself into the Mississippi River. In spite of the things that surfaced about the man after the fact, it was exhausting to watch the spectacle, though I suspect more so for anyone unlucky enough to have been dealing with the resulting traffic.

My journey then led me to Beale Street, where I took in a mere few of the one-hundred or so musical offerings for the weekend. And ran around. And ran around. And ran around.

And after the running shoes came off, how nice to sit and watch a day go by from the front porch. No cell phone. No televised life and death drama. Just Memphis. Atmosphere.

I guess I could whip out the old dictionary here to qualify atmosphere, but who really wants to move?

Besides, the atmosphere itself is complex, this being Memphis. And it makes you realize that even without craziness on the news, or craziness around town, or craziness as you navigate the 17,000 options on your new cell-toy, a “slowed” pace does not make the things encountered any less dense.

There seem to be vibrations here–be they healing OHM’s or jarring shudders. And this weekend, with the air stilled, they seemed to be swirling around us.

People out on the porch, watching other people. Watching a sky that watched back through its code orange haze. Listening to the trains roll by, some faster than others. Listening to the sirens, the music, the cicadas screaming.

Maybe as a culture, we’ve lost track of the art of simple observation. But sitting on the porch, it can be reclaimed, stereotypes of lethargy be damned.

IN MORE THAN ONE SENSE, A BOMB

Well I was wandering the streets Monday night searching for something to entertain you fine folks with and I found it.

Sort of.

Except it wasn’t entertaining, and was a bit scary.

Apparently, sometime in the 8 o’clock hour last night somebody took it upon themselves to call in a bomb threat to the Kinko’s and Blockbuster franchises on Union Avenue in Midtown.

In light of our current socio-political atmosphere, and the recent explosion on Cooper, it was a touch on the chilling/surreal side to meander through.

I’ve spoken a lot about the randomness of the moments that can be encountered on a sojourn through our city. Strange people. Aberrant behavior. But bomb threats? No. Not acceptable.

I remember when I was a kid, in elementary school, it seems as if the throng of youngsters of which I was a part spent an undue amount of time at recess, thanks to someone who enjoyed making prank phone calls. Last night was the first time since then that I resurrected feelings from that period.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I was on my way to the airport last fall during the hour when the first strikes against Afghanistan took place. Instead of benign radio Muzak, I listened to a newscast warning that the airports might go into lockdown. That too, was scary.

Anyhow, as I headed East on Union last night, it was difficult not to notice the fifteen or so squad cars blocking off every entrance to Cat’s/Kinko’s. Ever the curious kitten, I decided to stop at Blockbuster to see if I could find out what was up.

When I walked in, the workers filled me in. A bomb threat. But they reassured me that the dogs had already been through their store so I was free to search for the video that I wasn’t looking for in the first place. I jokingly quipped “OK, well, bye.”

A video store has never felt so ominous. I made a quick circle through the aisles just because. Maybe that makes me an ambulance chaserÉI’m sure my Mom would be mad.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned police officers had the entirety of the complex across the street blocked off, so I was unable to go speak to the people from Kinko’s or Cat’s, who were all sitting out on the sidewalk. A gentleman who was in the process of asking me for money, however, indicated that this wasn’t a first. I haven’t the vaguest idea if that’s true or not.

I’m not certain about the exact nature of the threat, but the authorities were pulling over and searching trucks and vans that passed by. I watched as a FedEx truck was motioned over to the parking lot, and his load was inspected.

If nothing else, I am heartened to see the response on the part of those hired handle such things. Driving past Kinko’s I heard one of their employees intoning the same thought.

Now of course, things like this happen everywhere. And 99% of such threats are really a half-assed attempt of some wayward individual to entertain themselves.

But, really, it’s just not funny.

WHAT’S IN IT FOR ME?

I’ve come to the conclusion that if somebody comes up to me asking for money, and they’re willing to do something for it, I really don’t mind.

I don’t mean something weird either. Just something. Anything. A justification for the transfer of funds from one pocket to another.

For instance, several years ago I was sitting in Washington Square Park in New York, pretty much wasting time. Lolling about. Watching the freaky people do their thing.

Out of nowhere this old guy gets this stand-up act going, and suddenly hundreds of people were laughing themselves off their respective benches. Freshly returned from Jamaica, my hair was in a thousand tiny braids (I know, I’m such a poseur) and when the man’s eyes met mine I knew I had it coming.

As the crowd giggled and guffawed he dubbed me “White Rasta,” which in my opinion was funny as hell, and justified the couple of dollars I tossed in his bucket.

The irony, of course, is that he probably made several hundred dollars a week to my, well, not much. But the point is, he didn’t come up to me with some obviously false story.

He entertained me, and thus earned my “donation” as opposed to scamming it.

And these things come back to you in some form or another.

Another example that comes to mind involves a poet from Orlando named Mark Bennett.

Walking down the street in New Brunswick, this man popped up in front of me and began reciting some amazing poetry. The hook was that he was selling books to get across country, and wondered if I can help.

I’m always a skeptic. Always. But for whatever reason I ended up buying this guy a sandwich, as well as one of his books, and proceeded to drive him halfway across New Jersey, though I thought it against my better judgment.

Of course I’m still here, so obviously nothing horrible happened.

The strange thing is that a few years later, when I had relocated to Orlando, we crossed paths again. I sauntered into a coffee house called Java Jabbers one evening, and lo and behold there was Mark reciting what may have been one of the best spoken word pieces I had ever heard.

And I felt good that I bought his “story.” I didn’t feel cheated, and he remembered me and asked why I hadn’t met him in Philly all those years ago, as he’d offered to find me a ticket to a show in Philly the day I dropped him off at the rest stop.

I don’t know what ever happened to him after that, but hopefully he’s somewhere rocking on with his spoken word self.

And then I moved to Memphis.

To be truthful, I don’t think I’ve ever been approached for money as often as I have here. In the car. On the street. On line at a fast food restaurant. It’s relentless.

One man recently, upon my rejecting his offer of some Elvis postcards, took it upon himself to rub his sweaty arm all over me, and made some comments I won’t repeat here. Or propositions rather. Yuck.

But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t occasional souls who I find myself wanting to help out. Of course this is subjective, as there’s no way to tell whether someone’s story is complete fiction. I guess the point is whether someone makes me believe them, and does something to back it up.

On Beale this weekend, I found myself approached by yet another “lost poet.” His angle was that he was working to get a bus ticket to New York, where all of his poetry dreams might come true, and he could perform at some open mic of significance. His tag for me was, come on guess, “the skeptic.”

“Do you want something light or dark,” he asked, boasting a catalog of 160 poems all stored in his head. “Light,” I answered, “I’m not in the mood for darkness.”

And then he busted out his rhyme, which wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t my kind of poem per se, but hey.

So I gave him a few bucks.

Now some of you may be rolling your eyes at this point. In fact, I’m rolling my eyes at myself to an extent (which makes it really hard to write) but the way this guy drew me in was by offering me something in return for my “donation.”

I guess I respond better to starving art than guilt trips and blatant falsities.

Besides, it’s good karma.

So if you see me wandering around, and you want my money, don’t tell me that your invisible car needs gas, or that you’ve got really great post cards of Elvis.

Just recite me a poem. I’m a sucker for it.

Did you ever think about how awful it would be to show up at the Elvis impersonator contest only to find another Elvis in the same sequined jumpsuit?

Me neither–at least not until this week when I found myself surrounded by a literal sea of Aloha Elvi.

Now if, for whatever reason, the prospect of such a scenario appeals to you in any perverse manner, then there’s someplace you need to go this week.

Just about every Elvo-type conceivable can be found in one ballroom at the 16th annual Images of the King impersonator contest, which runs every night this week at the Holiday Inn on Democrat.

And yes, there is a bar.

The adage that Moms have uttered since Mr. Presley was in diapers runs that imitation is–you know this–the highest form of flattery.

Mathematically, of course, that would also mean that it could sometimes be the lowest.

And herein lies the crux of this hip-swaggering, lip-snarling festival of polyester. Who, oh who, will be this year’s image of the King?

When it comes to Elvis impersonators, I guess there’s power in numbers. Tuesday night offered about 20 amalgamations on the theme of King Presley.

I’m talking a Prepubelvis who must have been all of 12 years old. About five 68’ Comeback Elvi. An Elvess–or Elvys for the feminists in the crowd– who frightened me quite intensely. A sweaty scarf throwing Elvis. A Latin Elvis. A Black Elvis. The aforementioned gaggle of Aloha Elvi. There was even a Grandma Elvis.

But my personal favorite was definitely the Bedazzlelvis.

He, my friends, would be the contestant covered from head-to-toe in true rhinestone glory, and the walking dream of anyone who ever lusted after the Bedazzler, faux gem attaching marvel of the Eighties.

Contestants are judged in the categories of vocals, stage presence, appearance, authentic movements and finally, connection with the audience.

In the house to show the wannabee wannabee’s how it’s done was Irv Cass, World Champion Elvis from 1999.

He scared me a little. It wasn’t so much the performance, which was pretty dead-on in a Seventies Elvis kind of way. It was the crowd.

Ok, fine, I’ll admit it. The crowd scared me, not the Elvis.

As Mr. Cass commenced with the swaggering of his Aloha hips, women all over the room were literally bouncing out of their seats in a fervor for the man who would be King. Sweaty scarves were draped around their craning necks. Kisses were thrown all over the place.

But the real gem of the evening was when a woman came up to wipe the sweat from his brow, and then proceeded to place it gingerly in her pocket.

Go ahead, picture it.

Creepy, eh?

The price of entry at the event is a bit steep, at $15 through Thursday, and $25 for the finals on Friday and Saturday. But if you’ve got the problem with curiosity that I have, it might be worth it.

And like I said, there is a bar.

GETTING WITH ELVIS

Well, the onslaught is about to begin. Sequined jumpsuits as far as the eyes can see. Sideburns framing every otherwise shaven mug. Flash photography, a sea of candles, tears, obsession, and the memory (or recycled memory for those of us who came on the scene a little late) of one very special pelvis.

Elvis week is upon us once again.

It’s funny, in a way. In a modern world where the careful manipulation of the captured image of a pelvis or any other body part that might be deemed erotic is the cornerstone of commerce, it’s almost hard to imagine that the close-up on those hips (hips that swiveled to be sure) was deemed shocking, obscene.

Imagine what would have happened if there was a blip in the time-space continuum and a sequence from Son of the Beach or VIP crashed across the consciousness of the 1950’s. Oh Pam, you harlot!

Anyhow, I’ve decided that this year, I am going to be excited about Elvis week.

Thus far I’ve carried a bit of a grudge, as one of Mr. Presley’s, uh, torch bearers trampled upon me when I first arrived in this fine city.

I believe I’ve mentioned this before, and it probably doesn’t deserve much attention. In short–crappy independent film plus monk from the Far East plus Elvis impersonator to destroy said monk’s meditative artwork plus a fast watch on said Elvis’ wrist, equals an impersonator that arrives and leaves before his wildly expensive rental period expires, thus marring forever what was shaping up to be a forgettable experience, and even more forgettable film, anyhow.

The whole thing was like a bad outtake from the movie Mystery Train. I still cry every once and again.

OK, no I don’t. Not even a little bit.

It’s strange, though, as a trail of Elvis clues led me to this city in the first place. Is there something to the myth that all paths lead to Memphis?

Or maybe it’s that a clear path leads some people to Memphis.

For me, it started with a soap dish.

A really, really, tacky Elvis-in-leather kind of soap dish, which looked very suspect when covered in a layer of white residue. But you probably don’t want to hear about that.

With this innocuous little purchase my twisted path was set into motion.

The acquisition of my rock-god-in-leather bathroom accessory was soon followed with the highly significant coincidence that the only postcard that a friend sent to me from a sojourn across the US was of, you guessed it, our King in polyester himself.

Are you following me? (Have patience, I’ll get you there in a moment if you aren’t)

The next occurrence involved a roadside Floridian psychic in downtown Orlando. After putting my name and birth date into the supernatural calculator that provides all of the answers for those of us wayward enough to toss it $5, she informed me that I was in numerological alignment with.. oh yes, EP!

We’re elevens, which means we’re of the disposition that is placed on Earth to save humankind. (That’s what she told me, at least, and I’m sticking to it.)

Shortly after this very important revelation, Memphis swallowed my two best friends in the world. This ultimately sealed the seduction of this river city, and here I am.

But what about the Elvis-shaped bread crumbs? The path of the King?

The real power of a lasting cultural icon in the modern era is in their power to create significance for people. People need images, attachments.

If I was a huge self-proclaimed Elvis aficionado (I’d say I’m a casual fan at best) the above anecdotal “evidence” would loom very significant on my personal horizon.

You’ve heard it before. Elvis saved me. Elvis set me free. Elvis lent me $5 at the gas station just last week. Momentum is always spurred by meaning, or rather perceived meaning. This is how a phenomenon like Elvis happens in the first place.

So, for the 75,000 or so fans expected to converge here in the next week or so, there’s probably a clear path that has led them here, at least in their own microcosms.

Maybe others are spurred on by Shakespeare, or Picasso. Some might find their lives permanently altered by Regis, who knows? But the power of Elvis in the personal lives of the group that will be here next week has been strong enough to set them on the path to Memphis.

And if nothing else, if he isn’t really the reason that I came here at all, Elvis has given me something to do for the next week or so.

Thanks, Mr. Eleven.