[stylist] humor essay prompt response

[Barbara Hammel]

Chris, I never quite know what to say about your pieces because they are 
always good.  I always love your descriptions of places and people.
I saw one misspelled word and that was conspiratorially.
I'm still pondering this prompt because satire is not something I'm good at.
I might have a few old poems that may fit but giving a new one a try first.
Keep up the good work, yourself.
Barbara




Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. -- Carl Sandburg
-----Original Message----- 
From: Chris Kuell
Sent: Friday, March 30, 2012 9:09 AM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] humor essay prompt response





Goin' to Graceland



By Chris Kuell



In late summer 1996, I was blind in one eye and losing ground fast in the 
other. I'd been a relatively healthy diabetic for the past twenty-five 
years, but the Mountain Dews and Ring Dings were taking their toll. With 
Blindzilla breathing down my neck, I needed a miracle. It arrived when my 
boss sent me on a business trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee.



It is written that Jesus lived in a state of grace in a middle-eastern land. 
As I picked up the phone to make travel arrangements, it occurred to me that 
Elvis lived in Graceland in a Middle Eastern state. Coincidence, or the 
divine hand of Yahweh?



Memphis was a mere 283 miles from Chattanooga. Before I knew it, my alarm 
went off at the Fairview Motor Lodge and I was going to Graceland.



The parking lot was already buzzing when I arrived at seven a.m. License 
plates ranged from Florida to California and Quebec. Blue-haired women in 
their Sunday dresses chatted like little school girls about how gorgeous 
Elvis was in Kid Galahad. I followed the other homage payers and purchased 
my ticket.



Naturally, Graceland was set up for maximum profitability. Visitors must 
park across the street and wait for a tour bus to take twenty seekers at a 
time. Meanwhile, I visited the memorabilia shop, saw Elvis's collection of 
cars and airplanes, and ate a peanut butter and banana sandwich at Elvis' 
diner.



Once through those uniquely musical iron gates, I was enamored with the 
gaudy beauty of Graceland. To those who appreciated the seventies, the 
interior is heaven. Brilliant and opulent, it reeks of expensive tack. The 
billiard room's ceiling and walls drip with a single cardinal colored 
tapestry. Elaborate animal carvings embellish the arms of chairs in the 
Jungle room. A hallway of blue suede features hundreds of platinum and gold 
records. The magnificent Silver Phoenix Jumpsuit from his 1968 Comeback Tour 
is displayed in a glass case.



At one point, I hung back from my group to get a word with a guard who 
sported a diamond stud earring.

"Listen," I said conspiriatorilly. "I need to see that most sacred of 
grounds. I need to sit on the toilet where Elvis died. I'll give you twenty 
bucks to take my picture."



A glint of white showed in the corners of his mouth, but he shook his head 
and asked me to move along.



"Forty bucks? A hundred bucks," I pleaded. "I won't tell a soul." He took my 
shoulder and guided me out to Elvis's grave and meditation garden.



I elbowed my way past a French speaking woman with mascara dripping down her 
face like butter off a baguette, and knelt before the remains of the King.

Elvis, you were a good man, always generous to your friends. You don't know 
me, but I'd sure appreciate your putting in a good word on my behalf with 
that big Cadillac dealer in the sky.



As I headed to the airport, my suitcase full of Elvis dog-tags, a Graceland 
Viewfinder, Love Me Tender Shampoo and a Burning Love 45, I reflected on 
something the King once said.



"I believe the key to happiness is someone to love, something to do, and 
something to look forward to."



No miracle, but wise words from a King who also paid dearly for his love of 
deep-fried Twinkies.


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