Lost Vegas

After a voyage that took me to nearly every state in the union, and some I'm still not convinced are legally in, I found my Elvis medicine.

First a long trip to New Hampshire, only to realize the Elvis Graceland is in Memphis, so I headed down that way. I'm sure there was plenty of pharmaceuticals on hand in that huge facility, but the tour guides give you the most morbid look when you ask if you can go through the medicine cabinet. I'm sure the King looks down disapprovingly from his cloud, but he's powerless to help me now.

And that's when I thought of it—Elvis helpers! I've seen them everywhere. Like Santa Claus, they are plentiful and pose as the man himself while going around, doing his bidding, like non-denominational disciples. And like Elvis, of course, Santa Claus also died in a mansion in the 1970s, but his work continues through those noble men. All I had to do was meet up with a faithful Elvis impersonator and I would receive the medicine I so needed! Though actually, the flu that inspired this long trek disappeared somewhere between Ohio and Kentucky, but I was already in motion, no fun to stop the journey.

All I can guess is it must be the off-season, since the Elvis helpers were nowhere in sight. I tried the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the original Sun Studios, and every Hard Rock Café in the nation. I camped out for days in front of Nicolas Cage's house, knowing well his fetish for everything Elvis, but none ever showed up. The police officer who escorted me away had a pretty good sneer, but he was sneering for a different reason. That's when it occurred to me—Las Vegas! The Windy Apple! The City of Broken Lights! The Gamblingest Place on Earth!

I had a contact in Vegas, too, through a friend named MC Vic Daniels, whom I met through the commune. He once wrote a Rent for us, so I knew he was poor and had a poor interpretation of reality, and hopefully those factors would help me find a reliable Elvis who could help. I saw his show, and even though I'm not much on rap, I certainly enjoyed a lot of it, and indeed his shoes were worth remarking on. We shared a dinner afterwards, and it turns out he knows the best of the best Elvis impersonators. Which is good, since I wanted a sincere Elvis imitator, and not some loser just pretending to be Elvis.

I found the best indeed—Loretta "Elvis" Costello, a female Elvis impersonator who couldn't look more like Elvis if her mother had been the King. Not a female impersonator, but a female who impersonates—she has trouble with those adjectives all the time. She was kind, informative, and could belt out "In the Ghetto" so well as to bring a tear to your eye. Quick to help, too, as she carried her own duffel bag loaded from top to bottom with the finest prescription drugs you could ever find—Elvis' own, no doubt. She set me up for everything I need, and took no money in return. Why, you may ask? You cynical shit. Some people just carry the spirit of the good King with them, and exhibit it in everything they do. In fact, I want to live the same way from now on. I thanked Girl Elvis and invited her to drop in any time she was in the neighborhood, and I would be glad to repay the favor.

She said she was going to be coming to Atlantic City next week and needed a place to stay, so she would be happy to take me up on the offer. Didn't know what time she would arrive, whenever her friend Merle dropped her off, and didn't know how long she would be staying, since the show may get extended. Yes, I truly am a stupid man.

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