Greetings, commune readers. Rok Finger here, typing greetings to you from beautiful Rumney, New Hampshire. Feel free to register your surprise, disgust, or firearms—whichever is appropriate. It's understandable that based on comments made previously in this column by both yours truly and myself, one might have reasonably expected these words to be coming at you from sunny Memphis, Tennessee. And I'm just skylarking about the sunny part. For as my more astute readers may have guessed—I never went to Tennessee at all.

I was saved from such an embarrassing misstep on my first-ever annual pilgrimage to Graceland by resident commune know-it-all Griswald Dreck, who informed me that the Graceland of Elvis Presley toilet overdose fame and the Graceland of Paul Simon dancing with Chevy Chase fame are not, in fact, the same place. Needless to say, this was news to Rokwell T. Finger, much like the fate of Old Yeller. Leave it to Griswald Dreck to puncture two balloons with one needle and a story about a glue factory.

According to Dreck, the Paul Simon album I was so eager to experience in real-life form was in fact originally titled Gracieland, a reference to the New Hampshire shrine built in memory of George Burns' late wife. But thanks to an irreputable typesetter with a financial interest in Elvis memorabilia, Simon's message was forever obfuscated.

Now Rok Finger is no fool, and he, meaning me, unwittingly lines the pockets of no man. Unless that man is running a chain letter scam. Rok Finger may not be a fool, but he's even less a fan of bad luck chain letter voodoo. Scary stuff. But thanks to Griswald Dreck, noble American, some Deep South huckster claimed one fewer victim this week. Dreck was even nice enough to take the then-useless plane ticket to Memphis off my hands for twenty dollars American. And before you could say late purchase ticket surcharge, I was on my way to New Hampshire.

In a word, readers, Gracieland is everything I could have hoped for, and did. There are truly angels in the architecture. And that line about the roly-poly little bat-faced girl? No longer an impenetrable mystery. Suffice it to say that George Burns' late wife was not an Amazonian supermodel. Far be it from Rok Finger to hold that against her, however, especially seeing as I have played the troll under the bridge in over 30 elementary school productions of The Brothers Grimm without need of expensive makeup effects or costuming.

Though I had secretly hoped to view the stuffed cadaver of Chevy Chase on this trip, I leave feeling fully satisfied and, for once in my oft-disappointing life, fully on the "inside" of an juicy morsel of popular culture. I haven't felt this hip since discovering the hidden soft drink advertisement in Donovan's hit song Mellow Yellow back in the 1960's.

And more importantly, as with any good vacation, I was able to completely forget about the outside world for a time. Not literally, mind you, I didn't buy a house or ask to start getting my mail here or anything asinine along those lines. But except for the time spent at the public library typing this column and a few calls home to check on Lee and Camembert that were apparently misrouted to the head trauma ward of a veterinary hospital, the last week has been about nothing but Rok Finger getting in touch with Rok Finger. Some would say that altogether too much Rok Finger-touching went on, and that is a distinct possibility, but the late night programming made available on motel TV was utterly beyond my control.

I return home a wiser Rok Finger, and one who now owns more George & Gracie refrigerator magnets than he knows what to do with. I hope Camembert likes magnets, because I've easily got all his birthdays and Christmases covered for the rest of his natural life.

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