seven consecutive girlfriends have lined me up next to
"El" (as one ex so eloquently named him), I
have decided there is no escaping this dangerous comparison.
Each of the past three girls left me when I did my best
rendition of "Jailhouse Rock" under the bright
lights of karaoke. Needless to say, I will try a different
tune next time, and will probably drink fewer shots of
tequila, which always carry me through episodes of public
singing with ample confidence despite disparaging laughter.
When I assess myself in the mirror, my rhinestone white
suit shines under the mirror ball in my bathroom, but
I just dont look the same as the man who can be
seen on refrigerator magnets all over the country.
even went to Graceland, and knelt down in front of his
tombstone after laying down a dozen roses and asked for
guidance. There were several of us, boyfriends with similar
problems. We winked at each other in a union of commonality,
and equally waited for the compass of The King to point
us toward true love, apart from his legacy. After several
minutes of calm meditation, despite the increasing number
of tourists poking at me with their umbrellas, I heard
him speak to me. He said, "Dont worry about
a thing man, youll be somebodys Elvis one
I opened my eyes, wet from
rain mixed with tears of joy, and thanked him. Boarding
the train after three hours in the Safari Room (in which
I practiced my dance moves with all the inspiration the
room and my flask filled with vodka could provide), I
felt a rush of confidence in the notion that some young
lady would one day scream for me with equal resonance
as a nation of women cry out for The King.
visit to Graceland was four years ago, and I am beginning
to lose faith that such a woman exists. Several trips
to state fairs in Texas, Iowa, and Illinois, each with
a different girl on my arm, only resulted in her running
off with the Elvis impersonator. (Yes, the same one.)
The third time it happened, the guy (who didnt look,
sound, or dance half as well as El) looked back and said,
"Thanks pal, see you in South Dakota next week."
He didnt even say, "Thank you, thank you very
became a regular in karaoke bars in my small town, but
only built a reputation as the man who cries during Elvis
songs. I tried to break away from any scene that might
cater to women who would adore my life time nemesis, but
antique boutiques, shopping malls, sporting events, concerts,
skating rinks, tropical resorts, discos, athletic clubs,
city parks, political events
no matter where I turn
I am met with a new and exciting woman who says the same
thing within the first hour of conversation, "Oh,
I love Elvis. He is super sexy."
so, Im starting to accept the idea that women can
love Elvis and me at the same time. Im starting
to accept the notion that a symbiotic threesome including
a man, a woman, and a dead pop-singing film-dancing superstar
can work. Im learning that I dont have to
be like Elvis to be attractive, and that I probably should
not try to copy him because such efforts only lead to
immediate humiliation, no matter how much I practice.
Im beginning to believe that a woman might actually
appreciate a man who can accept this shared relationship
with an icon who has been dead for decades. Most important,
Im starting to accept the fact that I too, am in
love with Elvis.