Presley Quotes

When things go wrong, don't go with them.

Animals don't hate, and we're supposed to be better than them.

Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't going away.

Sad thing is, you can still love someone and be wrong for them.

Do something worth remembering.

This is Graceland. Home of the most famous musician in the world.” “Michael Jackson lived here?” “No, dummy,” Carter said. “Elvis Presley.

Values are like fingerprints. Nobody's are the same, but you leave 'em all over everything you do

Don’t criticize what you don’t understand, son. You never walked in that man’s shoes.

When things go bad, don't go with them.

Atheism is not a philosophy; it is not even a view of the world; it is simply an admission of the obvious. In fact, 'atheism' is a term that should not even exist. No one needs to identify himself as a 'non-astrologer' or a 'non-alchemist.' We do not have words for people who doubt that Elvis is still alive or that aliens have traversed the galaxy only to molest ranchers and cattle. Atheism is nothing more than the noises reasonable people make in the presence of unjustified religious beliefs.

If you let your head get too big, it'll break your neck.

Ambition is a dream with a V8 engine

The image is one thing and the human being is another. It's very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.

THANK YA THANK YA VERY MUCH

Some people tap their feet, some people snap their fingers, and some people sway back and forth. I just sorta do 'em all together, I guess.

To judge a man by his weakest link or deed is like judging the power of the ocean by one wave.

I'd rather go on hearing your lies, than to go on living without you.

Your kisses lift me higher...like the sweet song of a choir. You light my morning sky, with burning love.

Fingerprints are like values--you leave them all over everything you do

Especially with four insanely angry, sword-carrying pirates bearing down on you, followed closely by an alien with a genetic malfunction that posed like Elvis Presley and looked slightly like a cross between a koala and a cuddly dog.

I don't know anything about music. In my line you don't have to.

Woss the matter with you?” asked Big Ted, irritably. “Go on. Press ‘D.’ Elvis Presley died in 1976.” I DON’T CARE WHAT IT SAYS, said the tall biker in the helmet, I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.

If a woman is given only a limited amount of time to spend with the man she loves, she endures the separation by constantly recalling and reliving every moment down to the finest detail.

I've come too far, and I don't know how to get back.

Until we meet again, may God bless you as he has blessed me.

Animals don't hate, and we're supposed to be smarter than them.

People think you’re crazy if you talk about things they don’t understand.

Charles Simic, when asked what he thought of Slam Poetry events: "They are fun, but they have as much to do with poetry as Elvis Presley had to do with Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk".

Ambition is a dream with a V8 engine. Ain't nowhere else in the world where you can go from driving a truck to cadillac overnight

Could it be that God was an extra-terrestrial? What do we mean when we say that heaven is in the clouds? From Jesus Christ to Elvis Presley, every culture tells us of high-flying bird men who zoom around the world creating magnificent works of art and choosing willing followers to share in the eternal glory from beyond the stars. Can all these related phenomena merely be dismissed as coincidence?

Maybe I didn't treat you Quite as good as I should have Maybe I didn't love you Quite as often as I could have Little things I should have said and done I just never took the time You were always on my mind You were always on my mind

Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t going away.

For a moment she could have sworn she was standing in one of those history-comes-alive museums--the kind that feature animatronic robots, the narration stylings of James Earl Jones, and the sort of exhibits that invade children's nightmares for years to come. But instead of a cyborgish John Wilkes Booth discharging his deadly bullet into the back of a plastic Lincoln's head, a very real version of the assassin was engaged in a furious arm-wrestling match with Elvis Presley. Lincoln was watching the tussle, amused. "Come on, John," he said. "You can do better than that." "He's all talk," Elvis whispered back. "Silence!" roared Booth. "I'm trying to concentrate!" Lincoln rolled his eyes.

Where could I go but to the Lord?

Don't criticize that man unless you have walked in his shoes.

Man, I really like Vegas.

It's not how much you have that makes people look up to you, it's who you are.

I don't do any vulgar movements.

CHILD: “Why does carrot cake have the best icing?” MOTHER: “Because it needs the best icing.” Quantum Nonlocality and the Death of Elvis Presley You may remember

Be ye innocent as doves yet wise as serphants" new testament quoted by Elvis Presley and applied to karate

You know my daughter, Presley?” He nods. “Sure. Cute kid, hot mom. Unfortunate name.

Many of the most accomplished people of our era were considered by experts to have no future. Jackson Pollock, Marcel Proust, Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, Lucille Ball, and Charles Darwin were all thought to have little potential for their chosen fields.

A typical National World Weekly would tell the world how Jesus' face was seen on a Big Mac bun bought by someone from Des Moines, with an artist's impression of the bun; how Elvis Presley was recently sighted working in a Burger Lord in Des Moines; how listening to Elvis records cured a Des Moines housewife's cancer; how the spate of werewolves infesting the Midwest are the offspring of noble pioneer women raped by Bigfoot; and that Elvis was taken by Space Aliens in 1976 because he was too good for this world. Remarkably, one of these stories is indeed true.

And I like Strauss and Mozart and all that, but the priceless gift that African Americans gave the world when they were still in slavery was a gift so great that it is now almost the only reason many foreigners still like us at least a little bit. That specific remedy for the worldwide epidemic of depression is a gift called the blues. All pop music today-jazz, swing, be-bop, Elvis Presley, the Beatles, the Stones, rock and roll, hip hop and on and on- is derived from the blues.

The sun's down and the moon's pretty - it's time to ramble.

When things go wrong don't go with them.

People think you're crazy if you talk about things they don't understand.

we can't build our dreams, on suspicious minds

I was like Elvis "The Pelvis" Presley on Ed Sullivan, I tells ya, punished for the crime of being sexy. (him on the telly , me in a dingy alley... any analogy will break down under scrutiny.)

TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS...guess Elvis use to say it alot and had necklaces made with initials TCB

Wise men say, only fools rush in. But I can't help, falling in love with you.

When making his music, he [Elvis Presley] had been the essence of cool, but in his movies he was often a self-parody embarrassing to watch. Colonel Parker, his manager, who had picked movie scrips for him, had served Elvis less well than the monk Rasputin had served Czar Nicholas and Alexandra.

I remember the revelation it was to me when I realized I'd rather be smart in the way Elvis Presley was than in the way, say, Ludwig Wittgenstein was. The thing was, you could imagine you could be smart like Wittgenstein by just thinking hard enough, but Elvis just had it. It was almost spiritual. A kind of grace.

If life were fair, Elvis would still be alive and all the impersonators would be dead.

And if I was Lisa Marie Presley and I'd told you I was going to marry Michael Jackson because I liked the shape of his nose, or rather, noses, and he's just a sweet boy who loves children, I mean really loves children, and his dramatic change in appearance was undoubtedly a result of a genuine bona fide skin disease, would you have said anything?

Take my hand, take my whole life, too.

Every time Elvis sings, he makes a bargain with the devil -- just like Captain Ahab in MOBY DICK!

Constipation ran Presley's life. Even his famous motto TCB— 'Taking Care of Business'— sounds like a reference to bathroom matters.

Elvis Presley once said that I don’t know anything about the music. It is because he is the music itself! The nightingales don’t know anything about the music!

That's why I've kept you out of reach. It's like putting something you love away from everything so its beauty won't be tarnished. I want to be with you more, and them less. I want my life to change.

What drove us crazy wasn't necessarily the sexual freedom his critic claimed he was unleashing, but freedom, period. Freedom to be yourself, to express yourself, to wear what you wanted to wear, to look the way you wanted to look, to have your own style, your own talk.

I’m steamroller baby, I’m ‘bout to roll over you”.

In the convent, y'all, I tend the gardens, watch things grow, pray for the immortal soul of rock 'n' roll. They call me Sister Presley here, The Reverend Mother digs the way I move my hips just like my brother. Gregorian chant drifts out across the herbs Pascha nostrum immolatus est... I wear a simple habit, darkish hues, a wimple with a novice-sewn lace band, a rosary, a chain of keys, a pair of good and sturdy blue suede shoes. I think of it as Graceland here, a land of grace. It puts my trademark slow lopsided smile back on my face. Lawdy. I'm alive and well. Long time since I walked down Lonely Street towards Heartbreak Hotel. - Elvis's Twin Sister

ELVIS & MARILYN: The deader they get - the more money they make.

Elvis Presley is still showing up in 7-11 stores across the country, even though he’s been dead for years, so I figure music just might be the most important thing there is.

I’ve never stopped loving her. I knew I never had, but now there’s no way I can deny it. I’ve moved on in some ways, but Presley . . . she’s everything.

And if there's any hope for America, it lies in a revolution, and if there's any hope for a revolution in America, it lies in getting Elvis Presley to become Che Guevara.

No one likes to be typecast or stereotyped, especially actors. But who would know Esther Williams without a swimming pool, Bela Lugosi without a cape, or Elvis Presley without his guitar. Would we even care?

The countdown is finally over and in a few short days I will have the love of my life standing in front of me. I’m terrified to look into his eyes. The last time I saw them they were bloodshot and broken. Broken because of me. Will he ever be able to mend all of his broken pieces? Will he need to be without me in order for his broken pieces to heal? I’m scared to find out, but I desperately need to know." ~Presley Quinn

When you came back, I knew. I knew that I could never look at another woman like I do you. Every time I close my eyes, I see you. I’ve always seen you, Presley.” … “Even if you tell me you don’t feel the same. Even if I walk away tonight knowing there’s not a chance in hell of us ever being something . . . I’ll wait for you.

This was the plan: we would take a holy and sacred picture of the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, Elvis Presley, to the very summit of the earth; once there, we would place it with sincere reverence amongst the chimerical shimmering palaces of ice and snow and then (accompanied by some weird Zen magic) we would light joss sticks, dance about making screechy kung-fu noises, get off our faces, and that would be it: Planet Earth saved. Simple.

(Dominic after winning King & Queen contest at Prom along with Tess) “You like me, you really like me!” he said in a mock high-pitched voice, channeling his inner Sally Fields. “First of all, I have to thank my first grade teacher, what was her name? Mrs. Johnson? Nichols? Jameson? Prescott? Yeah, that was it. Man, I had such a crush on her. Even at five, I had awesome taste in women—just look at Tess. Isn’t she banging? Anyway, I need to thank Mrs. Pentecostal, because she told me I’d never win anything, and that hurt, man. But I guess I showed her. So take that, Mrs. Presley!

I’ve lived with guilt for all these years from walkin’ away from the girl I loved more than anything. I’ve struggled with forgiving myself. I’ve fought every damn day to prove that I’m better for you!” He moves forward, forcing me to retreat. “I’ve given you every part of me, Presley.” His chest heaves as tears form in his own eyes. “Me! Only me! I’ve kept all your secrets! I’ve stood by your side. Held you when you’ve cried over everything that Todd put you through!

Each of us may be a diamond-in-the-rough, needing only a muse and a change in circumstance to go from humble caterpillar to majestic butterfly." - Peter Whitmer, Ph.D. ~from The Inner Elvis: A Psychological Biography of Elvis Aaron Presley

A couple of days after the last time I saw him, I got a typically well-written postcard. He said that after he kissed me goodbye at LAX he was driving away and turned on the radio. Elvis was singing "It's Now or Never." In my personal religion, a faith cobbled together out of pop songs and books and movies, there is nothing closer to a sign from God than Elvis Presley telling you "tomorrow will be too late" at precisely the moment you drop off a girl you're not sure you want to drop off. Sitting on the stairs to my apartment, I read that card and wept. It said he heard the song and thought about running after me. But he didn't. And just as well--those mixed-faith marriages hardly ever work. An Elvis song coming out of the radio wasn't a sign from God to him, it was just another one of those corny pop tunes he could live without.

Once Presley grabbed hold, he spoke like an oracle, your new teen mentor, sitting on your shoulder, urging you to embrace romance, kiss that girl, and take a thousand other risks, even as his doubt and hesitation whispered uncertainty and dread.

Up until the mid-eighties, there was always a shared assumption that the Right controlled the currency of outrage; part of what made conservatives “conservative” was their discomfort with profanity and indecency and Elvis Presley’s hips. But then — somewhat swiftly, and somehow academically — it felt as if the Left was suddenly dictating what was acceptable to be infuriated over (and always for ideological motives, which is why the modifier “politically” felt essential). This created a lot of low-level anxiety whenever people argued in public.

Because they are so long-lived, atoms really get around. Every atom you possess has almost certainly passed through several stars and been part of millions of organisms on its way to becoming you. We are each so atomically numerous and so vigorously recycled at death that a significant number of our atoms—up to a billion for each of us, it has been suggested—probably once belonged to Shakespeare. A billion more each came from Buddha and Genghis Khan and Beethoven, and any other historical figure you care to name. (The personages have to be historical, apparently, as it takes the atoms some decades to become thoroughly redistributed; however much you may wish it, you are not yet one with Elvis Presley.) So we are all reincarnations—though short-lived ones. When we die our atoms will disassemble and move off to find new uses elsewhere—as part of a leaf or other human being or drop of dew. Atoms, however, go on practically forever.

The ending is coming. I can feel it. I don’t know if I can take it this time. But then again, I say that every time and yet, every time I take it. And, I come back to her again for more. I will take whatever time I can get with her. I will do that for a lifetime. I will. I know that much about myself. She is my water. I can never get enough of her, and it appears that I will die trying to love her, to keep her, to hold her with me, even though our time together seems to evaporate so swiftly. It slips through our fingers so damn fast that we don’t even have time to savor it when we’re together.

Elvis Presley’s manager, Colonel Parker, made a deliberate attempt to restrict the number of appearances and records the King made. As a result, every time Elvis appeared, it was an event of enormous impact. (Elvis himself contributed to this strategy by overdosing early and severely dampening his future appearances. Likewise Marilyn Monroe and James Dean.)

You're my stars in an endless night sky, my sanity in a sea of madness, my chaos in the midst of normality.

Teddy Bear’ by Elvis Presley, I can remember, I have always been able to remember,

The fight wasn’t won. Yet. But I’d walk away the victor. I’d win Presley Marks. She was my anchor. She was my heart.

I love talking to spirits. Maybe we can try contacting Marilyn Monroe or Elvis Presley next.

If sunshine took human form, like some Greek myth, she would be Presley Shaw.

Ugh." Another shudder racked through Presley before he hurried out the door, muttering under his breath about being suspicious of anything that bleeds for a week and doesn’t die.

All I want is to know the truth, to know and experience God. I’m a searcher, that’s what I’m all about. —Elvis Presley

If the Sumerian gods remind us of present-day company brands, so the living-god pharaoh can be compared to modern personal brands such as Elvis Presley, Madonna or Justin Bieber.

Elvis Presley’s death was a turning point in news coverage;

Look at those hands, Oh God, those hands toiled to raise me. —Elvis Presley at his mother’s casket

The quavering, sensual voice of Elvis Presley is coming from the juke-box in lonesome, sad, sustained, orgasmic moans: The bell-hop’s tears keep flowing The desk clerk’s dressed in black. …

Making your own T-shirts? Don't you have people for that?" I asked. "Like professionals?" "Well,I usually travel with an army of professional T-shirt makers, but today I thought I'd go it alone." Jack didn't take his eyes off me as Cole spoke. I wasn't sure he was even listening,or aware Cole was there. "What are the screens for?" I asked. "Elvis Presley as a corpse.You wanna come look?" Cole gave me a grin as if he'd just asked if I wanted to see rainbows being made. "You had me at 'corpse.'" Jack chuckled. "Saying good-bye here. Remember?" I turned to Jack, rose up on my tiptoes, and kissed his lips lightly. "Two weeks,Jack. It'll fly by." I started to back up,but Jack grabbed my hand and pulled me close. "No you don't," he said. "The corpse can wait." He gave me a kiss that was not quite appropriate for public view,and I would've been embarrassed if I hadn't lost the ability to think straight. His arms reached around my back,and he pulled me in tight against him so that my feet were barely touching the ground. And things started disappearing around us,just like they did every time Jack kissed me. He pulled back. "What were you saying about two weeks?" "That it will feel like forever," I said, breathless. "That's better." Jack lowered his head so his forehead was touching mine. "Miss you." "Miss you too," I whispered.

PREFACE A New Look at the Legacy of Albert Einstein Genius. Absent-minded professor. The father of relativity. The mythical figure of Albert Einstein—hair flaming in the wind, sockless, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, puffing on his pipe, oblivious to his surroundings—is etched indelibly on our minds. “A pop icon on a par with Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe, he stares enigmatically from postcards, magazine covers, T-shirts, and larger-than-life posters. A Beverly Hills agent markets his image for television commercials. He would have hated it all,” writes biographer Denis Brian. Einstein is among the greatest scientists of all time, a towering figure who ranks alongside Isaac Newton for his contributions. Not surprisingly, Time magazine voted him the Person of the Century. Many historians have placed him among the hundred most influential people of the last thousand years.

Dad says that Elvis Presley lived in Memphis and was a musician (not that you would know that from the crap songs that Dad sings). Anyway, he was a musician and Masimo is a musician, ergo Memphis must be somewhere that musicians hang out.

You'll Never Walk Alone When you walk through a storm hold your head up high And don't be afraid of the dark. At the end of a storm is a golden sky And the sweet silver song of a lark. Walk on through the wind, Walk on through the rain, Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown. Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart And you'll never walk alone, You'll never, ever walk alone. Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart And you'll never walk alone, You'll never, ever walk alone.

...and because atoms are so small, and are constantly being recycled, every breath you take contains atoms that were once breathed by Julius Caesar and Elvis Presley. So a little bit of you formerly ruled Rome, and sang, "Blue Suede Shoes".

Rocket Fever Grips Nation's Teenagers' cheers on enthusiastic newsreel, reflecting the nation's sudden reversal in attitude following the successful launch of Explorer-I into Earth orbit. Rather than being strange and threatening, outer space looks set to become the next big distraction after Elvis Presley and Davy Crockett hats. 'More and more teenagers are passing up rock and roll for a rocket role,' commentator Michael Fitzmaurice blithely remarks before very probably wishing he hadn't.

De hecho, se estableció una relación simbiótica entre la aparición de la radio de transistores y la irrupción del rock and roll. La primera grabación comercial de Elvis Presley, «That’s All Right», salió a la venta al mismo tiempo que la radio Regency.

Because you’ll fall in love with her,” she said. “And she won’t love you back.” The chatter was low, Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling In Love a little quieter. The soft lighting sparkled off the glass view of the city, and Nicolas’s black-suited form

And what about the willingness of the disciples to die for their belief that Jesus was alive – even after He had been murdered as a criminal? Some have claimed that Elvis Presley rose from the dead, but how many would be willing to die for such a teaching?

Yet she lays out this family plan the way you’d say, “After yoga, I’ll go to Lia’s for the mani-special and then wax on about hairstyles and hemlines until dinner.” If I were gifted at making long-term plans, which by now we all know I’m not, and if I was at all hopeful, which we all know that I can never be, although it crosses my mind that it’s entirely possible these are all just huge, f*&king, temporary setbacks and nothing more, even though it’s been going on for over three years now, since Holly died, and I met Lincoln Presley. Events that could be construed as somehow inevitably related. Yes, perhaps there’s an expiration date on the said pursuit of unhappiness. Perhaps, things will eventually go my way after I actually discover what that way is supposed to be.

We are each so atomically numerous and so vigorously recycled at death that a significant number of our atoms – up to a billion for each of us, it has been suggested3 – probably once belonged to Shakespeare. A billion more each came from Buddha and Genghis Khan and Beethoven, and any other historical figure you care to name. (The personages have to be historical, apparently, as it takes the atoms some decades to become thoroughly redistributed; however much you may wish it, you are not yet one with Elvis Presley.) So

Raising Hands Raising Hell Raise ’Em High”—The Wind & The Wave “Jailhouse Rock”—Elvis Presley “My Girl”— The Temptations “Burnin’ Love”—Elvis Presley “Ticking Bomb”— Aloe Blacc “Lovers in a Dangerous Time”— Barenaked Ladies “Sail”—Awolnation “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked”—Cage the Elephant

Presley Marks, would you go to dinner with me?” “This sounds more and more like a date. And my answer is still no.” “But you still haven’t given me a good reason.” She shrugged. “I think you’re ugly.” My laughter filled the room. Christ. When had a woman called me ugly? Even that hadn’t happened at fourteen. “Liar”.

The body’s response to this wild, Valsalvic seesawing of the vital signs can throw off the electrical rhythm of the heart. The resulting arrhythmia can be fatal. This is especially likely to happen in someone, like Elvis, with a compromised heart. Fatal arrhythmia is the cause of death listed on Presley’s autopsy report.

Mrs. Porter was from Virginia and had a smooth-as-cat-fur way of speaking. She taught me how to say, “Fiddle-Dee-Dee,” just like Scarlett O’Hara and she made her split-pea soup with bacon and even let me try on her lipstick sometimes as she teased up my hair in the same sixties style she wore, “Ala Pricilla Presley,” whoever that was.

Love is like a blade winking in the moonlight--it blinds before it kills.

But she’s not giving up. She’s pushing through her dread, forging ahead in spite of it. She’s a warrior.

Kindness is not something you are born with; it's a way in which you choose to be.

I reckon it’s true what they say that good begets good and bad begets bad. The evil men do lives on after them, but what good they done gets buried with their bones.

People are always more dangerous than legends.

Popular culture would never have achieved such a high degree of influence had it not been for the disappearance of family culture and Folk culture. With our social revolution, there would have been no cultural revolution. Without age0segregated high schools and the disappearance of the family economy, there would have been no Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, or Katy Perry.

no other man smells of sex, sin, and sweetness like Sutton Ellis — red-blooded, clean, aroused man, and I’m light-headed from the aroma. He tastes of salt, sweat, soap, and scandal; a luscious mix for which I hunger. His neck, muscles bulging with tension, jawline, slight stubble abrading my tongue, hands, those big, capable hands, flexing in and out on my hips… he’s perfection.

short piece headlined “Elvis Died of Constipation” had run as the site’s lead story (and its middle and last story) under the category Constipation News. Why didn’t the colonic inertia theory come up earlier? Nichopoulos says that at the time, he had never heard of it. Nor had the gastroenterologist who treated Presley in the 1970s. “Nobody knew about it back then,” Nichopoulos says.

I ask Nichopoulos to talk about precisely, medically, what caused Presley’s death. “The night he died he was bigger than usual,” he begins. Depending on how long it had been since Presley had managed to empty himself, his girth fluctuated between big and stupendous. He sometimes appeared to be gaining or losing twenty pounds from one performance to the next. “He wanted to get rid of his gut that night. He was pushing and pushing. Holding his breath.” As the constipated do.

There were the usual three all humans were born with, one in the center of the chest representing the Body, the second in the middle of the forehead for the Mind, and the third at the crown of the head signifying the Soul. But in that moment of clarity, Marta could feel a fourth Breath nestled deep in her chest next to the Body. Were she not so angry, she might have been surprised to find it, to feel it thrumming with its own frequency. It had a resonance, a musical identity all its own that only she could hear.

Fifty years ago, how many foresaw Hiroshima, Dresden, the Blitz, Stalingrad, Auschwitz? A big wall dividing Berlin in two? Television? Decolonisation? China and America fighting a proxy war in Vietnam? Elvis Presley? The Stones? Stockhausen? Jodrell Bank? Plastics? Cures for polio, measles, syphilis? The Space Race? The present is a curtain. Most of us can’t see behind it. Those who do see – via luck or prescience – change what is there by seeing. That’s why it’s unknowable. Fundamentally. Intrinsically. I like adverbs.

Page-one news as it occurred, the story of the comics controversy is a largely forgotten chapter in the history of the culture wars and one that defies now-common notions about the evolution of twentieth-century popular culture, including the conception of the postwar sensibility—a raucous and cynical one, inured to violence and absorbed with sex, skeptical of authority, and frozen in young adulthood—as something spawned by rock and roll. The truth is more complex. Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry added the soundtrack to a scene created in comic books.

That’s what killed Elvis,” said Adrianne Noe. Noe is the director of the National Museum of Health and Medicine, which has its own megacolon, from an unknown party. As we were about to get off the phone, Elvis Presley dropped into the conversation. Noe related that she’d been standing by the megacolon exhibit one day and a visitor told her that Elvis had had one too. The man added that Presley had struggled with constipation his whole life and that as a child his mother Gladys had had to “manually disimpact” him. “He said that’s why Elvis was so close to his mother.” A quiet moment followed. “Really.

I had heard that Presley died on the toilet, but I’d assumed the location was happenstance, as it was with Judy Garland and Lenny Bruce: an embarrassing setting for a standard celebrity overdose. But the straining-at-stool theory made some sense. With all three autopsies—that of J.W., Mr. K., and E., as Presley’s intimates called him—the collapse was abrupt and the autopsy revealed no obvious cause of death. (Though Presley had traces of several prescription drugs in his blood, none was present at a lethal level.) What Elvis’s autopsy did unambiguously reveal was a colon two to three times normal size.

Sick Boy : It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : What do you mean? Sick Boy : Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed... Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Some of his solo stuff's not bad. Sick Boy : No, it's not bad, but it's not great either. And in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : So who else? Sick Boy : Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley... Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make? Sick Boy : All I'm trying to do is help you understand that The Name of The Rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : What about The Untouchables? Sick Boy : I don't rate that at all. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Despite the Academy Award? Sick Boy : That means fuck all. Its a sympathy vote. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it? Sick Boy : Yeah. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : That's your theory? Sick Boy : Yeah. Beautifully fucking illustrated.

Some bears are sold for amazing sums at auction. An example is a very old stuffed individual named Mabel that had belonged to Elvis Presley (as a child or an adult?) and had been sold at auction several times after the King's death; it was made in the Steiff workshop in 1909. Its end was exceedingly sinister. Lent by its owner for an exhibition of stuffed bears in Wells, England, in which it was to be the star attraction, it provoked a hatred or jealousy of a young Doberman accompanying the night watchman after the first day of the exhibition. The dog seized the precious relic and furiously bit and clawed it to pieces. (252)

Tonight, Nellie had put on quite a spread: a vegetable platter to start things off, with radish roses and olives pierced with embellished toothpicks and fresh tomatoes from her garden; canapés and shrimp cocktail and Vienna sausages and deviled eggs; then her Chicken à la King, and when they were all nearly too full to eat another thing, Baked Alaska for dessert. The conversation had been pleasant, the men discussing the upcoming election and General Electric-Telechron's new "revolutionary" snooze alarm clock, the women swooning about Elvis Presley and gossiping about Marilyn Monroe's recent wedding to Arthur Miller, which everyone agreed was an odd pairing.

The Dead Rock Star's Bar by Stewart Stafford I went for a drink in The Dead Rock Star's Bar, Phil Lynott was drinking whiskey in the jar, Jimi Hendrix was rocking the place, Elvis Presley was stuffing his face, Sid Vicious was grumpy and gruff, Freddie Mercury strutted his stuff, Marvin Gaye had plenty of soul, Lennon and Cobain compared bullet holes, Jim Morrison declared he was The Lizard King Buddy Holly sported an aeroplane wing, Such an array of talent leaves one's mouth agape, But they're all still alive on CD and tape, Wherever you live, you don't have to travel far, To have a damn good time at The Dead Rock Star's Bar. © Stewart Stafford, 1996. All rights reserved.

sweetly droning voice of Mother Maybelle Carter, singing “Keep on the Sunny Side.” “Keep on the sunny side, Always on the sunny side, Keep on the sunny side of life, Though your problems may be many It will seem you don’t have any If you keep on the sunny side of life …” The old Buick cruised on and on, making figure eights, loops, sometimes circling the same block three or four times. When it hit a bump (or rolled over a body), the record would skip. At twenty minutes to midnight, the Buick pulled over to the curb and idled. Then it began to roll again. The loudspeaker blared Elvis Presley singing “The Old Rugged Cross,” and a night wind soughed through the trees and stirred a final whiff of smoke from the smoldering ruins of the junior college.

They call each other ‘E.’ Elvis picks wildflowers near the river and brings them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him. In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports Levis and western blouses with rhinestones. Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers and T-shirts, a letterman’s jacket from Tupelo High. They take long walks and often hold hands. She prefers they remain just friends. Forever. Emily’s poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs, Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile. Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon he will play guitar and sing “I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed” to the tune of “Love Me Tender.” Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone in their cabins later, they’ll listen to the river and nap. They will not think of Amherst or Las Vegas. They know why God made them roommates. It’s because America was their hometown. It’s because God is a thing without feathers. It’s because God wears blue suede shoes.

Fleeing first, in November 1813, Presley represented the greatest blow, for a body servant was a master’s favorite and confidante: no one knew Jones better than Presley did. Presley, however, preferred to serve a Royal Navy captain. In 1815 a visitor to HMS Havannah recognized Presley, whom he praised as “uncommonly likely & trained as a House Servant.” The visitor noted that Presley had renamed himself “Washington,” evidently after the great revolutionary leader who had won liberty and independence for the Americans.3 As a black Washington, Presley returned to free his friends and family left behind. In October 1814, Presley guided a British raiding party to Kinsale, liberating the rest of the slaves and casting Jones out. Presley’s return represents a common pattern in the slave escapes during the war. Runaways tended to bolt in two stages: in the first, a pioneer runaway made initial contact with the British, and then in the second stage, he returned home to liberate kin and friends.

Allyn Ferguson, who worked with the Carpenters in the early 1970s, witnessed the downhill slide of many artists, even legends like Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra. “It happens to everybody,” he says. “It has nothing to do with the people themselves. They’re doing the same thing they always did. The public gets tired of them. It’s a strange thing how the American public is not only fickle, but they respond to a lot of different things that are not musical at all, like the publicity and the attention that everybody’s giving them. It’s like a mob mentality. When the idol starts to have the image disappear, American fans just move on to the next one. That’s a part of show business. We have a great term in showbiz—everybody’s a ‘star fucker,’ which means if you’re not a star anymore everybody just turns their back. It’s very fleeting, and there are tragedies. I think Karen was one of those tragedies, and I could name dozens of other people who can’t deal with the fact that it’s not like it used to be.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies. The man who cremated William Holden. The man who encased the body of Alexander the Great in gold so it would not rot. The men who mummified the Pharaohs. Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolph Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person . . . or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did . . . and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies. The man who cremated William Holden. The man who encased the body of Alexander the Great in gold so it would not rot. The men who mummified the Pharaohs. Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.

Gabriel’s Trumpet† One time uh preacher had uh church an’ his members wuz pretty wicked, so he made up his mind tuh give ’em uh strong sermon tuh shake ’em up. So he preached on judgment day. Somebody’s parrot had done got away and had done flew up in de loft uh de church, but nobody didn’t know it. So de preacher preached on till he got down to where de angel Gabrill would be blowin’. He said, “Brothers an’ sisters, when Gabrill shall plant one foot on sea an’ one on de dry land wid his trumpet in his hand an’ shall cry dat Time shall be no mo’—whut’ll you poor sinners do? When blows his trumpet, ‘Tooot toot’, whut will you do?” Every time he said ‘toot toot’ de parrot would answer him; but he wuz so busy preachin’ he didn’t notice nothin’. But some of the people heard de parrot an’ dey begin slippin’ out a de church one an’ two at uh time. Dey thought it wuz Gabrill sho nuff. He kept on preachin’ in uh strainin’ voice wid his eyes shet tight, till he hollered ‘toot, toot’ and de parrot answered him so loud dat everybody heered ’im, an’ everybody bolted for de door, de preacher, too. But he wuz way up in de pulpit and so he wuz de very las’ one tuh reach de door. Justez he wuz goin’ out de door de wind slammed it on his coattail and he hollered: “Aw naw, Gabrill, turn me loose! You ’low me de same chance you ’lowed dese others.” —JAMES PRESLEY.

Prior to the invention of writing, stories were confined by the limited capacity of human brains. You couldn’t invent overly complex stories which people couldn’t remember. With writing you could suddenly create extremely long and intricate stories, which were stored on tablets and papyri rather than in human heads. No ancient Egyptian remembered all of pharaoh’s lands, taxes and tithes; Elvis Presley never even read all the contracts signed in his name; no living soul is familiar with all the laws and regulations of the European Union; and no banker or CIA agent tracks down every dollar in the world. Yet all of these minutiae are written somewhere, and the assemblage of relevant documents defines the identity and power of pharaoh, Elvis, the EU and the dollar. Writing has thus enabled humans to organise entire societies in an algorithmic fashion. We encountered the term ‘algorithm’ when we tried to understand what emotions are and how brains function, and defined it as a methodical set of steps that can be used to make calculations, resolve problems and reach decisions. In illiterate societies people make all calculations and decisions in their heads. In literate societies people are organised into networks, so that each person is only a small step in a huge algorithm, and it is the algorithm as a whole that makes the important decisions. This is the essence of bureaucracy.

Moore’s Law, the rule of thumb in the technology industry, tells us that processor chips—the small circuit boards that form the backbone of every computing device—double in speed every eighteen months. That means a computer in 2025 will be sixty-four times faster than it is in 2013. Another predictive law, this one of photonics (regarding the transmission of information), tells us that the amount of data coming out of fiber-optic cables, the fastest form of connectivity, doubles roughly every nine months. Even if these laws have natural limits, the promise of exponential growth unleashes possibilities in graphics and virtual reality that will make the online experience as real as real life, or perhaps even better. Imagine having the holodeck from the world of Star Trek, which was a fully immersive virtual-reality environment for those aboard a ship, but this one is able to both project a beach landscape and re-create a famous Elvis Presley performance in front of your eyes. Indeed, the next moments in our technological evolution promise to turn a host of popular science-fiction concepts into science facts: driverless cars, thought-controlled robotic motion, artificial intelligence (AI) and fully integrated augmented reality, which promises a visual overlay of digital information onto our physical environment. Such developments will join with and enhance elements of our natural world. This is our future, and these remarkable things are already beginning to take shape. That is what makes working in the technology industry so exciting today. It’s not just because we have a chance to invent and build amazing new devices or because of the scale of technological and intellectual challenges we will try to conquer; it’s because of what these developments will mean for the world.

For Dylan, this electric assault threatened to suck the air out of everything else, only there was too much radio oxygen to suck. “Like a Rolling Stone” was the giant, all-consuming anthem of the new “generation gap” disguised as a dandy’s riddle, a dealer’s come-on. As a two-sided single, it dwarfed all comers, disarmed and rejuvenated listeners at each hearing, and created vast new imaginative spaces for groups to explore both sonically and conceptually. It came out just after Dylan’s final acoustic tour of Britain, where his lyrical profusion made him a bard, whose tabloid accolade took the form of political epithet: “anarchist.” As caught on film by D. A. Pennebaker’s documentary Don’t Look Back, the young folkie had already graduated to rock star in everything but instrumentation. “Satisfaction” held Dylan back at number two during its four-week July hold on Billboard’s summit, giving way to Herman’s Hermits’ “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am” and Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” come August, novelty capstones to Dylan’s unending riddle. (In Britain, Dylan stalled at number four.) The ratio of classics to typical pop schlock, like Freddie and the Dreamers’ “I’m Telling You Now” or Tom Jones’s “It’s Not Unusual,” suddenly got inverted. For cosmic perspective, yesterday’s fireball, Elvis Presley, sang “Do the Clam.” Most critics have noted the Dylan influence on Lennon’s narratives. Less space gets devoted to Lennon’s effect on Dylan, which was overt: think of how Dylan rewires Chuck Berry (“Subterranean Homesick Blues”) or revels in inanity (“Rainy Day Women #12 & 35”). Even more telling, Lennon’s keening vocal harmonies in “Nowhere Man,” “And Your Bird Can Sing,” and “Dr. Robert” owed as much to the Byrds and the Beach Boys, high-production turf Dylan simply abjured. Lennon also had more stylistic stretch, both in his Beatle context and within his own sensibility, as in the pagan balalaikas in “Girl” or the deliberate amplifier feedback tripping “I Feel Fine.” Where Dylan skewed R&B to suit his psychological bent, Lennon pursued radical feats of integration wearing a hipster’s arty façade, the moptop teaching the quiet con. Building up toward Rubber Soul throughout 1965, Beatle gravity exerted subtle yet inexorable force in all directions.

Pe 8 ianuarie 1947 s‑a născut David Robert Jones la Londra. Era într‑o miercuri. Ningea. Dincolo de Atlantic, un băiețel pe nume Elvis își serba cea de‑a douăsprezecea zi de naștere. Niciunul nu a arătat vreun talent muzical de timpuriu, deși amândoi aveau să zguduie din temelii muzica, dându‑i cu totul alte forme, până când însuși cuvântul „muzică“ a devenit de nerecunoscut. Când s‑a născut micul David, legenda spune că moașa ar fi declarat: „Acest copil a mai fost și altă dată pe lumea asta.“ Peste ani, David Robert Jones a devenit David Bowie, iar lumea a început să intre la bănuieli cum că poate a mai fost și pe alte planete. Când s‑a născut Elvis, pe 8 ianuarie, cu doisprezece ani mai devreme, fratele său geamăn nu a supraviețuit. Gladys Presley le va spune prietenilor că fiul ei Elvis „avea energie cât doi“. Elvis a fost obsedat mai toată viața de moartea fratelui său și de propria supraviețuire aparent întâmplătoare. Unii oameni au mai fost pe lumea asta, pe când alții nu apucă să vină deloc. Pe 8 ianuarie 1973 s‑a lansat cu succes pe orbită o navetă spațială numită Luna 21, pilotată de la distanță. După ce a aterizat pe Lună, Luna 21 a pus în mișcare un vehicul spațial robotic sovietic pe nume Lunohod 2, care a realizat peste 80.000 de fotografii TV și 86 de imagini panoramice. Micul David s‑a făcut mare, a compus cântece despre cosmonauți și spațiu și a lansat un album chiar în luna în care a aterizat Apollo 11 pe Lună. (Printre altele, Apollo mai e și zeul muzicii.) Peste mulți ani, fiul lui David Bowie va regiza un film cu titlul Luna. Micul Elvis s‑a făcut mare și a intrat într‑o formație cu numele Blue Moon Boys. Fiica lui se va mărita mai târziu cu un star al muzicii, celebru pentru un dans cu numele de moonwalk. Mai târziu, Elvis și‑a lansat o carieră solo și și‑a ales ca manager un tip pe nume Thomas Parker. „Nu cred că aș fi devenit vreodată cineva dacă n‑ar fi fost el“, urma să declare Elvis despre Parker. Porecla lui Thomas Parker era Colonelul Tom. Colonelul Tom l‑a preschimbat pe Elvis într‑o stea. David Bowie a compus un cântec despre un maior Tom, lăsat să plutească printre stele. Luna 21 și Lunohod 2 nu mai sunt acum pe Lună. Nici micul David, micul Elvis și dansatorul de moonwalk nu mai sunt în funcțiune. Însă muzica lor n‑a murit. Doar am ascultat‑o și știu. La fel și pozele realizate de Lunohod 2. Doar le‑am văzut și știu. Mă gândesc adesea la subtilele legături din univers, întinzându‑se peste timp și spațiu, unele sărind din stea în stea ca niște pietricele pe oglinda unui iaz, iar altele rămase să plutească în marele infinit aleatoriu. Mă gândesc la cuvinte gen reîncarnare, relativitate sau paralel. Și mă întreb dacă se întâmplă să aterizeze vreo pietricică de două ori în același loc. M‑am născut pe 8 ianuarie.

Back in Tahoe, when he had broken the news to her that they had to go home, he had been put on the defensive by the fact that he was the one who’d had personal contact with a murdered woman. He had the feeling now that she was never going to forgive him for what she viewed as rape, and this latest incident had only fueled her fire. For the first time in their married lives, she’d stood up to him and rejected his excuses. He was beginning to think she’d known about his dalliances for years but for her own reasons had chosen to play dumb. But when she’d learned that the police wanted to question him regarding Marsha Benton’s murder, her days of playing dumb seemed to have ended. Penny feigned interest in her magazine, but inside, her thoughts were tumbling wildly. Last night while Mark was in the shower, she’d called Ken Walters, their lawyer. Ken had started off by claiming he couldn’t divulge his conversations with Mark, at which point she promptly reminded him that the money in their house was hers first, not Mark’s, and if he wanted to stay on retainer for the Presley Corporation, he’d better start talking. So he did. Learning that Marsha had been pregnant when she was murdered had nearly sent her to her knees. Knowing that her body had been found on their oil lease outside Tyler only made what she was thinking worse. She’d known Mark was devious, but she’d never believed him capable of murder. Now she wasn’t so sure. What she was certain of was that she wasn’t going to be dragged down with him if he fell. Tonight they were back in Dallas in what had been her father’s home first and was now hers. This was her territory, and she wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Mark glanced up from the chair where he’d been reading, watching the casual attitude with which Penny was sipping her drink. She was flipping through the pages of the magazine in her lap and humming beneath her breath as if nothing was wrong. It was unnerving. As he watched, he began to realize Penny wasn’t her father’s daughter by birth alone. There seemed to be more of the old man in her than he would have believed. Ever since he’d put his hands around her neck back in Tahoe, she had been cold and unyielding, even when he’d apologized profusely. Then, when he’d had to tell her that the police demanded his presence back in Dallas for questioning regarding Marsha Benton’s death, she’d been livid. He’d tried to explain, but she wasn’t having any of it. He didn’t want to lose her. He couldn’t lose her. Even though the world assumed that Mark Presley was the reigning power behind the Presley Corporation, it was really Penny. Mark had the authority simply because Penny was his wife. If she kicked his ass to the curb, the only thing he would be taking with him were the bruises.

I’ve loved you for the past twelve years.” The words come out like he’s in pain. “With every single fiber of my being, I love you.” My lower lip trembles, and the tears now come without warning. The look of anguish is all over his face, and it hurts me to my core. “I love you, Presley.” A lone tear runs down his face. “I don’t know why I thought maybe, just maybe, you felt the same.

He wrote up the cases of his own patients who believed themselves to be someone other than themselves. There were Virgin Marys, Christs and Gods, Marilyn Monroes and Elvis Presleys. Movie stars and even characters from literature took over the lives of Ambrose’s patients. Jane Eyre sometimes screamed in an imaginary red room at Mandala.

You must be out of your mind. These boys are going to explode. I am completely confident that one day they will be bigger than Elvis Presley.

Hine had climbed into the Carpathian Mountains to minister when he heard—get this—a Russian translation of Boberg’s Swedish poem attached to the Swedish melody. Hine was standing in the street preaching on John chapter 3 when a nasty storm blew in, so a local schoolteacher housed him for the night. As Hine watched the storm roll through those mountains, he added what we now call the first verse. Next he crossed over into Romania and Bukovina, and somewhere beneath the trees and birds, he added the second verse. He finished the third verse after spending time with the Carpathian mountain dwellers and, finally, the fourth verse when he returned to Britain. The song as we know it ended up in the States at a youth camp in California in the early 1950s, where crusade team member George Beverly Shea handed it to a man named Billy Graham. Then in 1967, a fellow by the name of Presley recorded ‘How Great Thou Art,’ and the album went platinum.” Dad held up two fingers. “Twice.

Adevărul este ca soarele. Îl poți acoperi pentru o vreme, dar nu dispare.

Presley was more important. Her happiness. Her dreams. Her love. I’d fallen in love with her. I’d fallen in love with her every time she’d told me no, sitting across from her at the Clifton Forge Garage.

Goodbye, Shaw,” she whispered. I lifted a hand and pressed it to the cold glass. “See you tomorrow.” Never again would I tell Presley goodbye.

I was in Montana to fix my colossal fuckup and win back my girl. No more secrets. No more hiding. Presley was mine, and Luke had to go.

An eternity won't be enough with you.

Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t goin’ away. Elvis Presley

I’d come here a lot over the years, using the enchanted door in my mentor’s home to get into concerts and bear witness to the burgeoning careers of such artists as Elvis Presley, David Bowie, and Bruce Springsteen. Treasured memories all.

A small shop, in the middle of the smallest, quaintest little town George had ever come across – and all it sold was Elvis Presley jumpsuits.

Elvis Presley exhibited all the classic symptoms of those driven to self-destruction by too much fame and medication: short attention span, an egocentric, chronically addictive personality, bad taste in friends and horrendous eating habits. He was also stupid.

I should stop him, I think vaguely, but I don’t want to. God, I really don’t want to.

The kundalini, or “life force,” was like a spiritual energy residing in a resting body, Elvis said, a sleeping serpent in the root chakra located at the base of the spine. To demonstrate this, Elvis placed his hand at the bottom of my spine, forcefully applying pressure while explaining that, if this spiritual energy was aroused and released, its power was enormous and could bring one to an enlightened state. Shaking

Conversation turned to a case that was in the news—Donald Williams Jr., an African American freshman at San Jose State University, had been relentlessly bullied by the white students he lived with in a four-bedroom dormitory suite. The white kids, also freshmen, had insisted on calling Williams “three-fifths,” a reference to the clause in the original US Constitution that counted slaves as three-fifths of a person when determining population for representation in Congress. They clamped a bike lock around his neck and claimed to have lost the key. They wrote Nigger on a whiteboard and draped a Confederate flag over a cardboard cutout of Elvis Presley in the suite’s living room. They locked him in his room. And they claimed it was all just a series of good-natured pranks. In the end, three eighteen-year-old white students were expelled for what they did to Williams, and a seventeen-year-old was suspended. The three who were expelled were also charged in criminal court. The charge: misdemeanor battery with a hate-crime enhancement, which carried a maximum penalty of a year and a half in county jail. A jury eventually convicted all three of battery but acquitted one of the students of the hate-crime charge and deadlocked on the others. “Girl, they got misdemeanors,” Regis said. “Nobody got charged with any felonies. Three white boys on one black boy.

You could clone Elvis Presley and, while the clone would look identical, it would not have the utterly unique life experiences that made The King who he was. After all that time, effort and expense, the clone might choose to be a gardener instead of a singer! There's also the ethical dilemma of recreating all the genetic problems Elvis had due to his maternal grandparents being first cousins.

Michael Slusser succinctly treats Justin Martyr, and Stephen Presley helpfully explores Irenaeus.44

With a knowing look, Elvis said, “Ginger, always start at the beginning. Be patient and learn.

What have you missed?” Dylan asked, breathless. Presley swallowed and cupped his cheek. “The butterflies,” she whispered. “I’ve missed the butterflies. Even after all this time you make everything flutter. You always will.

Elvis had earlier told me that his number was eight. Now he pointed out passages about certain colors of stones that, according to Cheiro, were lucky for those who were a number eight to wear. One of these stones was a black diamond, so he’d had that stone placed in a few of his rings. “I lost one of the rings and another got broken when I slammed my fist on the floor during a show,” he said. Listening to him talk about lucky numbers and stones, I sensed that Elvis felt a strong desire to feel protected both on- and offstage—not just physically, but psychologically and spiritually as well.

What the fuck just happened? As Bryce’s white Audi streaked off the lot, I shook my head and replayed the last five minutes. After a hot cup of coffee with Dad in the office, I’d come out to the garage, ready to get to work on the red ’68 Mustang GT I’d been restoring. My morning had been shaping up pretty damn great when a hot, leggy brunette with a nice rack came in for an oil change. Got even better when she flirted back and flashed me that showstopper smile. Then I hit the jackpot because she turned out to be witty too, and the heat between us was practically blue flame. I should have known something was up. Women too good to be true were always out for trouble. This one was only baiting me for a story. And damn, I’d taken that bait. Hook, line and sinker. How the hell had Bryce known Dad was going to be arrested for murder even before the cops had shown up? Better question. How the hell hadn’t I? Because I was out of touch. Not long ago, when the club was still going strong, I would have been the first to know if the cops were moving in my or my family’s direction. Sure, living on the right side of the law had its advantages. Mostly, it was nice to live a life without the gnawing, constant fear I’d wake up and be either killed or sent to prison for the rest of my life. I’d become content. Lazy. Ignorant. I’d let my guard down. And now Dad was headed for a jail cell. Fuck. “Dash.” Presley punched me in the arm, getting my attention. I shook myself and looked down at her, squinting as her white hair reflected the sunlight. “What?” “What?” she mimicked. “What are you going to do about your dad? Did you know about this?” “Yeah. I let him go about drinking his morning coffee, bullshitting with you, knowing he’d get arrested soon,” I barked. “No, I didn’t know about this.” Presley scowled but stayed quiet. “She said murder.” Emmett swept a long strand of hair out of his face. “Did I hear that right?” Yeah. “She said murder.” Murder, spoken in Bryce’s sultry voice I’d thought was so smooth when it had first hit my ears. Dad had been arrested and I’d been bested by a goddamn nosy reporter. My lip curled. I avoided the press nearly as much as I avoided cops and lawyers. Until we got this shit figured out, I’d be stuck dealing with all three.

Elvis picked up a book. This time it was The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, the Lebanese philosopher and artist. I didn’t know it yet, but during the intimate months we would spend together, Elvis would refer to this book many times. It was an important philosophical

After sharing these passages with me, Elvis explained, “I don’t think a person can control love. When it happens, you just go along with it and try your best to be prepared for the good and bad.” And, when Almustafa is asked what of marriage, Gibran wrote these words: You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.

thought the writing was wonderful, too, and found myself going over quotes and asking questions while Elvis analyzed different passages from the book. Even in such a short time, I could feel that reading with him was helping me learn and grow.

Elvis’s endless fascination with Eastern philosophers led him to believe that we in the West could only benefit from studying their teachings. “India has the spiritual, and we have the natural resources,” he explained. “They have to meet at some point.

You’ve got to kill it and get it behind you. If something ever bothers you, Ginger, you’ve got to kill it and get it behind you.

Elvis took special care to explain his intellectual and spiritual interests to me. He had studied chakras and at one point he showed us a book on them. I learned that the word chakra came from the Sanskrit language and meant “wheel center.” A chakra channeled life force, feelings, memories, and thoughts.

Cheiro’s Book of Numbers.

used a cologne called Zizanie and Neutrogena face soap; even today, those scents make me think of him. We would often sit on his bed and read for hours.

Books take work, time, and imagination to create. It is both fun and labor. I enjoy creating new fictional art for people to read. this is complete satisfaction.

He writes great books. Word meaning and feeling are impressive. His plots and characters are outstanding. Descriptions are vivid making you think you really are there.

this

When listening to most want-to-be singers, Phillips could tell exactly who they were trying to sound like—in most cases recently, Elvis Presley. When Cash sang, the only person Phillips heard was Cash himself. Not only was he different from Elvis; he was different from the Nashville singers.

Jim Allen laughed just as loud as anybody else and then he said: "We better hurry on to work befo' de buckra [white people] get in behind us." "Don't never worry about work," says Jim Presley. "There's more work in de world than there is anything else. God made de world and de white folks made work.

Cheiro’s Book of Numbers

being confined and not allowed total expression. The second root word is kalah, which means to be destroyed. The word for compassion is racham, which is a very romantic word and not only means love but to “love tenderly”. No Elvis Presley did not coin that term. A tender love is a ministering love. It is like a mother’s love, which kisses the hurt to make it better. This is a love, which cannot be confined but must be allowed a total expression and on top of that, it can never be destroyed. This is the love that Paul spoke about in Romans 8. Nothing can separate us from the Love of God, which is in Christ Jesus. If we are not experiencing this tender love, His racham, then there is only one reason left as to why we don’t and that reason lies within ourselves, within the amount of our own hearts that we are unwilling to share with God. Jeremiah is telling us in these two verses that God has opened his whole heart up to us. There is nothing to separate us from His complete and total love. The only separation lies in the

Once upon a time, there was a generation of parents who were certain that Elvis Presley's unashamed hip-swivellingvwas most certainly the end of society.

Hello, Presley residence.” “Mrs. Presley, this is Dallas Memorial. I have—” Penny started to weep. “Oh my God, he’s dead, isn’t he?” “No, no, Mrs. Presley. Quite the contrary. The doctor wanted you to know that we think your husband is waking up.” Penny’s emotions shuddered to a stop. Not dead? Not dead after all? Waking up? What the hell was all this about?

All the way home, he cursed Presley and his captain for sending him out on this wild goose chase in the middle of the night. His wife was in the bathroom getting ready for work by the time he strode into the house. He was taking off his clothes as he went through the house. By the time he got to the bathroom, intending to clean up, he found her in the act of getting out of the shower. Mistaking his nudity for something else, his wife took one look at her naked husband as he entered the bathroom and then wrinkled her nose. “Oh, for God’s sake, Joe. Not now. I’m going to be late for work.” As she swept past him with her nose in the air, she paused long enough to offer a comment. “You need to shower. You stink!” “Do you think?” he asked sarcastically, and turned loose of the last bit of guilt for leaving a trail of tainted clothes all through the house. By the time she figured out that she’d misread the situation, he was in a fresh set of clothes and on his way out the door.

he was so focused on watching where Presley went that she almost didn’t see the man he was with until they stopped beneath a security light, their backs to her. She first noticed the other man then, and was shocked at his size. Then her gaze moved to the thick bush of curly hair pulled into a pony tail at the back of his neck, and she wondered how he ever got something that unruly washed and dried. It wasn’t until he turned sideways that she got a momentary glimpse of his profile. As she did, a strange, anxious feeling skittered through her belly, then quickly disappeared. The stranger didn’t matter. He couldn’t matter. It was time to make her move. She had to stop Presley now, before he went any farther. She reached toward the glove box for her handgun and taser, slipped the taser in her pocket and was reaching for the door latch when the big man turned and faced her. For a full fifteen or twenty seconds, Cat had a clear and unfettered view of his face, and in those seconds, the world fell out from under her. She didn’t know that she started moaning, or that she’d broken out in a cold sweat. All she knew was that she was no longer in her car in a San Antonio parking lot but back in her childhood home, trying to run from the intruder who’d come out of their bathroom. She was screaming for her father when the intruder’s arm slid around her chest and lifted her off her feet. She saw the strange geometric designs on his arm, then on the side of his face, as the cold slash of steel from his knife suddenly slid against her throat. The coppery scent of her own blood was thick in her nose as he dropped her to the floor, leaving her to watch as he slammed the same knife into her father over and over again. She tried to scream, but the sounds wouldn’t come. The last things she saw before everything went black were the look of sorrow on her father’s face and the demon who’d killed them running out the front door.

What the restless young still lacked in the 1950s was the greatly magnified sense of possibility—of open-ended entitlement—that was to give them greater energy and hope in the 1960s. Instead, they encountered still strong cultural norms that prescribed traditional roles for "growing up": "girls" were to become wives and homemakers, "boys" were to enter the armed services and then become breadwinners. Few young men, Presley included, imagined that they should avoid the draft: half of young men coming of age between 1953 and 1960 ended up in uniform, most for two years or more.

Well they’ve been so long on Lonely Street they ain’t ever going to look back.—Elvis Presley

and, in place of the body movements, wiggling his little finger lasciviously in a move that sent his audience into paroxysms of ecstasy.

dark forces,

I remember when Elvis died. I wrote my sentiments with words of a little girl in my dear diary, "Many people wanted to see his body. They literally wanted to dig his bones out just to make sure that he was being buried. And I could not understand why. Why people could not leave him alone and let his soul rest in peace." I couldn't get it. I didn't grasp it at that time. In a head of a little girl it was hard to believe that there were mysteries to be solved. That there ruled a conspiracy theory that people thought it was odd that he was buried and the casket was never opened. They didn't believe he was dead! Oh yes. Elvis Lives! And as the world needs his songs, his words, his thoughts, his love, his light more than ever before.

Barbara Eden Primarily known as the star of the classic 1960s sitcom I Dream of Jeannie, Barbara Eden remains one of television’s most distinguished and identifiable figures. Her feature film credits are also extensive, including Flaming Star in 1960, The Brass Bottle in 1964, and Harper Valley PTA in 1978. She has starred opposite many of Hollywood’s most famous leading men, Elvis Presley and Tony Randall among them. She was very real, but also a little bit magical, like an angel moving around the world helping people wherever she went. And we got to see her children, Prince William and Prince Harry, grow up to young manhood. I know they were very proud of their famous beautiful mom, as I’m sure she was of them. Surely, she was an inspiration to all of us, everywhere. And it may not be generally known, but Diana donated to charity many dresses she had worn on important occasions so they could be sold to raise funds for the needy. She had impeccable taste in her clothes, which often were copied and began global fashion trends of their own, helping the careers of many young British designers.

Barbara Eden Primarily known as the star of the classic 1960s sitcom I Dream of Jeannie, Barbara Eden remains one of television’s most distinguished and identifiable figures. Her feature film credits are also extensive, including Flaming Star in 1960, The Brass Bottle in 1964, and Harper Valley PTA in 1978. She has starred opposite many of Hollywood’s most famous leading men, Elvis Presley and Tony Randall among them. We cannot help but wonder what might have been, how much more she might have accomplished, if granted a different destiny.

Never invest in any scheme that is based on a metaphor, or anything with the word, “next”, in it (e.g., “this kid is the next Elvis Presley”, “this will be the Lake Lucerne of the Southwest”). You will lose your shirt.

E-17 We look today and see that the church has taken its pattern not out of the Bible, out of Ruth, and out of Naomi, and out of Sarah, and the ones in the Bible; but they're patterning, even the women of the church, after Hollywood and the very dregs of the Devil. It's how that our people who call themselves Christians, go out there and get this evil man's ways, these records of Elvis Presley, ever what his name is, one of the most deluded, devil possessed people I've ever heard of in my life. Arthur Godfrey and such as that... And listen to them kind of nonsense on your radios and refuse to hear the Gospel sermon preached and the Bible, God have mercy on you. What kind of a spirit have we got among us. That is right. No wonder the prophet of God blushed before the--the Lord. He knew that was unrighteous. And he stood and pleaded the case, and said to God, "We're unrighteous." And we are, friends. ( "A Blushing Prophet" Preached on Sunday evening, 25th November 1956 at the Branham Tabernacle in Jeffersonville, Indiana, U.S.A. - See Paragraph E-17 ).

Milton did his best to keep up, which is to say, he lagged behind, baying like a mortally wounded basset hound. The Fausters were to singing as Napoleon was to Extreme Frisbee. Milton’s Pang gullet only made things worse, drawing out each tortured “note” until it whimpered for release. Mr. Presley pulled the emergency brake on their duet. “We’ve all got talent, son,” he consoled. “Some folks just got to dig deeper than others to find it. Now, let’s give someone else a chance. You”—he waved his diamond-ringed fingers lazily toward Virgil—“step on up and show us what you’ve got.” Virgil rose nervously, his metal chair sighing with relief, and trudged up to the stage as Milton shambled off. Ever the good friend, Virgil tried to high-five Milton after his disastrous debut, but due to Milton’s Pang-suited delayed reaction, he just ended up slapping him in the head. “Sorry,” Virgil mumbled to his friend as he stood before the chalkboard. “Just follow my lead, son, and relax,” Mr. Presley slurred supportively. Mr. Presley began to mournfully croon. “Au signal du plaisir, Dans la chambre du drille, Tu peux bien entrer fille, Mais non fille en sortir …” Virgil pulled in a great breath and began to sing. “Bonne nuit, hélas! Ma petite, bonne nuit. Près du moment fatal.” In a word, Virgil’s voice was stunning. In another word, he was a virtuoso. In four more words, Milton was very surprised. Virgil’s thrilling spectacle of pitch and tone was like a vocal fireworks display, and his breath control left the rest of the class breathless. “Fais grande résistance, S’il ne t’offre d’avance Un anneau conjugale.” Riding

When I was a child, ladies and gentlemen, I was a dreamer. I read comic books and I was the hero of the comic book. I saw movies and I was the hero in the movie. So every dream I ever dreamed has come true a hundred times.” He

Without a song, the day would never end; without a song, a man ain’t got no friend; without a song, the road would never bend. Without a song.’ So I keep singing a song. Good-night.

In the hearts of children, there’s so much trust and love. If only we could all cling throughout our lives to the wonder and innocence that are always present in a child. Our

Who the hell is that?” Chase barks. He watches Pete’s prideful swagger all the way down the aisle until he disappears from sight. Chase looks down at me. I shrug. “He’s a friend.” “Since when do you have friends like that?” he asks. He steps toward me, and I step back, until my back is against the shelves behind me. I don’t like to be cornered, but Chase has no way of knowing that. I skitter to the side so that I’m not hemmed in. “Friends like what?” I ask. I know he’s referring to the tattoos. Pete walks by the end of the aisle and waves at us, and then he winks at me. A grin tugs at my lips. I shrug again. “He’s really very nice.” “Where did you meet him?” I can tell the truth or I can lie. But then I hear Pete one aisle over as he starts to sing the lyrics to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock.” I grin. I can’t help it. “He’s helping out at the camp this week,” I say instead of the truth. Well, it’s sort of the truth. “Where’s he from?” Chase asks. “New York City,” I say. Pete’s song changes from Elvis to AC/DC’s “Jailbreak.” I laugh out loud this time. I can’t help it. “Your dad’s all right with you hanging out with him?” My dad is covered in tattoos, too, but most of his are hidden by his clothing. “He likes Pete,” I say. “I do, too.” Chase puts one arm on the shelf behind me and leans toward my body. I dodge him again, and he looks crossly at me. “Don’t box me in,” I warn. He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. But he still looks curious. “So, about tomorrow,” he says. “I can’t,” I blurt out. I think I hear a quickly hissed, “Yes!” from the other side of the aisle, but I can’t be sure. Chase touches my elbow, and it makes my skin crawl. I pull my elbow back. “Don’t touch me,” I say. Suddenly, Pete’s striding down the aisle toward us. His expression is thunderous, and I step in front of him so that he has to run into me instead of pummeling Chase like I’m guessing he wants to do. I lay a hand on his chest. “You ready to go?” I ask. He looks down at me, his eyes asking if I’m all right. His hand lands on my waist and slides around my back, pulling me flush against him. He’s testing me. And I don’t want to fight him. I admit it. Chase makes my skin crawl, and Pete makes my skin tingle. It’s not an altogether pleasant sensation, but only because I can’t control it. He holds me close, one hand on the center of my back, and the other full of breath mints and assorted sundries. He steps toward Chase, and Pete and I are so close together that I have to step backward when he steps forward. I repeat my question. “You get everything?” He finally looks down at me. “I got everything I need,” he says. His tone is polite but clear and soft as butter.

I found myself thinking about who I was away from him, about who that person was and who I wanted her to be. More than anything else, she had her own intuition, intelligence, and clarity of vision that allowed her to make up her own mind, even when it differed from Elvis’s drug-distorted reality. She had great strength and resilience. And she had an incredible amount of love to give, enough to not only nurture her future husband, but also her children, and in return for this love, she deserved respect and fidelity.

This is the Presley and Zachary of old times. Two hot-headed and emotional people. Yes, he’s sweet and loving, but he has an angry side. When you poke the bear, he roars loud. Funny thing is that I’m the same. He’s pissed me off by coming here yelling at me.

Despite his affluence, Donald’s tastes were often plebeian. In the waning months of the Eisenhower administration, in a culture defined by conformity, Donald used the record player in his dorm room mostly to listen to Elvis Presley and Johnny Mathis albums. Sometimes, Donald would screw an ultraviolet lightbulb into the overhead socket and announce to his roommate that it was time to tan. “We’re going to the beach,” he’d say. As

He was hiding there in the dark when Dewey Phillips called the Presley house,

Elvis’s fame happened to him—not entirely unbidden, but in proportions he had not imagined or sought. He was a dreamer, aspiring to stardom. He wanted to be big.

He did so innocently, without intention or design.

Rather than making black music or white music or a white imitation of black music, he was making music that was the voice of the Southern poor—both black and white working-class groups. “In their indigence and low social

Elvis Presley was born and grew up in Tupelo, on the edge of Chickasaw country. But his maternal ancestor Nancy Burdine came from Kentucky in Cherokee territory. His remote female ancestor could have been either Chickasaw or Cherokee.