That Untouchable Thing (Blog #377)

When I was a kid, my sister had a crush on Elvis Presley, and I guess I did too. Not that I talked about it. Still, we grew up watching his movies, listening to his music. At some point, our parents took us to Graceland. I can still remember the mansion–the long couch in the living room, the entertainment room downstairs, the pool table, even the airplane with the bed where he slept. As we got older, both my sister and I turned our attention to other things, but it’s weird how those childhood fondnesses hang on. Now when I hear Elvis’s music, especially if I’m dancing to it, there’s part of me that comes alive and feels like a kid again.

As I mentioned yesterday, I’m in Memphis this week as part of a media tour. This morning, Graceland was our first stop. Y’all, it’s grown in the last thirty years–not Graceland itself, but Elvis Presley Enterprises. They’ve built a new hotel and expanded the museum to a building across the street. Well, it’s a complex, basically–two hundred thousand square feet of The King–records, awards, souvenirs, and jumpsuit after jumpsuit.

So. Many. Rhinestones.

After seeing the museum, we toured Graceland proper, and whereas it was “smaller” than I remembered as a child, it was almost exactly the same. (Some items have been moved across the street.) It was so surreal–I’d have a picture in my head, then I’d walk around a corner, and there it would be, the Jungle Room, the racquetball court. For me, it was all phenomenal. The digital tour (we were each given tablets with pictures and audio) was hosted by John Stamos, and I learned that Elvis bought Graceland as a twenty-two year-old. Can you imagine? His parents and other family members lived there with him, since he’d grown up poor and always promised them a better home, a better life.

Fun fact–John Stamos’s character, Uncle Jesse, on Full House, was named as a tribute to Elvis’s twin brother (Jesse), who died at birth.

During the tour, our guide said that Elvis had quite the temper. One day he got made at the news, so he pulled out a gun and shot the television. It’s now on display in the museum. (Think about having one of your worst moments immortalized for all the world to see.) Something else I found interesting was that Elvis was always surrounded by his best friends, often referred to as The Memphis Mafia. Our guide said if Elvis bought one car, he bought thirteen; if he bought one motorcycle, he bought thirteen–all for him and his friends.

After the tour we had lunch at Vernon’s, a barbecue restaurant named after Elvis’s dad (Vernon). We had some extra time after lunch, so I toured Elvis’s planes. The big one, The Lisa Marie, is the one with the bed. And whereas I remembered the bed and the gold sink in the bathroom, I’d forgotten about the meeting room, the television set, and the Gatorade bottle at the bar. I mean, surely I must have seen them before. It’s funny how your mind does that–hangs on to one memory and lets go of another.

When we left Graceland, we went immediately to Sun Records, the recording studio where Elvis got his start when he was still a teenager. Our guide there, Tiffany (she was over-the-top amazing), referred to the recording studio itself as “hollowed ground,” this little room filled with old guitars and an upright piano, home to Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Johnny Cash, to name a few. Y’all, I’m not ashamed to say that I teared up more than once today, both at Graceland and at Sun. By the world’s standards, Elvis came from nowhere, he was no one. But he had a nice face, a ton of talent, and maybe more determination. One day he was basically living in a run-down shack, the next, Graceland.

I can’t tell you how inspiring this is. Talk about turning your life around.

Here’s a video of Tiffany telling the story of how Elvis was “discovered” by Sam Phillips, the owner of Sun. (Elvis had been jamming at Sun for a while and finally hit upon a sound and song that Sam liked and approved of.) The next thing the world knew, Elvis was on the radio singing, “That’s Alright, Mama.” As Tiffany says, “The rest is history.”

Soul–that untouchable thing that always insists on rising.

When we left Sun, we went to Stax Museum. Stax was another Memphis recording company, the one that brought us such artists as Otis Redding, Sam and Dave, Isaac Hayes, and Booker T. and the MG’s. There, because of the type of music they were producing, there was a big emphasis on “soul,” that quality in music born out of slavery and the blues, out of pain and hardship. Soul–that untouchable thing that always insists on rising. And what a beautiful thing, to take any kind of pain or negative life experience and turn it into something creative with depth and grit, something beautiful that brings joy to others. Here we are decades later, and millions, including me, are still smiling.

Our last “tour stop” today was Royal Studios, which I had never heard of and was completely off the beaten path. Y’all, it was in the hood. I guess it used to be a silent movie theater–the floor steadily slopes from the front to the back–but it just looked like an old beat-up building. At least on the outside. But on the inside–y’all, Royal Studios was home to Al Green. He recorded all his albums there. Over the years, Royal Studios has recorded and produced AC/DC (Back in Black album), Keith Richards, Ann Peebles, Melissa Ethridge, and–recently–Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars. That’s right, Royal Studios produced “Uptown Funk.” The studio was started by Willie Mitchell, and his son, Boo, gave us the tour today. He said, “It was four in the morning, and they were still writing the song. We’d run out of booze, so I broke open an old bottle, a special edition, that belonged to my father when he was alive. (Willie Mitchell was a famous singer and producer in his own right.) I said, ‘Sorry, Pops.’ I brought the bottle back to where we were recording, and Bruno said, ‘Boo Mitchell–fill my cup, put some liquor in it.’ An hour later, those words were in the song.”

Is that cool or what?

(That’s a picture of me and Boo at the top of the blog. Boo’s father, Willie, is pictured behind us.)

No one is immune from life’s challenges.

The last thing our group did today was eat dinner (and a lot of it) at The Gray Canary. The staff was kind enough to charge my phone while we were eating, so I didn’t take any pictures until dessert. But y’all, it was the perfect evening, a chance to sit down, unwind, let it all soak in (the food and the entire day). I’m still over-the-moon. Mostly I’ve been thinking about Elvis. The tour guide didn’t say it specifically, but I got the sense that he was lonely, the way he always surrounded himself with so many people. I guess no one is immune from life’s challenges and emotions. Elvis apparently did a lot of spiritual reading, trying to make sense of why he, a boy from Tupelo, Mississippi, would be given so much fame and fortune. And who knows why things happen as they do? But I think it’s beautiful and oh-so-inspiring whenever any soul, despite its challenges and perhaps because of them, grits through the creation process, rises, and lifts others up along the way.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops.

"

don’t tell me what to do (blog #17)

This afternoon I went to Crystal Bridges Art Museum in Bentonville with my Aunt Terri, my cousin Dustin, and Dustin’s fiancé, Christy. (They’re all from Tulsa.) I assume the trip was something they planned before today, but I just found out about it when I woke up this morning, or as some people call it, afternoon. Since I didn’t have any plans, it was a lovely surprise.

On the drive up, I played my two current-favorite songs on repeat, and I looked at the mountains and the trees (and sometimes the road), and I thought, God, life is great.

After meeting Terri, Dustin, and Christy at Christy’s parents house, the four of us proceeded to the museum, and we decided it was more important to sit down and have coffee before checking out the exhibits. Well, everyone got a small coffee—like, honestly, they looked like shot glasses. But I got a sixteen-ounce coffee, the largest on the menu, because I have a problem with moderation. (I don’t like it.) So when we got ready to look around, I just picked up my drink and took it with me.

The first big exhibit we saw was—and I’m not making this up—a ton of hard candy (all green) on the floor in a rectangle with a light shining on it. (Later, when we saw a large canvas that was simply painted all gray except maybe a couple small dots, Christy said, “We’re in the wrong business.”) Despite the fact that it was just bunch of candy on the ground, the exhibit was really beautiful in its own way, and the deal is that you’re allowed to take a piece of it, so the art is constantly changing. Pieces of candy go out, and then more pieces come back in.

About fifteen minutes into the exhibits (after the all-gray canvas that someone probably got paid a lot of money for), a member of the museum staff came over and very nicely said, “Sir, drinks aren’t allowed in this area, but there’s a trashcan in the restroom just around that corner.” But what I heard sounded something more like, “If you don’t put that down right now, I’m calling your parents and sending you to the principal’s office.”

Maybe I should get my ears checked.

So I threw the cup away, but not before I finished drinking every last drop of the coffee because I wanted to have the last word and feel like a rebel.

Well, I really, really try not to obsess about stupid shit like this, but I’m rarely successful at it. Like, I remember being at a water park once as an adult, and some lifeguard (who probably had acne and drove a scooter to work) blew his whistle and pointed his finger like one of those angry cops in the middle of a traffic jam, telling me I was in the wrong part of the water. So I just swam away, sort of like I threw the coffee cup in the trash, and even though part of my brain understood that it’s not personal and he’s just doing his job and he doesn’t hate me, I still felt like I’d gotten my name on the blackboard.

The good news is, the incident with the cup today didn’t bother me as much as similar incidents in the past. Like once I got a parking ticket during a trip to Knoxville, and it totally ruined the dinner I was having with my friends. It was all I could think about. It’s like the people pleaser in me just wanted to jump up and invite the meter maid to join us for pizza, in hopes that I could convince her what a nice guy I am, that I’m not a bad person for parking in the wrong spot. It was a mistake. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But today wasn’t that bad.

I’ve talked to my therapist about these sorts of situations before, and a couple of things always come up. First, I don’t like authority, and therefore I don’t like being told what to do. Second, I don’t like authority, and therefore I don’t like being told what to do.

Any questions?

I always assumed my problem with authority came from the fact that Dad was arrested and sent to prison, that I actually sat in the courtroom and watched twelve jurors, one by one, say, “Guilty.” Like, I’ve got plenty of emotional reasons to not like authority and to be afraid of getting in trouble. But my therapist says there’s more. (Heads up, there’s always more.) She says that because Mom was sick when I was growing up and Dad was in prison, I pretty much raised myself (and did a damn fine job, thank you). So since I’ve spent so much time being my own authority, outside authority and I don’t mix well.

How a person can hate authority and being told what to do and still be a rule follower, someone who’s afraid of getting in trouble, I’m still figuring out. (Job security for my therapist.) Walt Whitman said, “I contain multitudes.”

Sometime last year, I got pulled over for using my phone while driving, and I lied and told the police officer I was looking for directions, but the truth is that I was actually texting. (This is my finding out if confession really is good for the soul. I’ll get back to you on the results.) Well, I didn’t get a ticket for using the phone, but I did get a ticket for not wearing my seatbelt. (Have I mentioned I don’t like being told what to do?) When I told my therapist that I felt bad about lying to the police officer, she just said, “Fuck tha police.”

Apparently “Fuck tha police” is a rap song my therapist likes. (I didn’t know that she was such a thug, but then again, she also likes the roller derby.) Anyway, ever since then, Fuck tha Police has become the phrase we use to describe that part of my personality that has authority issues. And it’s not like she was encouraging me to break the law or do something stupid, but she said that particular part of my personality is always going to be there, and it has to be satisfied in some way, which I guess is why the lie didn’t bother her.

A lot of times after therapy, I go to lunch with my friend Ray. We call it “therapy after therapy.” Ray is honestly one of my favorite people, and I think it’s partly because he’s a priest but sometimes talks like a sailor, so I never feel like I need to clean up my act or put on a show in order to be around him. When we talked about Fuck tha Police, Ray told me that sometimes you just have to not give a shit—pig out on junk food and feel gross for a weekend—break the rules you’ve imposed on yourself—drive your car faster than the speed limit. So that day I drove home at a hundred miles an hour, maybe not the whole time, but for a while. And nothing bad happened. And Ray was right. It felt amazing.

Before we left the museum today, my aunt asked one of the ladies who worked there (whose hair looked like a bird nest, we all agreed) if she could take our picture. She said she couldn’t—they weren’t allowed. Then she added that she wished she could, which just made me mad and at the same time happy that I wasn’t the one talking to her. (As it turns out, when you have a problem with authority, you don’t like being told no. I’m working on it—I’m in therapy!)

Only somewhat dejected by not getting our picture taken, we went outside, and Christy asked another employee (whose hair did not look like a bird nest) if he could take our photo. And he didn’t even hesitate—he said sure, he’d be glad to.

YAH! A rule breaker! Fuck tha Police!

By the time I got home this evening, I noticed a definite change in mood from earlier in the day. I no longer felt like life was great. I mean, I thought it was okay. (You know, I’ve had better.) And I don’t think I can completely blame the incident with the coffee cup or being a little irritated about the lady who wouldn’t take our picture. But I think they played a part, just like I think the fact that I was tired and hungry played a part too.

I have this fantasy that one day I’ll go to therapy or read one more self-help book and wake up the next day transformed. Like I’ll never be in a bad mood again, and I won’t feel like a five-year-old when a total stranger says, “No drinks allowed.” But I get that it probably won’t happen that way. No, my experience of life is more like that exhibit of hard candy. Some days, it feels like a bunch of pieces of me are missing, and when the light hits, all I can see are the shadows. But then other days, it feels like all the missing pieces have been replenished, and when the light hits, the shadows scatter. As I see it in this moment, all of it is art, constantly changing. I, too, contain multitudes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Allowing someone else to put you down or discourage your dreams is, quite frankly, anything but self-care.

"