So I guess Elvis would have celebrated his 70th birthday last Saturday. He was born in 1935, and were he still alive, his appearance would now be approximately how he was portrayed in Bubba Ho-tep. Over the weekend, a whole onslaught of fans descended on Graceland for the occasion (or just outside, since they weren't permitted on the grounds). They sangs songs and cut a 'Happy Birthday' cake, which the celebrant couldn't enjoy because he was dead.

When asked about the purpose of the festivities, one of the fans made this messianic statement, "You have to always think of what would Elvis want. He would want us to love each other, bond together as a family and be kind and giving. We're Elvis family, not just fans."

Wow.

Sorry to break the news to you, Elvis enthusiasts, but you really are just fans. As much as you'd like to cling to the King's great dead sequined coattails, you're not his family. Not in the genetic sense, not in the mafia sense, not in the drag queen sense—not in any sense. Graceland is not where you go when you die. Furthermore, this is not the way normal people behave, at least when they are taking their medication in an appropriate fashion. I adore John Lennon—even made a pilgrimage to the Imagine mosaic in Central Park, as you might recall—but I'd never presume to say I was part of his family. That is, unless the term 'part of the family' doesn't mean what I think it means. If it actually meant "one who stalks a dead person," then they might be onto something.

It's not that I don't get the power of music. I'm listening to Pink Floyd's Animals right now, and it's making me feel like I could conquer the world if I wanted (don't worry, I won't). But to confuse the art with the artist is a dangerous prospect. It's why so many young ladies who go backstage at concerts end up with social diseases. It's why people condemn Ezra Pound's poetry when they should be restricting their criticism to the man himself. (Not long ago, the city of Lawrence tried to name a creek after William S. Burroughs, who lived here for the last years of his life. They failed, because reactionary city council members protested that Burroughs was 'a degenerate' and shouldn't be lionized in any fashion.)

Is it ketchup on my dress that makes me so digress?

Look, Elvis had a gift. Of course he did. He may even have been a visionary of sorts. But these individuals with their Elvis fetishes strike me as a little too David Koresh for their own good. Like one day we'll read in the papers that a bunch of them shared a compound in Tupelo, Mississippi, and committed mass suicide after a hearty meal of peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Then again, maybe I'm just confusing the idiocy with the idiots. Maybe I should just stop criticizing and let the Elvisites have their fun. After all, I like to think I'm part of Erik Estrada's family, and my therapist says there's nothing unhealthy about that.