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Dining With Elvis: Forbidden Island–a.k.a Too Much Monkey Business

      As you know, Elvis Presley is alive and well and lives in a room in my house. While in public, I call him by his Graceland codename of “Alan” so as not to raise suspicion. This way we can come and go largely unnoticed. His appearance is not one of caricature. He’s now 75 years old, and has short, thick silver-gray hair, and is in fairly good shape. He tries to keep a low profile, but every now and again Elvis hankers for the days of yesteryear.

        A couple of weeks ago (August 16th) I took him to a party at a tiki bar in Alameda that held a celebration in honor of the anniversary of his “death.”

       We arrived at Forbidden Island and the joint was packed. Clips from some of his movies played on the televisions and on the big screen in the back of the bar. A man in a fez greeted us warmly. He was known as “Will the Thrill,” and known in Bay Area circles as a writer and an emcee for social events that are eclectic in nature. He was known to me, because I’d heard that Will believed Elvis Presley was still alive. I would have to be careful around this guy. If he suspected that I had “The King” in tow, things could get stickier than a tiki bar cocktail tray at closing time.

       Elvis looked around the bar. “Man, these people still give a damned, huh?”

       “Of, course, Alan,” I said. I leaned in and whispered, “But if people knew you were still alive they’d crucify you all over again. Not to mention you’d spend the rest of your life in jail…and a real one, not like one in some dumb movie.” I gestured to the screen showing a clip from “Jailhouse Rock.”

       “You take that back; that was one of the better ones,” he snarled. We sat down and drank $6 Mai Tais. Elvis turned down the chance to order some deep-fried appetizers, saying, “Nah, I don’t eat that crap no more.” We watched the screen with the enthralled audience. A montage of images from Elvis’s life poured from the projector, and I thought I saw his eyes well up as a picture of himself with his dead mother flashed across the screen. “Get me another damned cocktail, something different,” he choked out quietly.

      I went to the bar to give him a moment alone, and ordered him a drink called “The King.” It was a rum, banana, and peanut butter concoction especially created for the occasion.

      While I was at the bar, the real “King” had recovered his composure and was chatting up some girls who were easily half his age. They smiled politely and laughed at his jokes. Just as I arrived at the table one of the women said. “You seem awfully familiar. Have we met?” I interrupted in my thickest English accent (before Elvis could answer). “Leave it out, Dad, you’re not trying to convince these birds you’re a bloody American again are you? Bleedin’ hell, give him a rum drink and he thinks he’s a Yankee Doodle Wanker from Tennesse or somethin’.”

      I smartly pulled him away from the table back to our spot. “Hey, man, I thought I was going to get some action there. I told the blonde that I could swivel my hips just like Elvis,” he muttered.

“You mean ‘hip replacements,’ right?” I laughed, and he scowled and cussed me out quietly.

      The host, Will the Thrill, picked up a microphone and announced that there would be Elvis trivia for prizes. All right, I thought, we’re going to do okay here. Some people around us got the easy ones. I’d told Elvis to sit tight and hold out for the grand prize. Will and his wife (Monica The Tiki Goddess) deliberated over what the final question might be, and then it came.

      “What was the name of Elvis’s pet monkey?” There was a silence cast across the room as it was apparent that these alleged Elvis “fans” were shocked to hear that he owned a monkey. Elvis slowly raised his hand.

     “Yes, you sir, what’s the answer?” asked Monica the Tiki Goddess.

     “Scatter!” drawled Elvis as if barking a command.

     “Correct and what is your name, sir?”

      “My name is El…I mean…Alan. My name is Alan.” The women at the next table looked over towards him and cheered and applauded. I smiled. “Well done, Dad, we won!” I said animatedly for their benefit. I gave him a big hug and he whispered in my ear. “Do you think the grand prize is a ‘57 Cadillac?”

      As I feared he might, the still be-fezzed Will the Thrill angled for a better view of Elvis and was looking like he wanted to find out more about the gray-haired Southerner by my side. I grabbed Elvis’s arm, thanked the bartenders, and made for the door quicker than a pig that had accidentally wandered into the middle of a Luau. It was a necessary maneuver, I sensed the rum might loosen the king’s lips and, God forbid, his artificial hips.

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4 Responses

  1. I love Elvis!!!!!!

  2. I tried peanut butter & banana sandwich once…
    …awful. I’m glad you and Elvis are friends.
    Is it too early to pull Ian Curtis out of my broom closet?

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