Thirty years ago this week, a giant bid us adieu.
Like most of the population, thirty years ago this week, I said goodbye to the King.
That August of 1977, his posthumous presence plastered the planet: he was all over the news, of course - clips from his films, excerpts from interviews, concert footage - but was just as visible on t-shirts, posters and enough commemorative knick knacks to fill a gaggle of Gracelands.
A close friend of mine had just returned from Israel, where, she told me, young and old were mourning Elvis.
My mother, estranged from my father some seven years, cried like a teenager in the throes of her first break-up, replacing the curses she usually hurled may father's way with fond reminiscences of the husband she first met to Elvis' music.
The National Enquirer - the only tabloid there was in those days - published a controversial front page photo of the King in his coffin. The photo (the story came out later) was taken by a cousin of Elvis' on the take, with a camera concealed in a tie pin. The public as outraged - but the Enquirer pleaded good corporate citizenship; "We gave people what they wanted," they explained, "proof that the man was really gone."
It didn't work. Theories that Elvis was alive and well lasted for the next fifteen years.
In the end, of course, even the most stubborn of theorists was forced to say goodbye to him.
My goodbye took place to the sound of Elvis' greatest hits, as they blared across the crowded grounds of local fair. While exiting the premises with my girlfriend, I spotted a small photo in the left hand corner of a newspaper some kid was hawking.
There it was, for only the squinting eye to see: Groucho Marx, dead at 87.
To have made that contribution to film, to television, to wit...only to be footnoted, I lamented.
We reached our bus to the sounds of the musical tribute that had just started to climb the charts that week:
"The King is gone...the King is I gone...but long live his name."
You bet your life.
