Elvis died 44 years ago today. I vaguely remember his death, mostly I remember my Elvis trading cards from the country store down the road and my mother for years afterwards shaking her head, wistfully declaring that no matter how fat/crazy etc he was by the end, "he never lost that voice." Elvis was never Chuck or Buddy or Little Richard, but that voice, that voice that voice that voice.
I hate to be crass but this is the first thing I thought of today:
It's no news that The King could get all the tail he wanted. But then I read this, the moment he was found dead:
"Ginger
awoke around 1:30pm, rolled over, went back to sleep for a few minutes,
then called her mother. How was Elvis? her mother asked, and Ginger
said she didn't know, he had never come back to bed, maybe she had
better go check on him. She washed and put on her makeup in her own
bathroom, then knocked on Elvis' bathroom door. When there was no
answer, she pushed on it and discovered him lying on the floor..."
I
mean, GOTdam! Girl you're sleeping with goes to look for you in the
bathroom, presumably to possibly walk in on you taking a dump, and she's
like "I better freshen up with some makeup first." Cap. doffed.
THE KING!
"Just shittin' baby, come on in!"
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