Have Love, Will Travel (pt 1& 2)

The original plan was New Zealand. Christopher has wanted to go there since he was Little C ( a childhood nickname given by MamaCath that occassionaly still slips out)

 I’m sure he was mesmerized by surf culture, towering green mountains and beaches for days on which to beach bum it. I also hear they have a real thirst for adventure there: I distinctly remember a near death moment in the small third-world Caribbean island of Dominica while scaling down the side of a cliff dozens of stories above a black sand beach and our trusty tour-guide relating our terror-trek to a walk in the park for a New Zealander Kiwi. Good God, that level of thrill junkie is nothing this uncoordinated lanky lady wants any part of.

I mostly wanted New Zealand for what are sure to be some of the globe’s most hilariously loud, out-spoken natural comedians. Because while beautiful beaches do me quite nice, there’s nothing I love like a good laugh.

Anyways. We didn’t go to New Zealand. But with what (at the time) seemed like good reasoning. Shortly after returning home from our nine months living as a workaholic beach bum and a proper beach bum in St. Thomas, we both came to the realization we wanted to try our hand at becoming real people. Real live people. Chris hates when I say that. And it’s true. Like what we were doing or anyone is doing isn’t “real”. But I’ll assume you know what I mean when I say that- because society tells us so.

And so, Chris went on to get his Realtors license (woo-hoo!) and I went on to be thoroughly confused by what I want out of this life and what I have to contribute. But with New Zealand travel plans put on hold, we couldn’t entirely betray our lust for wander. And so- the great road trip of 2012 began fruition.

All summer long we told envious friends in cubicles of our plan to head west on a month long road trip. The general route of the trip was always known- cut across to Seattle and work our way down the Washington, Oregon, California coast until we’d cut across through Arizona and New Mexico to Austin, Texas and then head homeward. But that was it. Not another minute of time went into planning any sort of travel arrangement or sight-seeing or tourist traps or whatever else it is that responsible travelers Google for months before a trip.

Nah. We knew the magic of a truly righteous trip lied in the unknowing and the unfolding of the road in cognition with the universe’s mysterious ways.

So I told Iron Horse Hotel I had brighter plans in my horizon and off we went.

Our rental car was perfect. It was shiny gray and brand new with an enormous trunk and backseat to fill all the needed supplies for a month on the road in various climates and various sleeping amenities. All packed up, last minute as usual- Chris throwing his clothes into a laundry hamper and me grabbing about 14 books “just in case”.  (Note to past-self: this is a very fast-paced month-long road trip, not a summer Up North on the lake. You have no time to read. And when you do- your brain’s too exhausted to make words out of letters. Leave the bookshelf intact at home)

“Okay here we go! Yeehaww! The great adventure begins!!!” I shouted excitedly as Chris’s driving cheerleader.

We weren’t on the highway more than 7 minutes before Chris realized there was no cruise control.

“What do you mean there’s no cruise control? This is 2012. Cars parallel park themselves. They can maintain one selected speed if told to do so.”

Or so we thought. First stop on the roadie? Back to Hertz to trade in our car for the only one left in our price range- a Nissan Vera with a teeny tiny almost non-existent trunk. This only added to our hoarder/homeless/come rob us vibe but we put our adventure smiles back on and started off once more. (After grabbing several more books from Half Priced Books conveniently located across the street from the rental office)

Our first destination was Missoula, MT, a 22 hour trek where we were sure to find chilled-out mountain men and craft beer to charge us up for the trip West.

I began reading my new Brian Andres book. Gahd I’ve loved Brian Andres since my first browse in a gift shop where his beautiful, whimsical poems and illustrations are in print form. Here I found a whole book of his work?! The only omen I needed. I appreciate his writing for its simplicity, allowing the reader to draw its deeper meanings and conclusions.

“Saving up
a bag full of
peak moments
she’s going to have
someday if she can
ever get away
from all the
same old stuff
that’s holding
her back

& you can pretty
Well guess how
It’s going”

-Brian Andres

This one specifically hit a chord as I was thankful I was not the girl in the poem. Or maybe I was- but I was making sure to cash in those moments. Not storing them under my bed or in the back of my closet or wherever special things like moments are stored. But spending them madly, like a filthy rich 30 year old virgin with a stopwatch and a death wish in a stripclub for the first time.

Or something like that.

“Ouu those stinky feet”, I said snapping back to reality and rolling down the window thinking about the next 19 hours of road ahead.

“If you’re gonna love me, you gotta love all of me”, he said with a smile. And I agreed, sticking my head out the window.

What really christened our road trip was our first night stopping exhausted and heavy-lidded at 3 a.m. in a South Dakotan rest stop. Unfortunate for Christopher, he had previously decided to shmoka the ganj and so while he was experiencing paranoid hallucinations of the character from Scream behind every bathroom stall, I was soberly envisioning the trucker behind his cabin curtain sharpening his machete and the man and his Rottweiler in the camper sharing a meal of human kidneys and fried earlobes.

We managed to live through the chilly night and arrived in Hippytown USA Thursday afternoon. Missoula is a small college town located in a deep valley creating a thick fog across the city as we entered. Nothing makes me want a local craft beer like some thick fog.

But first we needed to search for Chris’s infamous thrift store where he scored a killer shirt once circa 2007. Here’s the thing about thrift shops though- they always have new old junk that people don’t want. So…after about two hours of hopping around and sifting through denim blouses and floral button-downed calf-length skirts, we decided it was time for that beer.

We headed to Kettlehouse Alehouse, famous for their stoner-friendly brews like Old Bongwater and Hemptober Spliff Ale. The place was packed with thick throngs of flannel no doubt planning their next fishing trip.

The bartender gave us a punch card explaining we could only drink a maximum of three beers in the Alehouse per visit according to a Missoula law. We aren’t in Wisconsin anymore, Toto.

We met a dude from West Virginia who told us about killing a coyote and was currently deciding what to do with its carcass and I never felt the estrogen sucked from my body more intensely. I also informed him that my dog was half coyote, and it’s actually pronounced coy-yo-tay and he probably killed her mom.

Welp, better be hitting the ole dusty trail then. And off to Seattle. 

The Fine Folks of Frenchtown

Note to reader: I just dug this journal entry up from probably early 2012. If I were to guess I'd say January. It reminded me of this special time trapped inside the vortex known as St Thomas and I thought I'd share it with you good people.
_____________________________________

I’m sitting outside on high bar tables in front of Craig and Sally’s, waiting to start the day serving up St. Thomas’s lawyers and doctors their chardonnays and samboukas, when Dan the (Car Cleaning) Man makes his way over with his daily cigarette and dollar-asking shuffle.

Nope. Quit as of 2012, brotha.

But maybe I’m interested in one of the many G-strings inside a yellow plastic Pueblo bag he’s holding?

“I think they’re new,” he says, pulling out one sparkly thong after another.

I feel myself flush, thank him, and offer hope for another woman out there in search for such belongings from such a man. God speed, Dano.

The island is so small that encounters with local bums, bar patrons, or fellow freedom-chasers are not an uncommon thing- it comes with the territory. Luckily, not all encounters are as dreaded as some.

For instance, every time I run into Stan, I consider it a blessed day. Patrick and I met Stan while hitch-hiking to K-Mart for cleaning supplies one day. He picked us up in his rundown Ford Explorer (typical island junker-style) and after only a few minutes of chatting, we decided heading to the beach bar was a far better destination. Toilet brushes can wait.

Stan is your classic case of Island Man. He wears only vibrantly colored floral T-shirts or too-tight tanks with incredibly short shorts and cranks Jimmy Buffet all day, every day. Drinking rum at 6 a.m. and cursing up a storm, he is full-blooded island.

The fear of upper-man thigh that is usually strongly in my consciousness doesn’t so thoroughly freak me out for some reason when he’s sporting his well-above-the-knee bottoms.

Once, Andrew and I believed him to have pooped his pants one day after too many rum and gingers.

We told him he smelled, to which he simply declared, through gritted teeth, “I’m OLD.” Because apparently it’s almost expected for 50 year old men to crap themselves in public.

Then Patrick passed out face-down naked on the porch (dibbing him forever “Paradise Pat”) and it was too much for Stan. (That, and he probably needed to go home and change his underwear) and we haven’t seen a whole lot of him since.  Bless you, Stan the Man. Whichever bar you’re drinking rum in right now.

Another local favorite is Frenchtown’s most infamous kook. The man, the myth, the Chicken. Chicken walks around Frenchtown with his mullet, wearing a turquoise “KOOL-aid” t-shirt and red basketball shorts, looking for cigarettes and dollars. When night falls and he finds enough booze (or lord knows what else), he stacks his boombox on his shoulder and gives Frenchtown some cheap entertainment. Hollering at the moon and barking at cars, mostly. He’s told me he’s in love with me on various occasions. If only he was about 5 inches taller.

In Chicken We Trust.

On a less homeless, pants crapping note, I’ve befriended my first multi-millionaire. Frequenting C&S’s daily for shrimp-anything and scotch neats, conducting his mega-million dollar telephone transactions, Dale is an interesting character. He seems constantly mesmerized yet confounded by mine and Chris’s relationship. Funny how money-making can come so easy to someone, yet the things I find come only naturally- i.e. loving, friendship, emotions, feeling- he finds so completely perplexing. It’s been an interesting relationship to say the least- but I think that both sides see value in one another and respect one another which makes for a good new perspective. That, and he invites us all over to drink Krug champagne at his baller loft and dropped a couple offers for European vacationing.

 It’s been 28 days since his last food item and I give him nothing but props/ insanity reviews. I mean, coming from the girl my kitchen staff calls “dumpster girl” or self-proclaimed Fat Kid (trapped inside a lanky white girl’s body), 28 days of zero food, by choice, is an absolute abomination. Blasphemy! I tried to do a 7 day cleanse when the first effects of cheap rum and cigarettes were getting to me down here and I lasted all of 2.5 days. What did I finally succumb to after 50 hours of tummy rumbling and food craving? Veggie pizza from the gas station I was stranded at. Welp, we all can’t be Ghandi. Or even Dale for that matter.

Looking back at good people I’ve met here, I reflect on my first real island friend, Steve. I met him at a bar our first night on the Rock because he was trying to pick me up and buy me a drink, but turned out to be a friend of Chris’s from the first time he was down here in 2009.

The most memorable beach Steve took us to was Little Megan’s. We went there with his friend B.J (“short for Beetlejuice,” she told us, with her whimsical gypsy smile). With a blond buzzed head and hairy armpits, that girl wasted no time in stripping down and jumping in the water. In efforts to not be the Mid-West prude on board, I took my top off and sauntered in wearily. We bonded right away, and she told me she actually knew we were going to meet. 

Apparently, her new 50-something year old boyfriend who lives on the boat next to her told her she was going to meet three people in her same age bracket from the mid-west; Wisconsin specifically. Two of them were going to be in a relationship for under a year, but have lived previous lifetimes together. This couple (aka Christopher and I) is going to partake on his journey by boat to the earth’s vortexes in order to release the trapped souls and thus help save the world.

My suitcase is packed. Just waiting for the boat.

**Stan update: He is spending most days drinking rum and gingers at Palm Passage and awaiting his gold tooth engraved with a palm tree to replace the decaying tooth he lost in a piece of pizza a couple weeks ago. He’s lookin good.

**Chicken update: after multiple times soberly joking I was going to make-out with Chicken, I spent the other night blackout moonlight dancing with him, apparently ending the dance with a smooch on the mouth.

The bartender at my restaurant insisted on telling our usual patrons and I almost wasn’t allowed to handle food any longer. 

Portland: Where Young People Go To Retire

"She's crazier than me", I think, as we speed down I-94W with a Uhaul packed full of my sister's belongings (most importantly her coveted down comforter and mattress, that little princess and the pea). I think it's been almost two full weeks since she's made the absolute, final decision to leave the black, beautiful hole that is Milwaukee and travel westward to Portland, OR, where Cool Kids flock from all over the country to bask in their crunchy, heady hipness.

 First stop? Minneap for a two day love pit-stop complete with Horner Family wine circle story-sharing and a wild night at Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros with Minneap's four finest females.

 The lead singer Alexander was looking more sexy and disheveled than ever with his hair all up on top of his head like a quasi-turban and his old raggedy long-underwear shirt literally falling off him. Ouu Alexander, if I saw you on the street I'd probably hand you a granola bar, uttering "God bless", but on that stage with that voice, you're looking mighty fine. I could not have been more in love as glitter poured down our hair, faces and clothing from some undisclosed background glitter terrorist.
 Jade was as cute and pre-pubescent looking than ever with her bowl-cut and hoodless purple wolf sweatshirt. I want to be her mom.

 Edward Sharpe rocked it out with insane beautiful energy and I found myself being passed along from shoulder to shoulder of rowdy crowd members-- less surprisingly by two men about my age, and then lastly by a little tiny miniature lesbian. Finally safe back on the ground, their single "Home" began to bump bump bump in our hearts and filled our lung cavities with ever-flowing happy good good until the wee hours...

 The brutal light of 6:30 a.m. came stomping into my hungover brain- reminding me about the 1,700 mile drive Kal and I were about to endure. I wouldn't even think to bother writing about any of our Nort Dakota trek- I'll spare you all those long, flat, monotonous, never-ending details (and let's be honest- I was in a mild comatose state for most of it anyways- sorry Kal). However, by the time we got to Montana everything was gorgeous. Mountain man and mountain gal livin out in the back woods riding horses and breeding goats, yelling at pine trees just because they can and no one else is there to ask them "why?" or "stop that" kind of gorgeous.

 Gorgeous yes, but cooollddd. Me in last night's red miniskirt didn't mix so well with snow covered pine trees. When nature called, I stopped off at a roadside gas station,  pulled on some of Kali's thick wool ski socks (cursing my consistently horrendous packing abilities), and tried to act casual. The gas station was closing up shop but directed us down the street to a nearby bar--which actually happened to be this ghost town's only bar.

 Kali and I walked in and the whole scene immediately turned into an old Western film. Everyone stopped speaking, turned their heads to stare, music stopped and a pin literally tinged against the floor. I was threatened to a dual outside and tightened my gun sling as I spit a wad of chew on the floor and exited through the swinging wooden door.
Ok, not that far. Actually, I just awkwardly bee-lined it to the restroom in the back of the bar before deciding Kal and I deserved a cold one. And since our incredibly sweetheart of a bartender was buying, why not two?" What's that?, the bartender says, "You're taking a cross-country road trip? Shots for everyone!" She drew us a map of Portland and sent us on our merry-way.

 [Side-note: the Universe is so good to us. Delivering just what we want/need right when we want/need it. As Chris says, "Sometimes I like it here." ]

 That night we stopped around 11 p.m. at a nice little off the road crackden to spend the night.
The woman at the front desk was barking at a pack of crackheads and calling the local police enforcement as Kali handed over her credit card for a room for the night. We threw a blanket over Koya, booked it to our second story room, locked the doors and decided we were far too tired to care about silly things like personal safety, hygiene standards or our level of self-respect.

 The next day delivered us the Mother of Green Lushness. Passing the highway Oregon state border sign, Kali utters, "Wow. This is insane. I'm really moving here", as if realizing it for the first time.
 Bless her, that ballsy little bliss follower.

For Mama J, Kal and I, Portland was filled with lots of necessities, like finding a roof over Kali's head. But when not worrying about my little homeless, jobless bum of a sister- we made sure to soak up as much Portlandia culture as time allowed. Micro-brews and free range chicken, chats and rowdy laughter with Dana, urban pirate pack sightings, park lingering, and overall city explorations.

 I see nothing but opportunities and dream manifesting for Kal in this crunchy jungle of love and fix gears.
 I'll have to come back to Portland after collecting some more body ink to aid in my friend-making abilities. But then I'm there!

 Portland...Where Young People Go To Retire

Viva la Dumpster Girls!

So it's my first day as a black woman, and I feel great.
By which I mean-- Joan, the Dominican dishwasher at Craig and Sally's braided my hair like a beautiful black chick. Or gangly basketball playing/ break-dance-attempting white chick.

"Soo...how was the Disney Cruise?" asks Ryan, and I know I'll have no trouble catching a tourist-loving cab driver's attention.
Luckily for me, I have my stud of a loverman to pick me up in our death wish of a 1990 Jeep Wrangler.
Made out of mostly wood and rust (couple a' wheels), the Red Beast gets us to town--coasting down hill and peddling Flinstone style up-hill. Oh dear god I hope I live.
I guess it beats my days hitch-hiking to town in the back of pick-ups or shotgun with old island ladies worried about my 'young white girl ways'.

As for work down here, I'm a business lesbian from the 80's.
At least thats what my uniform would have you believe. Craig and Sally's is a finer-dining award winning wine bar that still maintains it's small island town feel in Frenchtown. And it's making me a fat kid/ wino on the daily.

The uniform is the worst past about the job and actually, I hear its a step up from what once were Hawiian shirts. If that were the current uniform, I would be ulternate universing my first job at the Highland House when I was 14, and most likely begin a deep level of self-loathing.

Craig is incredibly dry-humored and crotchety, mostly. Mumbling and stumbling around the restaurant blurting out random "beep"'s if you're in his way but somehow landed his total babe of a wife. that Sassy Sally is a straight Trip.
When she misunderstood some directions I told her to Andrew's house (our ex-co-worker went missing in the abyss of a crack binge, we're pretty sure,--but that's another story), she came back screaming she was going to "fucking kill" me.
I laughed nervously and kept my distance but the next day she was singing Eminem and telling me about meeting her first husband high on LSD at a Jefferson Airplane concert.
All's well that ends well. Nothing but love for that self-proclaimed "lazy slut".

The staff at Craig and Sally's has become like a strange little island family for me. BJ- presently known as Beejwah-is a hotshot chef out of NYC, France and someplace in Asia filled with Asians. At 6'6" and 300 lbs he's a cutiepatootie with a heart of honey.
Treva is my main squeeze- that hot-blooded lovaman outta New Orleans--buying me goldshallgger and feeding me chocolate. Obviously the love is there. Too bad his boyfriend Patrick stands in the way. And his apathy for all vaginas.
RyGuy is the fellow cheesehead in the house. doncha know. He loves fine wine, singing Disney songs while plating food and random sex with men.
Cortney is the mama hen/rockstar of the place. She runs circles around us and still pours us glasses of Vueve at the end of the night, making us laugh with her stories of adolescent Portland years stealing cars and eating mushrooms.
Bryan is a phenomenal chef and the hairest man I've ever seen. We call him Chewy (Chewbaka) for short.He threw a party at his house a couple weeks ago where I promised to shave his chest bare inorder to make him irresitable to all womenkind. Instead I got drunk, half-naked, and dove head-first into the chocolate foundue fountain.
I don't think I'm invited to any more parties.
Rachel is a 22 year old sweetheart out of Nebraska. Get that booty out on a dance floor and I see why we were meant to be friends. That, and our mutual addiction to chocolate.
Then there is the recent freak-a-deak addition known as Shannon. Lord bless her but girl is a freakkk. That's all I'm going to comment on in respect of most family and friends reading this. No Shannon, we will not have a threesome with you. But I think you're pretty neat.
All in all, its a strange, dysfunctanal, but ridiculously loving (oftentimes bordering perverted) little family. A twisted home away from a twisted home.


As far as island living goes--we really are all here, because we're not all there.
My recent little god-send in a form of a 5 foot nothin tom-boy is Dannielle, that crazy lil Kook. The first night I met her at Betsy's I thought she was your run of the mill crackhead type. I was amused but skeptical.
Turns out it's just her raging ADD. Pretty sure she's the funniest man, woman or child on island. We went to Maegan's beach, cruising to Salt n Peppa and chugging white russians. Once there, the boys went their seperate ways and we stayed behind confirming our female friendship. Danielle began vomitting over the side of the picnic table, gagging on her jalepeno popper breakfast declaring, "I'm. still. having. fun" inbetween ralphs.
Friendship confirmed.

Party on Wayne. Party on Garth.

We're all here cuz we're not all there

The Express line at K-Mart takes me 45 minutes on a Monday but this first month down in St. Thomas has absolutely flown by. Island time proving there is no time. woah. "Time flies when you're having rum" -- as Chris likes to say, managing to make the quote even cheesier than its original form. But Pat would know all about that rum fun.

That's right--I moved down here to this far-away island with ze loverboy and Patrick--we've dibbed him Reckless P because of his fondness for drunken cartwheeling down hills and jumping off roofs into trees in a borrowed cow costume.
For the first month we stayed with ex-New York Italiano Andrew "smokes weed everyday" Giordano.
Living with three dudes has proved to be the biggest culture shock yet. Like trying to get ready for my first day at work and they're throwing fireworks at me. Or seeing body parts reserved only for changing diapers on infants. Or smoke bombs and stink bombs tossed around before bed.
We've been keeping ourselves entertained though--seeing as we're all pretty broke as of right now and sticking to $6 bottles of rum to be drank at home rather than $6 drinks at the bar. We found a pair of assless leather chaps in the back of Chris's work van (what?) that provided a few laughs and a great frame for Patrick's infamous tushy. Monday I got a bottle of rum and a hoola-hoop at the ole K-Mart so it's been a pretty good week.

The people down here are all on the level. Absolute kooks. It's beautiful.
Like Scuba Steve who we met our first night out at Island Time Bar. The next day we went to the beach with him--watched him surf, and sipped from his banana-chocolate-hemp-seed smoothie.
And I'm in love. With the smoothie. With Steve. With the island. More so with Chris for bringing me down here. The constant air of possibilities and that big ole beautiful body of salt water I get to play in everyday.

GurtyPare's Romantic Getaway in OldPeopleVille, FL

Arriving at Gurty's Gramma's condo in Florida after an unexpected 12-hour adventure made the arrival all the more desired.
Gramma Bussler's condo could not have been sexier. The front room is clad with baby-blue velvet stuffed couches with pink throw pillows, multiple chandeliers, mirrored walls and paintings of landscapes. The random sprinkling of glass angels and ceramic clowns only enhance the surrealness of this place.
Our new bedroom has a bright orange wall in front of a brighter orange dresser and two twin beds with navy blue comforters and silver metallic pillows. A color combination a robotic Tony the Tiger would adore, no doubt.

The condo's balcony looks right over that big, salty body of water I've missed so much.
Standing at the railing I look at all the people who have lived in their body's for decades longer than I've been on Earth.
They wade into the water and it's as if a de-evolution process is trying to take place. Maybe after 60 years ocean-side they'll grow back their gills and return to where we all came from. If they want it bad enough.

As for Gurty and I, we are content lying poolside, letting Artur, the 20-year-old cabana boy, adjust our umbrella and smile at us.
I'm immediately attracted, but Gurty reminds me of his past in Armenia shooting the limbs of the tied up victim who mugged his sister. Umm...

On a less violent note, while waiting outside the grocery store, an old dude from Argentina told me that Obama was born in a crystal ball. For whatever that brings to your day.

velvet lip curls & leather hip swings

I don't' know many 23 years old that would sign up for a week long road trip with their parents, but I also don't know many parents who consist of a beautiful duo of artistic insanity and overall skepticism with a mustache and a fiery redhead ready to work her always present inner-entrepreneur and show dance floors whose boss.
We set off Friday afternoon, a bit of a slow start after I had to get some work appropriate shoes.(Shoes never being my strongest point). And faja had a donut craving, closer to that of a pregnant woman than anything your average 70 year old man has.
But anyways, the drive was going pretty smooth outside of the bumper to bumper traffic we reached in Chicago in the boomboom of rush hour. This caused mama J to go a lil kray, but I reminded her its all about the journey and focused on extending an aura of tranquility. Before long we were channeling The Partridge Family and singing songs far too embarrassing for me to mention here.
Just as I thought we couldn't get any cornier (but loving it all the same), Faja warned us that he brought along his 38 special in case anyone fucks with us. Thanks for keeping it real real Dad.

We arrived in Memphis at 11:11 (make a wish) and the first person I saw upon entering the south was missing his front tooth. Thank you universe for making the world so perfectly comical.

The next morning we stopped at a Waffle House, none of us ordering waffles, but feeling semi-authentically southern none the less, before heading to Graceland.
I was expecting Graceland to be quite the trip and almost wishing the three of us had some LSD to make it all the more colorful, but it fell somewhat of short of my expectations--at least in the realm of crazy Elvis fanatics.
Growing up, Elvis has always had a decently large presence in the Huebner family. Faja grew up with the King and even received fake sideburns from his sister because he couldn't grow his own. Was he pre-pubescent at the time? Nope, mid-30s.
The love for Elvis was passed through my dad to my brother Adam who has the TCB lightning bolt tattoo ("Taking Care of Business" to any newbs out there)and wore a baby blue tuxedo to his wedding held at a cabin chosen because "Elvis would like it".
If this is my family, there must be some REAL Elvis freaks out there then, I thought. Unfortunately, one woman dressed in a full gold lame' suit was the only fix I got of the crazies, but it was enough to satisfy.

Mr. Presley knew what was up in his decorating abilities. His house was pretty baller, although I think he probably spent more on his two airplanes. It was super 70's- green shag carpeting on the floor AND ceiling kind of 70s. I was in heaven.

Although I might have gotten an over-dose of Elvis in my early youth, there's absolutely something to be said about the level of originality, authenticity and spirit this man who came to be known as The King possessed.
Clearly, an alien-life form brought to us Earthly beings; providing us with new levels of rock n' roll, sassy hips and velvet everythings.