While it seems as if most students at Loyola can rattle off obscure bands and compare them to one another, I don’t possess that particular talent. However, despite the fact that my musical library consists of one-hit-wonders and porno soundtracks, I do know and love the King, and I feel as if it’s safe to say that since I have been a guest in his home, I am officially a friend of the family.

Naturally, I’m talking about Mr. Elvis Presley and his home Graceland, which I visited during my Gustav hurrication in Memphis, Tenn.

Although I have never been to Disneyland, I have been to Dollywood, and Graceland was exactly that: a theme park.

There are museums featuring his cars, movies, records and costumes and gift shops selling not only t-shirts and post cards, but also figurines, bedspreads and officially licensed rhinestone jump suits. There are two private jets, six or seven Elvis themed restaurants and more people walking around than I have seen on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras.

To these over-weight, blue haired, Poli-Grip-using geriatrics, this was Mecca, and although Elvis is the King, to these masses, he was the Messiah. I’m not sure if it was the heat, the music or the smell of Aqua Velva, but crushed between the others as we waited in line to move from the compound to the house, I turned to the cultists behind me for enlightenment.

After the obligatory, “I’m Justin. Justin. Sounds like bustin’. Yeah, Justin. I’m an evacuee from New Orleans,” the conversation quickly turned to worshiping the King and whether or not he was still among us.

As a firm believer in what’s dead is dead, I was skeptical until we walked through the front door of the Graceland mansion. From hundreds of gold and platinum records to family photos, his likeness seemed to cover every square inch. I saw his face, and now, I was a believer.

Like most in the flock, I had blind faith, until we stepped into the backyard Memorial Gardens. As we stood silently over Elvis’s gravestone, I found solace in the sincere mourning of my fellow tourists.

Suddenly, it wasn’t quiet anymore. The wind picked up and momentarily there was no one else around but that grave and me. A great serenity came over me, and although no words were spoken, my body came alive with conversation. I knew that it was the King speaking to me. He assured me that I had escaped Gustav and somehow, that he would always be with me and that all would always be well.

I know that by admitting this, I’ve established myself as a psycho, but I don’t know if or when he will come to me again, and I know of no other medium by which to thank him.

So if you’re reading this, thank you Elvis. Thank you very much.