My mom returned from Elvis Fest with a knapsack in her hand and wrap-around shades on her head. It wasn't the first time I'd seen her "EP'd out" but it nonetheless takes a little getting used to. Not because it's a particularly unusual phenomenon, I grew up to the Sun Studio sounds of the Presley's early years. My mom says that "hunka burnin' love" were three of my first words. The fact that only one of them is an actual word notwithstanding.  Each trip to Graceland brought me closer to perfection though by the time I was a teenager, I had resigned myself to the lonely fate of a man who only understands greatness in the past tense.

"Come see my pics of Elvis," she said slipping off the shades and plunking them down on the greasy, sort of clean table at the 24-hour Omega restaurant. We met for dinner earlier then or normal Sunday night rendezvous because she was going to pick up some kind of recoding of the event from a friend's house. My mom is the kind of person who despises quiet and stability all the while remaining the perfect picture of each. Hence, she thrusts her digital camera in front of me like teenager brandishing a porno but stays silent as to what I might see.

As one might expect, I saw Elvis impersonators. Lots of them.

Black Elvises, white Elvises, Asian Elvises, women Elvises, dwarf Elvises, paraplegic Elvises, even what looked like Siamese twin Elvises.

As we munched on a watery tuna-salad, my mom explained in minute detail how good or bad each impersonator's performance was, often using kitchen utensils as props. The intensity of her stories belied the smoothness in her voice and for a minute I thought she'd start shrieking like she must have in her early 70's romper days. But that's the power of Elvis, I suppose: to rekindle flames set ablaze long before he arrived.

Happy Birthday, EP. Wherever you are.