It’s hard not to have a suspicious mind when a rumor runs through the park.
The king is here.
Surely they’re pulling my leg.
But if there’s a big hunk-a burnin’ love out in the park, by golly, I was going to snap a photo.
But where to look? On The Freedom Train? At the glass-blowers’ shop? In with Santa?
I stopped short of calling on the two-way radio: All units on Channel 1: Has anyone seen Elvis?
But I did consider it.
I saw a friend over by Eagle’s Flight and he tipped me off: Elvis is eating at Plymouth Rock Cafe.
My heart was pounding (yes, I was all shook up) as I approached the Thanksgiving section.
I scanned the group of diners, and didn’t see the promised star … when suddenly the glare of sunshine reflecting off a sea of rhinestones nearly blinded me.
I’d found him.
His outfit is quite impressive. The zebra belt is remarkable.
It seemed a little too rude to ask Elvis to interrupt his meal to give me a full-body pose, so I thanked him and walked away.
Look at those slacks!
Those bell bottoms!
Bless him, Elvis put a smile on everyone’s face.
I kept an eye on him to make sure he was getting plenty to drink. It
would be easy to get dehydrated on such a warm day, all dressed in
And I was hoping, frankly, I could earn some brownie points by bringing him a refill.
But that, of course, would have made me … a pop-a-razzi.