No other city exemplifies this series of properties better than New Orleans.

I have no coherent memories of this corrupt mecca, only scattered impressions.

All around, crippled dancers limped to the floor with an unsteady gait in this the last bastion of nocturnal fiestas.

Heavily fortified Hurricanes spilled into the streets...Live sex shows...Horrible clans of college girls braying "You Outta Know" to every wino and vodoo trickster who will look their way.

After a misguided, spontaneous journey to Pensicola Beach on the Florida tip -- where the temp was 40 and the wind howled like the sodomized pig from Lord of the Flies -- we traveled through various southern states before ending up in a tiny town called Evergreen. We could drive no more and pulled into Famous Floyd's -- a hick eatery with visible weather stripping and drywalls that haven't been painted over We checked into the Day's Inn -- at least it looked like a Day's Inn from a distance. Upon further scrutiny, however, the logo that beaconed us was suspiciously amateurish, counterfeit. Yet we weren't to concerned about authenticity at this juncture. We stumbled through the door with out bags and watched Top Gun. Not fun, but things could be worse.

Or so we thought. The credits flicker over fighter planes looping through the sky. But suddenly Kenny Loggin's putrid closing anthem comes to a halt."

"Next on TBS. Deliverance."

...As Ned Beatty was forced onto the ground and famously squealed like a piggy, the libertarian side of me tried to remember that this classic actioneer was probably the worst thing to happen to the South in the last 20 years. However, the realist in me had to face the fact that there is a great deal of truth to the rampant depiction of inbreds and wild-eyed mountain men.

Needless to say, before Jon Voight was greeted with the words "You've got a pretty little mouth," the door was chained, locked 8 times, and we were firmly under our covers.

The intermittent din from the mouths of people named Jessop and Jethro outside our door kept my stomach in knots until sunrise.

At first you feel a great sense of superiority to all of the middle-Americans waiting in line. Pretty soon, however, you can't escape the realization that you're just as much of a sucker as the rest of the pack. "Twenty dollars? You've gotta fucking be kidding me." Yet, even as you feel all pride melt away, you hand the ticket attendent a wad of cash, trying to convince yourself that it will all be worth a good laugh.

You and every other visitor are suited up with a headset and a walkman bearing a tape which informs you about the various sites you'll be ushered through. The first stop? Elvis' dining room. The downhome voice recalled that "Elvis enjoyed a hearty meal, usually consisting of pork chops, green beans, grits, marmalade jam, beef stew, and nachos. And to your left are the stairs where Elvis often performed lively karate chops as his friends and family cheered him on." We were in tears. Grey haired folks of all shapes and sizes eyed us curiously as if we were reacting strangely to their hero's average, yet sacred, life. Perhaps it was the pot we consumed before entering.

By the time we got to the Jungle Room, it was all over. Snot ran down my chin as I wheezingly tried to catch a breath in between exhausting guffaws. Ceramic monkeys perched on green shag carpet invited us to climb over the rope and join them. A huge chair with a wooden tribal face stared at us longingly.

"Now, let's go outside, but before you exit, pause in the doorway. This is where Elvis used to fire rounds of ammunition at that garage twenty feet in front of you." As usual, no one but us seemed to be disturbed by the nonchalant reportage of such irrational and, I'd argue, terminally psychopathic behavior.

My favorite moment came as our peaceful southern narrator intoned that "Elvis passed away due to an adverse reaction to his medication. . ." before giving way to a triumphant musical farewell sung by the King himself.

The Meditation Garden was the last stop. I looked over at Gordon as we stood in front of Elvis' grave. A saline well pooled up in his eye. He felt for Elvis' struggle, his momentous rise to success, his later psychoses. He felt closer to the first black man to don white skin. And, while I strenuously fought back the tears, I felt closer to him, too.

No other human has taken me through the entire range of human emotion within a 45 minute span.