In Las Vegas, Elvis is king,
cupid & bestower of marital blessings

By MARY ELIZABETH WILLIAMS Illustration by Katherine Streeter Las Vegas is the Valley of the King. Everywhere you go, Elvis's mystique permeates the Nevada air like so much dry desert dust. He was married there. He made a movie in which he played a race car driver there. And he lived out my favorite phase of his persona -- chubby and cheesy -- there. I have never been the greatest of Mr. Presley's fans. Sure, I visited when a traveling Elvis museum came to town to see the big rings and stress-tested jumpsuits, and yes, I've been known to enjoy a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich now and again, but I'm not exactly a charter member of the "Blue Hawaii" fan club. When in Rome, however, one does as the Romans do, and when in Vegas, one follows in the crater-like footsteps the King. My husband Jeff and I had wanted to celebrate our wedding anniversary in a way that properly expressed the kind of love we have, and renewing our vows in Las Vegas with an Elvis impersonator seemed like the right way to do it. We are, after all, dual novelty-seeking missiles. We are the people who had TV theme songs played at their wedding, who went to Eurodisney on their honeymoon. The only thing about the trip that seemed strange to us was that we hadn't thought of it sooner. All my life, I've been fascinated with the very idea of Vegas. When I was a child, my uncle used to go all the time, and he'd come home with tales of high rollers and glitzy floor shows. The recent addition of giant theme-based hotels only added to its allure for me. My spouse, who believes that the neon sign is an invention ranking on the cultural significance scale somewhere between the wheel and the printing press, didn't exactly need to be talked into a pilgrimage. I had read about the Graceland Wedding Chapel in a newspaper article years ago, and had been dreaming of it ever since. At various points during the frantic, family-tense planning of our original wedding, elopement and the Elvis chapel became the comforting dream that lulled me as I licked invitations. Now at last we were doing it. I called the Graceland to book a renewal ceremony. "Will you be wanting to do that with the King?" the woman on the phone asked sweetly. I was shocked it was optional. Why would anyone go to the Elvis chapel and not get the King, I wondered. Who did you get instead? The Colonel? Carl Perkins? A few weeks later, we arrived at the Excalibur, a 4,000 room oasis of kitsch done up like Merlin's castle. Our room had a big print of a jousting tournament over the bed (nice symbolism), and fabrics done up in gold and red fleur de lys. I could see it was going to be a challenge to recreate that wedding night magic here. Las Vegas is as bizarre a spot on the planet as one might ever hope to see. Within crap-shooting distance of each other were our castle, an Egyptian pyramid and sphinx, a fiendish-looking MGM lion, and still being built, a faithful reproduction of the Manhattan skyline -- except that this one will be in the middle of the desert. Vegas is not a subtle place. There are slot machines in the airport. There are even slot machines in the 7-Eleven, apparently for those who can't even get through ordering a Big Gulp without a little one-armed bandit action. Not us though -- we weren't in town for the slots, we had higher pursuits in mind. We mapped out our plans for the evening -- light dinner, drinks, and then some quality entertainment at a revue that billed itself as "the dirtiest show in town." Ever since seeing "Showgirls," the "Citizen Kane" of vulgarity, I'd longed to see the side of Vegas that had inspired Joe Eszterhas. I would've preferred tickets to a backstage cat-fight, but they weren't available. You know you've lived in San Francisco too long when you see semi-naked females with big hair and lots of makeup and think, whoa, transsexual a go go. These women looked too much like women to be women. As they phoned in their performances, distractedly gyrating to "Take Back Your Mink," Jeff and I searched for a real set of breasts in the lot. It passed the time. The next day was our anniversary proper. I shimmied into my glamour print dress, saddened that my original plan of wearing just a sweater and black tights didn't pan out. It died when I realized that attired in such a getup in this town I'd resemble not so much Ann-Margret as, oh, a crack whore. It was just two days into our trip, but we'd already discovered that, in the words of the great sage Mojo Nixon, Elvis really is everywhere. There had been an Elvis strolling through the airport when we arrived, trying to bum a light. I got Elvis music when I was put on hold calling a restaurant. There were Elvis tunes playing in the ladies' room of the Luxor -- ancient Egypt = Memphis = Elvis? But now we were coming face to face with a maximum Elvis experience -- the King as cupid and bestower of marital blessings. The Graceland Chapel, gleaming and white, was as quaint as any country parsonage. Of course, country churches rarely occur in the seediest sections of town and aren't usually flanked by cheap motels and bail bond joints, but we appreciated the architectural gesture. We paused outside to observe the sign boasting that such celebrities as Jon Bon Jovi and Lorenzo Lamas had tied the knot here. I liked that the man who recorded "Bad Medicine" had wed at a temple to one of the all-time great supporters of the pharmaceutical industry. The inside was surprisingly tasteful -- photos of happy couples, little stained glass windows, no neon or slot machines anywhere. Just a big guy with black hair and a sparkly jumpsuit. Our Elvis was a genial sort -- he didn't seem at all the type to fire hot lead into television sets or shake hands with Nixon. In physiognomy, he was clearly modeled after the late, dropping-dead-on-the-can phase of The King's career. He beckoned us to the inside of the chapel and offered to snap a few pictures on our camera. He was still only in a semi-Elvis state, however. It was when he put on his dark shades, officially assuming The Persona, that the ceremony begin. We waited in the back while he cued the music on his boom box. Then, as he serenaded us to the karaoke stylings of a Vegas-ized version of the "Hawaiian Wedding Song" on his Mr. Microphone, he crooked his index finger and motioned us forward, having us stop at the front to face each other. Elvis said a few words about love, marriage, and what he called the city of lights, although I always thought that was Paris. As he sermonized, he never broke his rhythm as with one hand he snapped photos and with the other fiddled with the tape player. Jeff and I were by now having trouble maintaining eye contact, curious as we were to see what the hell Elvis was messing with over there, and mutually understanding that if we looked at each other we were probably going to laugh. Marriage is after all a solemn state, not to be entered into lightly. After giving his words of wisdom, our Elvis came down from behind the pulpit, whipped out a shiny blue scarf, and gave it to Jeff to put around my neck. I was afraid this portion of the ceremony would then involve me flinging my panties and a hotel room key, but decorum prevailed. I figured I could do it later anyway. He had us reaffirm our wedding vows, only this time they were a little different. Jeff earnestly repeated after Elvis, even adopting his sleepy-eyed leering tone, "Mary Beth. Baby. I promise to be your hunka hunka burnin' love for all time." Though I tried to go along when prompted to swear never to treat my husband like a hound dog, I was snorting in a yeah, right, way that kind of ruined the love-me-tenderness of the moment. And then, as he pronounced us husband and wife yet again, Elvis burst into a rousing chorus of "Viva Las Vegas." I felt my inner Ann-Margret being released. Jeff and I danced ecstatically, two pagans before the god of mutton chop sideburns. By the time he got to the final "Viva, viva, Las Vegaaaassss!" I was practically seeing visions. Afterward, we walked around the old casino area downtown, our pupils retracting from neon overload into tiny pinholes. The first time we got married, we'd been surrounded by our families and friends, the people we loved the most in the world. We'd spoken our vows in a house of worship. Now we were in a sea of greedy, overweight strangers looking for the $2.99 buffet and a little nickel slots action. Instead of a man of the cloth, we'd pledged our devotion in the presence of a guy named Norm whose uniform had big collars and more fringe than all the curtains in a Nevada cathouse. I suddenly felt very cheap and shallow -- and I loved every minute of it. The King may not have appealed to our highest natures, but he got us in touch with our hip-swiveling, gold-chain-wearing, lip-curling ones -- not a bad thing on a second honeymoon. We decided to head back to the hotel. And along the way, we only stopped for cheeseburgers once.

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