... And That Little Boy Smile

I have a black velvet painting of Elvis. I've had it for years, it was a present from a friend who knew of my fondness for midways, carnies, Vegas, and all things vaguely seedy and disreputable. He got it in Mexico, Neuvo Laredo I think, as part of a weekend-long excursion he only remembers bits of. The best part is the frame, which he got for an extra dollar. It's just mitred wood, there's nothing to actually hang the picture, which means it's been sitting on my floor for years. I vacuum it every so often - really - to keep the white-jumpsuited, Mexican-looking Elvis happy.
   My philosophy in life has been 'if it's good enough for Elvis, it's good enough for me.' Not that I've ever had the funds to do most of what Elvis did, or the toadying hangers-on to make doing those things worthwhile. But I'm working on it. So I figure a good first step would be for me to get my own black velvet portrait done. Once I have my smiling face beaming down from a wall somewhere I know I'll have arrived, and the rest will just fall into place. I can get a 'TCB' three-finger ring, a big ol' convertible Caddy, and I can start shooting televisions. And a cape. I need a cape.
   It's a natural progression - black velvet painting of myself, then all the stuff, then the cape, then financial independence. The way is so clear, I don't know why I didn't see it before. All I have to do is find someone to paint a black-velvet portrait of me and I'll be just like Elvis.
   I'll take a pass on dying on the toilet, though, if it's all the same to everyone else.