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Hey, that house looks just like Graceland

So why is a replica of the King’s Memphis mansion sitting in an Orlando subdivision?



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Say I’m in the market for a house. Say I find one that meets my needs, personally and financially. Say the only caveat is that it’s a replica of Wrigley Field. The interior is gorgeous; the entrance just happens to look exactly like the front gate at the home of Chicago’s embattled Cubbies. The real-estate market is wild and woolly. I don’t want to be bouncing around out there too long. The interior is perfect, and I don’t associate baseball with all that is evil and dastardly in the world, so why not? I buy this house and it’s my house. I’m not obligated to give a flying whale taint about the Cubs or any Cubs-related boosters who come knocking. Once I sign the deed, it’s not my responsibility to sit on the front porch and talk about Sammy Sosa with anyone who strolls by. I have the right to be cranky with anyone who shows up carrying a goat and an 8-by-10 of Ryne Goddamn Sandberg. This is my house!

I’m mulling all this on my walk away from the house when suddenly a compact red vehicle comes into view around the corner, headed in the direction of the old Elvisy homestead. The driver, a middle-aged woman who appears to be of East Indian heritage, gives me a half-smile and a wave as her car putts along. I return the greeting without so much as a second thought. I move forward a few paces, but once there’s a tree or two between myself and Graceland, I turn around. The red car zooms through the open gate, which does not automatically close. The woman parks dead center in front of the columns and the steps. She gets out, holding what looks like groceries, and makes it to the doorway before that dopey yellow dog notices and comes running at a brisk pace. She pets him. They go inside.

Elvis has left the building.

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