THE KING RETURNS, SORT OF
Dateline, October, 27th, Cartagena, Colombia.
A bald, bad-tempered, well-dressed Elvis impersonator and entorage of fellow Barranquilleros arrived at at a post-ish grino event five days before Halloween and made complete asses of themselves.
A couple facts about this night. It was election weekend, which is Ley Seca, which means drinking is illegal across the country. The party wasn't a costume party (I didn't know this when we were leaving). Too much tequilla can make gringoes do stupid shit.
Halfway from Barranquilla and Cartagena, we stopped in pigtown and played guitar and drums for the locals, ate their empanadas and left after being filmed on a gaggle of cell phones.
Pigtown does not have a single working toilet with clean seat, but every fourteen year old girl with two arms has a better cell phone than me.
Anyway, that was the first adventure for the little Elvis get-up that I had made this summer-- thanks, mom-- which was quickly destroyed. The sleeves are still in Cartagena, along with a pair of underwear and an enormous amount of self-respect, somewhere in the old city, I think.
Elvis photo courtesy of Cdveston at flickr
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