The King and I

He smirks at me but I don't mind. It's just something he does with his mouth. He actually oozes quiet encouragement, perched in the corner of my home office, all sideburns, twitchy lip and eyes locked in a permanent state of droopy-cool. A reminder not to take anything too seriously.

The collar of his rhinestone-studded jumpsuit is turned up high and open at the throat. A blue scarf dangles seductively. His hair is impossibly black, swept back and big, marred only by the bulb and shade protruding from the top of his head, throwing off a hunka-hunka burning light.

If you know me, you know my Elvis lamp. We've been together for more than two decades, a holdover from my bachelor days, the lone piece of furniture I contributed to the marriage.

What? You thought maybe I bought the lamp while married? That my wife signed off on the purchase of a giant Elvis lamp? That we prowled galleries from Sedona to Scottsdale with a fabric swatch to make sure the specific King of Rock 'n' Roll illumination device we picked matched the window treatments? Is that what you thought? Ba-ha-ha! Good one.

No, "E" and I are a team from way back. He's my talisman, my confidant, and I'm not ashamed to admit it, my friend.

But friend or not, there's no denying that the King is three and a half feet of raw, glaring kitsch. An eyesore. Jarring and jangly, coming at you out of nowhere, like a forearm shiver from a drunk in the parking lot of the discount smokes-and-bait shop.

The hulking ceramic beast insults anyone with even a modicum of taste. So over-the-top tacky he would hurl Martha Stewart into a grand mal seizure. Artists and designers can gaze upon him only through a pinhole in cardboard. If feng shui were a superhero, Lamp Man would be his archenemy, stomping down chi at every opportunity.

When we have female visitors, I hear my wife warning them in a hurried hiss as they come down the hall. I know they steel themselves before walking in, yet still they flinch at first sight of him. There's just no way to prepare oneself for how the King dominates the room, overpowers the Southwestern decor. Afterwards, I hear them consoling my wife.

Which helps explain the tense ritual occurring several times a year, the one where my wife tries to convince me to donate Elvis to her yard sales. We live in Cottonwood, the yard-sale capital of the free world.

Cottonwood sprang from the entrepreneurial spirit of early settlers. Nearby Jerome boomed with mining activ-ity, and neighboring burgs Clarkdale and Clemenceau were company towns where mine owners stringently enforced the rules. Folks wanting to start a business, own some property or who just chafed under the weight of regulations settled in Cottonwood, named after the graceful trees lining the banks of the Verde River.

Although I suppose we're not markedly different from other small towns across Arizona. Lack of basements puts Arizonans in a constant storage squeeze, forcing us to unload carefully hoarded piles of junk. I mean, merchandise. Fortunately, an idyllic climate makes this an ongoing activity. Our population of energetic seniors puts a recreational spin on yard-sale browsing, but everyone wants to be part of the process. It's a great way to meet our neighbors and paw through their things.

In fact, when entries were solicited for what image should adorn Arizona's state quarter, I submitted a photo of a cardboard box with a brightly colored piece of paper taped to it, proclaiming "Big Sale" and an arrow pointing the way. I'm still waiting to hear back from the commission.

Those empty boxes, secured by rocks, adorn virtually every street corner in Cottonwood, each Thursday through Saturday of the year. Shorter than a saguaro cactus, but no less majestic, they stand, or actually, squat as a defining symbol of the landscape and lifestyle of rural Arizona. Where the men are men, and women want to haggle over the price of a shoetree.

My wife recognizes the bargain-hunter mentality. She knows how to hook them, knows that certain buzzwords and phrases mobilize their ranks, phrases like "Elvis memorabilia." (She's also after my Elvis toenail clippers and Taking Care of Business melon-baller.) Like a Colonel Parker with estrogen, she wants to cash in on the King. If she happens to do so by disposing of the ceramic monstrosity currently haunting her house, that would simply be a happy coincidence.

But I draw the line. The King stays. For the sake of my inner bachelor. And as a memorial to every guy who's ever decorated with neon beer signs or cinder-block shelves or cattle skulls or seats swiped from stadiums or blacklight posters or inflatable furniture or a driftwood dining set or a car battery ottoman.

The King stays.

By the way, those blacklight posters are now worth a fortune on eBay. Al