"When Elvis died 40 years ago next Wednesday, it was like the death of John F. Kennedy 14 years earlier; both men had been such a part of American lives that—for those alive today who remember the events— where they were when they heard the news became almost as important as the news itself. In a way, it made each a part of the story. O was never in the same room with JFK, but I was with the early Elvis. I spent one long Elvis afternoon, during which I watched him perform, then conversed with him and, finally, interacted with him as a part of a group. During much of it, I observed a sweet, unsophisticated young man at close hand. He was exactly what I had expected and yet not at all so.As a writer in the New York bureau of TV Guide magazine, I was invited to attend a press conference, before which I could talk with Elvis and observe him rehearse for his second appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show as well as receive his first polio shot. The afternoon rehearsal was in progress when I took my seat, but the theater was black and strangely silent. Suddenly—shockingly—the stage exploded into red light, dark music and that singular, riveting presence. I don’t even remember the song, though I think it was “Hound Dog.” What I do remember—vividly–is the power of this young performer, the charisma of the man—the mouth, alternatingly pouting, leering, grinning, the sensual modeling of the facial contours and the eyes—those erotic eyes with their kohl-like shadows, promising, threatening. And, of course, the notorious pelvic thrusts. After the rehearsal's end, I joined numerous members of the press to watch the administering of the polio shot, memorable primarily because at the time, and as he later confided to me, Elvis hasd a wholesome fear of needles. It was a scary experience for Elvis, but, as always, he managed a smile for the camera..."