Last week marked the 24th anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley. That hardly seems possible.

Not that I was a rabid Elvis fan. The truth is that while I enjoyed his music, the hype always seemed to overshadow his musical talents. I think what makes pop icons what they are is that they serve as mileposts for us. Thinking of them takes us back to points in our lives that many of us would like to revisit.

I remember at the age of 9 or 10 being taken into a bar by my father (an unfortunate tendency he had after he'd picked me up from school). I was generally reduced to playing tabletop shuffledboard while my Dad tipped a few with his cronies. Bored with the fifteenth game of shuffleboard solitaire I took one of the pocketful of dimes he had given me to keep me quiet and went over to the brightly lit jukebox. My eyes settled on an intriguing song title. It was "Hound Dog". I didn't really know from Elvis Presley yet but I punched the requisite buttons and strains of the song blared from the speakers.

I'll never forget the shocked look on my Dad's face as he wheeled around on his stool. He made a beeline for me, grabbed me by one elbow and lifted me off my feet. I didn't feel solid footing again until he'd half-flung me into the front seat of the car. Dad was a dedicated Hank Williams fan and he let me know that no male descendant of his was going to listen to that "trashy damn kid".

He was giving me way too much credit. I hadn't heard much if anything about Elvis. I was just reacting to the song title I'd read. But in an odd way the incident made me feel more grown up. It marked the first time Dad actually discussed an issue with me. Of course it was pretty much a one way discussion, but several times he was on the verge of accusing me of being a teenager. I liked that.

A couple of years later I had my first "date". My older sister fixed me up with the little sister of one of her boyfriends. Actually it wasn't much of a date. My sister worked at the Lyric Theatre in Monrovia, California and she just brought me to work with her. I sat with Judy and we watched "Jailhouse Rock" starring Elvis. The little girl wiggled to the music which made me feel strange and wonderful. During one of the romantic scenes Judy leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, so I decided I liked Elvis pretty well afterall, once I realized his practical applications.

Ten years later I saw Elvis in Las Vegas. I didn't hear much music that night. Being sardined among thousands of women battling each other for floor space and decibel supremacy reduced the experience to bargain basement days at Macy's.

The day Elvis died the news hit me hard, as it did most of us. Again, it wasn't that I was such a dedicated fan but it marked the first time I think I was forced to face my own mortality. If Elvis could die in such an ignominious manner then I probably wasn't going to make it out alive either.

I don't think anyone familiar with Elvis' climb can help but feel sorry for him. The human need for hero worship is marked by an appetite for consuming them with adoration. While details vary regarding Elvis' last days it seems certain that he was a victim of his unparalelled fame.

In ancient Rome, heroes were paraded through the streets in chariots. As the crowd roared their approval, a servant was hired to stand on the chariot behind the hero and whisper the reminder, "Thou art mortal." Such was the allure of fame. Even the ancients knew the dangers of such massive displays of admiration for one individual.

I've often wondered how different Elvis' life might have ended if just one of his entourage had been charged with reminding him of that simple fact.