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Blelvis spots me at the corner of 18th and Columbia. It’s 1:15 p.m., the sky is an icy blue. The sun is out strong. Blelvis admits that seeing Blelvis during the day is a sad sight. A bushy beard has covered up his trademark mutton chops like so much overgrown ivy. His voice has none of his trademark Elvis growl. His lips don’t quiver. It’s just Blelvis the man. And this man happens to be behind on his rent on his Georgia Avenue abode.

Blelvis suggests we all buy this album or maybe this one to blast on New Year’s Eve.

Blelvis’ other advice is more personal. “Blelvis needs some help,” he says. “How many times you seen Blelvis during the day?” You want to know what I ate for Christmas? Half a loaf of bread.”

Blelvis says he spent all his X-mas dough on his four kids and half his rent. Now he’s being threatened with eviction. “As soon as it gets cold,” he says. “I get homeless.”

For the last three hours, Blelvis has been trying to do his thing. So far he’s got nothing to show for his efforts. “There’s no one to really sing to,” he complains. “There’s no one that really knows me.”

Blelvis says will be appearing around Wonderland on New Year’s Eve. So stop by and help the man out.