In every dream home a heartache

Vintage Vegas Showgirls

In spite of appearances I haven’t spent the last seven days in the parlour with my aunts eating teacake and clock biscuits: in fact I have been concerning myself overly with their real estate problems, as I do not intend to live the rest of my life with a triptych of antique aunts ensconced in Shitsville Ranch amongst the mid-century bric-a-brac. Even though I was the mayor and primary land holder of Shitsville, TX for a brief tenure, a girl of my age can’t reasonably be expected to know much about property law. And so short of going out to work, foregoing Scotch or oiling up my hog’s leg to hold up the mail train, I have been doing everything in my power to raise the money for a lawyer.

Yesterday I was desperate enough to ring my mother: I haven’t spoken to Mother since the same time last year. I opened the conversation with a neat reminder that Thursday would be my birthday, and she was full of some very Mother-like wisdom, namely: “I can’t reasonably be expected to remember your birthday years after the event… Truth be known I can barely remember the actual day of your birth, being as I was doped to the heights & the memory deeply repressed in the years after; it occurs to me now that I was barely there at your conception, and chances are good that the man you think of as your father  wasn’t there at all.”

1950s Tropicana Vegas

After I said, “Thank-you, Mother. I hate you,” and hung up, it occurred to me to ring the man I think of as my father: Archie Shitsville. He lives in Las Vegas, not just because it is a gambler’s paradise, tax haven and sort of elephant graveyard for fallen movie stars. But Archie could not come to the phone because he was on a roll (the bell boy said); days later there was a perceptibly maudlin return call with Archie pleading poverty in a gin-cracked voice that was slightly muffled due to him being face down in three foot of hot pink shagpile (it works like a mop head to soak up the sweat and tears). The Mafia were threatening to break one bone a day until they got their money, so he was no use and will be even less use in days to come sans an essential number of bones. Meantime Brooks has been over again stuffing every visible cranny of the house with sticks of dynamite, using far more charge than is strictly necessary I must say but apparently he can afford to be generous with council funds.

1950s Vegas

Now if you are wondering what happened to my many millions & glorious Deco villa with  sixteen miles of pure aqua sea view, and why I couldn’t just let the aunts live there with me or sell some of my trinkets to pay the council rates, you should know that I have always subscribed to the theory that it’s better to sell your food and buy something to starve with and don’t intend to change my mind on that point this late in life.  In any case last September my house was tragically incinerated along with my pet peacock Sebastian Gas (less tragically).

Las Vegas motel, 1950s

As you’ll know from being a dedicated reader of missshitsville, Sebastian was a serial- killing, finickitty bitch of a peacock. Anyway, it turned out that one of the many millions of small animals and birds which he mercilessly slaughtered was in fact a mythical phoenix. After the bloodbath Sebastian had dragged the corpse by its ankles into the atrium, where it lay prostrate for two days before bursting into flames (as a sign of rebirth) and eventually burned the house to the ground. When I finally found his charred remains after days of raking through the rubble and following the scent of Kentucky Fucked Chicken, Sebastian was a sight to see. Gleefully remarking thus, I got into a fuckload of trouble with a bunch of vegans & the RSPCA, who were freakishly unable to understand how anyone could openly rejoice in the accidental barbecue of an animal (obviously because they had never met Sebastian). The real point being I have nothing to pawn, even if I wanted to, not even a soul.

Dean Martin Frank Sinatra

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