All of the famously young and beautifully dead

Marilyn Monroe 4 Marilyn Monroe 5

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Too rare to die

Once the pleasant hum of solitude fades like the throb of a mower on a blue Sunday, and the house rings with silence, it is borne upon me that my very own friend (best friend by default) does not like me that much. I have not mentioned him before I think to save you the boredom of hearing about it. His name is Rufus Evelyn Shitsville (true; Evelyn after Evelyn Waugh) and he is my third or fourth cousin (it is hard to keep track).

Rufus is a ridiculous creature, too weird to live, too rare to die as they say down at the shipyards. He is a singular human being entirely without life-preservation instincts.  Our friendship consists entirely of me asking him what he is doing in the week and him putting it off til the next week pleading poverty, sickness due to excess of drink, family dropping in from out of town or him dropping in on his family out of town — etc. etc. You see how it goes on. In fact I see him so rarely that when I run into him on the street I am surprised by how he looks, how light & beautiful & golden, he is so thin as to be almost transparent, it’s like the sunlight shines right through, and then all Shitsvilles metaphorically if not literally bathe in Champagne.

Marilyn Monroe poolside

In the meantime you see I have built up a picture “in the mind” of a slim young man akin to a gross hairless cat. He is allergic to everything and eternally throwing up. Even knowing he is intolerant he will consume certain things thinking it will be ‘worth it’. He has a lovely, lost, bewildered expression that endears him to old, old ladies and even tram ticket inspectors, but really the wide & sparkling eyes comes from the insuperable urge to vomit. At any moment as we stand on the street he is so perilously close to vomiting I could say ‘sic’ and get him to vomit on command. If I sneeze too voluably he will throw up. If I poke him or even if I look at him sideways he will go to find a dark corner. It is always the same wherever we go, whatever we do, but I don’t mind, it is all part of his charm if you are a motherly girl such as I, although somewhere in the very deep, dark and distant parts of my mind (those parts usually submerged in an alcoholic fug) lurks the suspicion that the throwing-up is in fact a natural reaction to being with me; that it is ultimately me to whom he is most allergic. But how can that be. How, how.

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Greenacres



Technically a lifeline is also enough rope to hang yourself with. I am keeping that in mind now that things in my life seem to have developed a kind of upside. I am presently ensconced in the sunny Greenacres Estate outside of the sunny state of Shitsville (TX) having absconded from Shitsville Ranch in the dead of night with my hefty Sinatra sympathy cheque.  Some jerk has made a TV show called “Shitsville Express” and I don’t want any of those sad fucks in support hosiery who go on bus tours to the “Neighbour’s” street in sunny Vermont South feeling ‘with it’ or ‘on-trend’ enough to jump into a ricketty charablanc and hightail it up the hill to peep at me and my splendid mid-century split-level Ranch and to leave their rubbish and empty Coke bottles in my hedges as such people are always wont to do.

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The precise reason that I live high up in the hills on Shitsville Ranch is because I would like at every moment of my life to be mathematically or geographically and geopolitically as far removed from other people — those vile, vile, vile half-wits and mongoloids who call themselves ‘human beings’ — as it is possible to be. Every day they — the vile, vile people — say “we are getting better and better” and “technology is changing our lives” while reverting to the pre-evolutionary state of great apes who use simple tools and frogs’ mouths to masturbate with.

I figured that by the time  Nancy Sinatra and cousin Frankie and my father Archie Shitsville awoke from their comas and worked out precisely who and what was still alive, (“Oh Nancy, dear Nancy, I did not mean to deceive you, it was a requiem for my heart which is dead,”) I would be far far away, sunning by the calm waters of a blue tiled pool, watching the fringe on the sun umbrella playing in the breeze. It is a return to God’s green and pleasant land, the endless blue days that one knew in one’s youth. There is a coral pink telephone here (unconnected) and the postman always rings twice as a warning.

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