Greetings from Miss Shitsville

Greetings and salutations my sweet readers and sycophants. Recent events have brought it to my attention that this blog has been sadly neglected of late. You might have imagined, being a dedicated reader, that I abandoned the thing when my life became utterly peaceful and pleasant and I had nothing left to bitch about. That is not so. One thing that I have learned trekking lonesome through this appalling world is that there is always stuff to bitch about, points to belabour, and – of course – that whenever you feel like you actually might possibly be starting to feel happy, there’s always some dick on the horizon just waiting to come along and fuck it all up for you. Trump or whoever.

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It’s another blue blue cloudless day as I sit up here in my rooftop garden looking down through the palms at the shabby figures in the street. It was about this time last year my cousin Frankie Shitsville and I moved into a new apartment together. This as you can imagine was a necessary move since I had solemnly sworn never to visit Shitsville Ranch again while my father Archie Shitsville lived there (or lived at all). The place we found was top floor of a glorious Art Deco apartment block, built on a corner, which in typical deco style has some bizarre sculpture on the front that looks like a radio antenna Frankenstein might have harnessed for his electrification experiments. We can see the city skyline above the green green green of two parks lined with old established trees; directly opposite are some fresh minted apartments in a pseudo-historical style – sloping slate roofs, arched windows, rows of chimneys (chimneys!) – vaguely reminiscent of the rows of white Regency houses you might see in London, all renting at over $1000 a week to doctors and lawyers and the well-dressed elderly who don’t see any contradiction in wearing bedroom slippers and pearls on their days out, or the fact that a row of genuinely old houses was no doubt demolished to make way for these sparkling, faux-ancient abodes for the dull faux-gentry. Looking right there is a railway bridge and a wall of Russian brutalist style, and a row of park benches where one likes to sit and sip and smoke and watch pedigree dogs cavort through the blue shadows and autumnal leaves.

Two blocks up there is what Frankie informs me is a world famous icon in sport, and signs pointing every which way attempting to engage my interest in visiting something called the MUSEUM OF SPORT (shudder); in fact it’s so world-famous that red double-decker buses trundle round my apartment block every half hour thirty-six times a day. The recorded lecture drifts up to me as I smoke on my balcony looking across at the faux-chimneys. Often I notice the tourists craning their little heads to peer up at me in my finery and disdain before the bus mows on. I suppose they imagine they are getting a glimpse of local colour. But God only knows what the world would be if I was truly representative of the population.

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Stop over in Johnsonville (To recap)

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Now you may recall how the infamous Frank Sinatra Blacklist had cast its great shadow over my life like a dark and purling, all-absorbing, hope-sucking, cunt-like storm cloud, and never, never, never, not once in my life had anything ever gone right for me, despite all of my good looks, charm, grace and riches. For one thing there was my Mother (she being the first misfortune). Then there was my father Archie (the second major impasse to success). And though I can hardly blame Frank Sinatra for either of those occurrences, it’s fair to say that they are representative of the kind of bad-luck which has befallen me every day since I first lit eyes upon this awful world.

But then it happened that (after a series of events which I have removed from this blog for legal reasons which will become clear) I saw the infamous Frank Sinatra Blacklist spiralling through the dark air down into a deep and impassable quarry.  I even fancy I could hear Frank Snr sobbing on the wind as I watched its descent into hell. If it ever reached the bottom of the quarry, I’m sure the List burst into flames, or was torn to bits by fetid rats. In any case, assured of its destruction, I left Casa Sinatra on foot, and took the pink Cadillac from the road outside the gates, and headed on out into the Wide World with a brimming sense of coming good fortune. Fortune, you see, could not possibly fail to come with the destruction of the List; the List had been the only thing really holding me back all these years.

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Eventually I ended in a sticky dough-nut shop, in a mall that sits half-way out of a town called Johnsonville, on Route 87. The name Johnsonville had endeared itself to me because of its no-name quality; here, in Johnsonville, I thought, there was no one of import, or significance, or even mild interest. In Johnsonville, everybody had names like Ana or Sara (there was always one letter missing to make them sound more foreign) though really they were just the sort of name a girl might have if the last you saw of her she was nostalgically fading into the fog or the ferns; they are the names of women who die at a convenient plot-point in order to give the protagonist a McGuffin and dramatic dynamism for the rest of the story. Here, I thought, in Johnsonville, I could not fail to make a fortune. After all, it is not hard to best red-necks. And it is never a chore to pull one over on the world’s most pitiful people.

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As I perused the mall, which was a hub of activity (the elderly smoked on the benches while they waited for their grand-sons to return from playing Nintendo in the Department store) I thought, with a great sense of satisfaction, that Johnsonville, for people such as I, must be a place of ample opportunity and the kind of luck that gets so often overlooked by people without imagination. Mark: even there, in that suffocating place, of slightly twilight-like underwater lighting, where the Video (!) store was still hung with posters of Patrick Swayze in his prime, there were checked-shirted men to bedazzle, banks to rob, suckers for pyramid schemes aplenty devouring burgers in the food-court. I leaned against a ferny garden delineated by a curved wall of glazed brown bricks and dreamed up the plans for the kind of Real-Estate swindle my great-great-grandpappy Jack “Washington” Shitsville would be proud of. I could even run for mayor since the last Johnsonville mayor, who got in on a temperance ticket in 1962, had recently died after years and years of covert and almost constant tippling, to everyone’s great surprise, though I would have thought the ruddy complexion was a dead give away, but apparently red faces and wine noses, and the ordinary complexion of hicks are not too dissimilar to the untrained eye.

So there I was in the dough-nut shop. Next thing a gentlemen with an evidently hellish dental-care regime happened to ask what a purdy girl like me was doing in a place like Johnsonville. “Not really your kind of town, I woulda thunk,” he said.

I assured him it was. But then when I told him of the good fortune coming my way after the certain destruction of the Frank Sinatra Blacklist, his eyes really came alive. “Sure,” he said. “Ain’t nothing ye cain’t do, if ye can keep yer wits about ye. That’s why they call it the Land of OPPORTUNITY.” I thanked him for his kind words and conventional wisdom, and left him to pick up the bill. Then I went out into the parking-lot, almost blinded by the sunlight glittering along the rows of cars and their bull-bars.

Life advice from Shitsville #2

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In light of the number of people who tell me I’ve made their QOTD blog, I thought I’d compile a list of quotes that will help guide you through this miserable life. There’s also this list, for you to share with your friends: Life advice from Shitsville.

1. I think we all ought to stop looking for some kind of nebulous happiness and realise that the trick is to not get any less drunk.

2. The thing is that all problems go away in time – they either go by their own accord, sick of waiting, or they die because you don’t feed them, like a little dog.

3. ‘I often tasted Chicos at the back of his mouth,’ she went on, conversationally. ‘Chicos have a rancid aftertaste, like the charnel house.’

4. It is all so stupidly stupid. Life. Human endeavour. Aspirations to Love. We are alive a long time and have plenty of time in which to suffer.

5. In contrast to perceived wisdom, when you feel as big as God, you are not flooded with compassion for the little man, just overawed by the sense of how easy and pleasing it would be to crush everyone and flood out their houses like an ants’ nest.

6. Betty Ford recommends that you call someone every time you feel like a drink. So I do. I call the bartender.

7. Fuck Betty Ford.

8. Fuck Jane Fonda.

9.  My best advice would be to try not to piss of a writer.

10. You are old. Let’s just admit you haven’t much left to look forward to in life.

The very last in Texas

GWTW Vivien Leigh makeup stillFor a minute I had no words. From outside there was a sort of weird humming or ticking sound which often came over Shitsville in the long afternoons, when the heat began folding back in over itself, and the whole shoddy main street with its shadows at dissenting angles began to tilt slightly backwards too. Then slowly slowly I reached up and removed my pink sunglasses, folded one side in, then the other, placed them on the desk and pushed them forward to rest there like a trump card between the flight of Mayoral pens and the overflowing Mayoral ashtray. I’m told I have very beautiful eyes.

‘The truth is, Roger, the truth is…’ I could hardly find the voice to speak. We continue now in a poignant key like the speech at the end of Bladerunner:

I’ve… seen things you people wouldn’t believe… Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those… moments… will be lost in time, like tears… in… rain.

[Joanne Taylor suggests that Batty aligns himself with Wagner’s Tannhäuser, a character who has fallen from grace with men and with God. Both are characters whose fate is beyond their own control.]

Miss Shitsville [I] cont’d:  ‘That when I first saw Shitsville ahead on the horizon… this monumentally… bent, filthy, absurd collection of ugly stucco houses collapsing into dust in the middle of the desert at the end of a long dirt track that nobody in their right mind has traipsed for 70 years… A town full of whores and alcoholics and tax cheats; cads, charlatans, chancers, cretins, apologists for cretinism, pornographers, crazy Baptist pamphleteers and otherwise spectacularly stupid creatures who refer to themselves, hopefully, as “human beings”… I thought, this is it; for the first time in my life I felt…’

At that I stopped again… just couldn’t go on… almost choked on the word ‘home’. I have a real horror of sentimental bullshit and earnestness in music. And tho I might say “the truth is…” the truth is that there is no real truth that I can detect drifting about or shuddering under the layers of horseshit in any part of me, there are only umpteen versions of the same or similar truths spiralling down and down on and on forever inside of my black heart, all of which may or may not be true at any one time; still I consider these unborn truths and examine them one by one in light of their intended effect, trying to come up with the best one; and the closest that I ever come to being honest I am really sitting about two inches removed from myself marvelling how it really almost seems like I am really crying.

‘I might get away with it,’ I thought.

But Roger didn’t say anything at all.

‘Roger you said you didn’t want to be mayor anymore.’

‘Was I drunk?’ said Roger.

‘Yes…’

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Everything else that could be said has already been said; so this is the last you will hear of Texas.

Everyone is mad in Texas

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‘This afternoon when I first got wind of your uncivil plot I dictated an official response from town hall that I intended to Xerox and post in your letterboxes… But insofar as I have just decided to put the mail on strike tomorrow I guess I will just read it out to you now. It’s not as if many of you have the ability to read in any case,’ said I. I took the note from my back pocket:

‘”Dear the lowly residernts of Shitsville–“‘ I read, and stopped. ‘Resi dernts? Who fucking typed this? – MISS SUMMERTIME?’

It was all too much for me. I screwed up the letter and threw it at Miss Summertime’s head.  She gave the same screech she does when she sees a bird and held her head as though she was bleeding.

‘Don’t speak to your sexy secretary like that!’ said Roger. ‘You alright, Miss Summertime?’

‘Uh-huh,’ she nodded.

‘Right-ho,’ said Roger, and slapped her arse.

Hubbub. Consternation. I took a minute to compose myself.

‘I’m sorry, simple townsfolk,’ I said at last. ‘I’d like to speak to Roger alone, if I may…’

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Roger came up the stairs and we went into the mayoral offices while the residernts stayed downstairs firing into the ceiling whenever they got bored. We went and sat at the desk and I poured us both a slug of the fine old Mayoral whisky.

‘Now Roger, darling,’ I said when he had had a long drink. ‘Things seem to have gotten a bit out of hand here. You and I both know — since we were discussing it just last night over Shitsville’s finest — when I ran into you in the blue room at the whorehouse, remember? — you and I both know, and you know yourself deep, deep, down in your ingrate’s heart, that you don’t really want to be mayor. It is all a very silly idea brought on by too much sun and possible peyote hallucinations and all of that stuff they whisper to you after midnight in the whorehouse when it’s a slow night and there’s no one waiting for the next half hour slot.’

‘Uh,’ said Roger. ‘Maybe? I don’t really know.’

‘The fact remains that duels are very dangerous. Only one of us can come out of this alive. When really I bare you no ill will. Really I should like very much to see you live long and prosper!’

‘You said last week “I hope you die!”‘

‘Did I?’

‘Last week in Ginger’s…’

‘I don’t seem to recall it…’ I said. ‘But I know if I do sometimes make violent threats to your person, Roger, it is only a kind of Cockney poetry. And when I say things like, well when I said I wish you would hang yourself or choke like Isidora Duncan on the length of that ridiculous frou frou scarf it is only because, well you have such a dear, fair, sweet, angelic little face that I can’t help but wonder… what it would look like if you were to be choked. You sort of belong up there in the ether…’

I poured him another drink before he could protest.

‘Let me tell you something about the citizens of Shitsville, cousin…’ I said confidentially. ‘They’re all mad. They can’t be trusted to know what they want. You’re a visitor too, you should be able to see… Everyone in Shitsville is mad. Everyone in Texas is mad. Every jerk-off I’ve met since I got here… They’re all off their fucking nuts!’

It’s a testament to the incredible spiritual insight you can gain by drinking a shop-floor’s worth of peyote every Tuesday in Shitsville, that very occasionally poor daft Roger would say things that could be considered “perceptive”.

‘But you must be a bit mad too,’ said Roger. ‘Or you wouldn’t have come here.’

Cont’d here: The Very Last In Texas.

Trial in Texas

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Then one sunny afternoon when I was sitting back in the Mayoral offices smoking a big Texas Mayoral cigar I was roused from my mayoral reflections by the sound of a riot in the street. Next thing I knew the lowly residents of Shitsville were all streaming into the ground floor of the Council Chambers shouting for me to come on out.

I came out slowly scratching my head and looked down at them over the balcony with their potato noses and cretinous, uncomprehending faces, and hair sticking up on end because in Texas it’s the only place to wipe your hands.

‘What do you idiots want now?’ I said tiredly. ‘You really do have to stop coming in here of a noon demanding that Roger be mayor. It’s becoming next to impossible to get anything done. And that front door shrieks like the very devil when you throw it open. I think we were all out on the beano last night. Have you no respect for my nerves?’

Next thing Roger in his shining white get-up was being pushed to the front of the crowd.

‘Tell her what we come for,’ said chief vigilante / whorehouse owner Jack Daniels with a mouth full of big Texas cigar even bigger than my own.

‘Uh- er– um, I think I we should have a duel,’ said Roger looking at the floor.

‘Did you hear that, Mayor?’ Jack shouted up to me. ‘He said he wants a duel.’

‘Yeeeeha!’ said everybody. The Baptist banged his tambourine but it was hard to hear amongst the big Texas caterwaulin’, which even on fine sunny days when everyone’s in good spirits approximates the demented cries of souls in hell.

I didn’t raise my voice, only went on chewing at my cigar thoughtfully while I hooked my left thumb around my trusty Texas gun belt.

‘Roger, darling, sugar, sweet; listen to me, fool,’ I said at last.  ‘In Texas duels are very decisive. And you’d have to be able to crawl out of your whore’s nest by midday. Not your strong suit.’

‘Yerr…’ said Roger doubtfully.

‘And of course you love Roger,’ I went on, speechifying to the simple townfolk. ‘–I love Roger — we all love Roger; his idiocy endears him to us! But Roger… Roger as we know is irreparably alcoholic… Most often to be found slumped over the bar in Ginger’s, if he’s not in the whorehouse tickling your best girl. He looks great in chaps and has a nice moustache… But are these really the qualities you seek in a mayor?’

‘YES!’ they shouted. It shook the very walls. (Admittedly the Council Chambers isn’t the best made building in Texas; my grandpappy Jack “Washington” Shitsville was a set designer and not above taking shortcuts legal or illegal if it would trim off a buck.)

A riot of gun shots filled the air; parts of the ceiling cracked fell down and dumped piles of plaster and asbestos on their idiot heads. It was the thunderously moronic cry for Barabus that has echoed down the centuries.

In the face of such opposition my words escaped me.

‘Alright you fucks. You fucking idiot retarded fucks,’ I said.

Cont’d here: Everyone is mad in Texas.

TXXXS

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Though Roger claimed he would far rather sleep than mutiny, the witless residents of that wretched backwater had begun to show a very clear preference for a certain sweet alcoholic ingrate. For the next couple of weeks I tried to carry on my duties as Sheriff / Mayor with grace and dignity and nary an unkind word but truth is inbreds don’t respect the embodiment of solemnity and dignity as much as they should. Funny thing about NASA, they went all the way to the moon to find a lot of rocks and no water and no intelligent life forms when they could have just stayed in Texas.

Cont’d here: Trial In Texas.