Hey everyone, I added a new link up top to my Bucket List…check it out!
Unlike most people who sit around talking about “one day” and “someday,” my bucket list is for reals! It’s an actual ITINERARY for 2012…so watch out!
What a week. It all began when Rob Cole a/k/a the Balloonmaster, who runs a local variety show down at the Onyx Theatre in the fabulously grimy Commercial Center, asked me if I could dress up as a clown and come down to create a disturbance at his show last Friday. Could I ever! I have a rainbow clown wig and a green clown nose that I’ve been DYING to try out, so I went in my closet and put together this amazing clown ensemble. It went over great at the Onyx, because first of all, the show is full of sick and twisted shit like ladies shooting darts out of their vaginas and mimes puking and lapping it up off the floor. Secondly, as mentioned, the Onyx is located in this AMAZING run-down shopping plaza called the Commercial Center, which back in the day was THE hoity-toity upscale shopping spot of ’60s Vegas. These days it’s gone to seed, and is nothing but gay bars, sex clubs, massage parlors and adult stores. In other words, better than Disneyland!
What goes over well downtown, however, doesn’t necessarily fly uptown…as I learned when I cruised over afterward to meet my friend J.R. for a nightcap at the Rio, where he was staying. I love showing up to surprise him in wacky outfits or with wacky props, as when I surprised him at Caesars with that ventriloquist’s dummy earlier this summer. J.R. loves all that kooky shit, so when I rolled in looking like Bozo he thought it was great! We immediately starting taking wacky photos at this fake World Series of Poker Final Table thing they had set up as a photo op…until a security guard came over and made us stop.
This was one of those security guards who takes their jobs EXTREMELY seriously, and was a real cowboy badass: “You can’t wear that in here,” he said, meaning my clown makeup. WTF! Half the fuckin’ whores in that dump had ten times as much spackled on their faces…just not circus-style! Makeup is makeup, and that is BLATANT CLOWN DISCRIMINATION! You’re seriously gonna kick me out, and meanwhile roll out the red carpet for that pancake-faced ho Kim Kardashian?!?! Get real!
J.R. got pissed too, and started arguing with the security guard, who got REALLY mad: “We can’t have clowns in the casino!” to which J.R. replied, “Are you kiddin’ me? This nickel joint ain’t run by nothin’ BUT clowns!” Oooh, probably not the best thing to say. We were surrounded by security guards, and were unceremoniously 86’d.
Now, I understand that you’re not allowed to wear a mask or a hood in a casino — just last week a dealer at Caesars told me I had to take the hood of my jacket off! (Srsly…get a life!) But makeup?! Apparently, it fucks with the casino’s facial-recognition software — I know this sounds sci-fi crazy, but apparently they REALLY DO have this weird software installed in all the Eyes in the Sky, that immediately recognizes the facial features of known gambling cheats, prostitutes and other personae non grata….and my clown makeup prevented them from identifying me. J.R. almost told them that he had a clown fetish, and had specifically ordered up a clown prostitute — and since he’s a Seven Stars member, they probably would have backed off. Oh well… should coulda woulda.
I didn’t have much time to worry about it, because the very next night I had two parties to attend — first my friend Guy had a pagan holiday jamboree with a Yule goat set aflame, and then I headed over to the annual Modern Holiday party at my friends James and Staci’s fabulously swanky mid-century-modern pad. I went to this party last year and was kinda shy and intimidated by all the media people and professional writers in attendance…but now that I have a few articles under my belt for CityLife (one of the local alt-weeklies here), I felt much more comfortable. Besides, people were lauding me left and right for my fabulous Facebook status updates — Clowngate being the most recent one. Did I mention you should follow me on Facebook?
After that, I laid low for a couple days, taking care o’business vis-a-vis Christmas shopping, etc. But I had to come out of retirement on Wednesday, for my girlfriend Trixxie’s company Christmas party. She works for a staffing agency that handles all the sexy blackjack dealers in town — you know how every hotel has its “Party Pit,” where buxom bims of childbearing age are on display dealing cards? Well, they were all having a party down at Binion’s, and it was open bar. Trixxie invited me as her date, and also invited me to spend the night in her room down there so that I could get REALLY fucked up and not have to worry about driving. So I packed an overnight bag and headed down.
A roomful of hot young babes with an open bar might sound good to you, but for me it was kinda boring…I didn’t know anyone, but the booze was good and the food was catered by this awesome vegan restaurant in town called Pura Vida…and it was awesome!! I beat up the buffet, had about 3 vodka cranberries, and then headed down the street to the Heart Attack Grill to hang out with my friend Dr. Jon while I waited for Trixxie to be done, so we could go bar-hopping.
At the Heart Attack Grill, Dr. Jon poured me a giant shot of Tennessee Honey, and I sat there sipping it, bullshitting with the Doctor and this other guy who hangs out there, who happens to be the President of the Fremont St. Chamber of Commerce or something like that…basically he runs shit down there. I filled his ear with all my gung-ho pro-downtown talk, and before you know it it was time to meet Trixxie across the street for more drinks at some of the hipster bars in the East Fremont district.
I don’t remember much from this point on — it was nickel beer night at the Beauty Bar, so everyone was wasted. I ran into my roommate and another girlfriend, and after a few more drinks and another bar, I was pretty well lit. I never did find Trixxie, and she wasn’t answering my texts…so when my roommate offered to drive me home, I totally accepted. I ended up puking all over her car on the way home (AMATEUR!), and then when I got inside, I FILLED my bathroom sink with puke. It was all that vegan food — and I’m here to tell you, ain’t no puke like vegan puke. It was so THICK and CHUNKY and full of lentils and carrots and stuff. Bleeeeccgghghhhhhh!
The next morning, I woke up to the taste of vomit in my mouth — and THIS <–!!! Blech! It was so chunky it wouldn’t go down the drain, so I had to fuck around with the sink until I pulled a giant clump of puke-encrusted hair out. Goooooooooood morning! Meanwhile, I had a hangover from hell and I had to be downtown for an appointment at 1:30. I tried to wake up as best as I could, but I couldn’t stomach any coffee or oatmeal, so it was rough. But I had a REALLY busy day ahead, so I sacked up and got on with it.
Whenever I’m facing a day filled with unpleasant tasks, I adhere to the adage “Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.” <–These are my big girl panties, so I put ’em on, slapped on some makeup, and grabbed the first thing I could find to wear, which happened to be jeans and a t-shirt I had apparently bought in my drunken stupor the night before…a t-shirt that reads “TRI*SEX*UAL” in big red letters (some artist kid was selling ’em in the alley behind the Beauty Bar…I’ve always fancied myself a Patroness of the Arts). I figured it didn’t matter what my shirt said, since it was chilly out and I had to wear a hoodie over it anyway.
HOWEVER, my car was still downtown at the 4Queens, where I had valet parked it the night before. I didn’t want to wake my roommate, who was sleeping off her own hangover, so I decided I’d just ride my bike. I figured I could ride to my appointment, then ride over to get my truck. I needed the exercise, anyway!
But it was unseasonably sunny and warm, and plus I was running REALLY late and thus had to pedal like a madwoman…which made me really hot and sweaty. I had no choice but to remove my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist, pedaling furiously in my TRI SEX UAL t-shirt like the Wicked Witch of the West. To make matters worse, all I have is my Burning Man bike, which is covered in pink duct tape, and the “basket” (really just a wicker basket I spray painted pink) was broken and falling off and dangling by a thread, which made it difficult to ride fast. But somehow I made it to my appointment only 15 minutes late.
After my appointment, I next rode over to the 4Queens to get my truck. The problem was, I had lost my valet stub…so I had to plead with the valet guys. They already thought I was a freak with my crazy bike and t-shirt, and since I had no ticket they had to call Security to verify my ID against the car’s registration. Meanwhile, they started looking through the keys in the valet office..and couldn’t find them. “It’s the one with the ball sac on the keychain!!!” I informed them (remember, I had a metal sac on my keychain to remind me to be strong at times like this).
Having found my keys, it only took the security guard about 4 hours to verify that it was my truck. But then he gave me a hard time about my ID card! You see, when I go out, if I’m not driving I just bring my State-issued ID card. I got the card last year, when I had a DUI and my license was confiscated — I needed something to get into clubs with. But then once I got my license back, the photo on the ID was SO MUCH BETTER than the one on the Driver’s License, that I prefer taking it with me. Since I wasn’t driving anywhere the night before, the ID was all I really needed.
Now, it’s even worse — I FINALLY got my medical marijuana patient’s card (YAY!!!!), and the picture on THAT is EVER BETTER!! All three are approved forms of State-issued ID…so now I’m really in a quandary. Take a look:
I mean, fuck! Which one would YOU use?!?!?!?!?! (Fun game: guess which is which!)
Anyhoos, so all I had with me was my ID card…and this hard-ass security guard wasn’t gonna let me go without a driver’s license. But my license was in my overnight bag, which I had left in Trixxie’s hotel room! She had taken it with her to work that morning, and I planned to drive STRAIGHT over there and get it back. Her office isn’t far from downtown, so I just figured I’d drive reeeeeeally carefully.
But this was another one of those overly bad-ass security guards…so I had to kiss his ass a little before he FINALLY let me go, admonishing me sternly that it’s a $1500 ticket for driving without a license. I know, I know! I cruised verrrrrrrrrry slowly and law-abidingly over to Trixxie’s office, got my stuff, and breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, and did I mention I had $6,800 in cash stuffed in my bra this whole time?!?!?!?! $3,400 in each side!! (I was making a bank deposit for a friend.) Arrrrrrrrrrrgh!
After that debacle was over, I faced the worst challenge of the day: asking my boss at the souvenir photo company if I could have Christmas off. EVERY YEAR I put in a request for time off around October, to make sure I beat out everyone else and get to go home for the holidays. But this year, with all the other shit going on in my fucked-up life, it slipped my mind. So now he had me on the schedule to work this dumb Chinese concert at the MGM Grand! As you may know, Chinese people don’t buy souvenir photos — I should know; I’ve suffered through MANY a wacky Chinese show in my day (Jackie Cheung, Grasshopper, Rain, etc.). I NEVER made ONE DOLLAR off any of those shows, and there was no reason to expect anything had changed. I mean, they DO say that the Chinese are acquiring more and more American tastes for stuff like Beef and Luxury Cars…but I don’t think they’ve caught the photo bug yet.
Anyhoo, I was reeeeeally nervous to ask him, because he’s already busted my balls about taking too much time off…and I haven’t worked at all since that awful ventriloquist show back on Dec. 3rd. I sweated and stewed over it for 4 days, debating on what tactic to use and what to say. I was ready to quit over this! I finally decided to use humor, and went into his office on my knees, pleading with him. Maybe he thought I was on my knees for a different reason; I don’t know. Moreover, I don’t CARE — he gave me the time off! Yipppee!!!!! Consequently, I am headed off for Lake Tahoe in the morning — my crazy family borrowed my grandma’s vacation condo for a few days, so we’re gonna go party in the woods. Fun!!
So with that being said, I’m facing a 7.5 hour drive tomorrow, and I better get some sleep. But before I go, have a look at my Christmas Wish List, and see if there’s anything you care to throw my way. If not, no big deal…have a great holiday anyway!
http://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/wishlist/2T46RDCX54KLD
xoxoxoxoxo
Wonderhussy.
Soooooo….. the other day, I wrote about the shittiness in my life of late. Well, that was so boring I had to spice it up with a photo of my bush sprayed green, just to get people to read it! But now, I’m ready to write about the FUN stuff of the last two weeks.
December in Vegas is a weird time. No one really comes to town during the Holidays, so it’s eerily deserted, in a creepy, post-Apocalyptic kinda way. Fortunately, some marketing genius figured out a way to get warm bodies into town during this slow season: have a Rodeo!
It’s true — every December, just as the last post-Thanksgiving partiers are straggling out of town to devote themselves to more important things, the National Finals Rodeo comes to town, bringing somewhere around 176,000 rednecks, hillbillies and buckle bunnies (buckle bunnies being the awesomely awesome name they give rodeo groupies). It’s a TRIP! Everywhere you go, from the Bellagio right on down to Fremont Street, the bars, casinos and restaurants are jam-packed with cow-folk. As a veteran people-watcher and connoisseur of freaks, I love this time of year above allllll others…because it’s so much fun! All the casinos roll out the burlap carpet and deck the halls (and nubile waitresses) in denim, plaid and hayseed. Talk about pandering!!!
Everywhere you go, there are Coors, Crown and Jack specials…and every unused nook & cranny houses a mechanical bull. Like I said…pandering: it’s what Vegas does best (you should see how thick they lay it on for Chinese New Year)!
Even the showroom where I slave away taking souvenir photos got into the act, hosting a couple nights of this AWFUL, lamentable, regrettable ventriloquist (no, not Terry Fator…someone even worse) (if you click that link, incidentally, it takes you to my scathing review of Terry F’s show, which was soooo obscene it was censored by Yelp!! Tip: the “XXXXs” replace the words “fag,” “Nigra,” and “suck horsecock,” FYI).
Anyhoo, I suffered through two nights of this miserable ventriloquist and a roomful of fat know-nothings, guffawing at heartland buffonery ranging from a dead terrorist to a Jalapeño on a stick. The show was so bad, in fact, that my friend J.R., who is visiting town again, bought a ticket but then got up and left halfway through. He’d rather bleed money at a poker table than have his ears bleed from listening to that crap.
J.R. came to town at just the right time, since he loooooves country music… and hot country ass. Fortunately, after the aforementioned two nights of hillbilly hell, I didn’t have to work…so I had plenty of time to hang out with him and make the rounds of Rodeo society. We attended the American Country Awards one night (yeeeeeeeeeeeee haw! That dumb bitch Taylor Swift was locked out, ha ha!) and then another night we went to the big grand opening for the new Lynyrd Skyrnd BBQ & Beer at the Excalibur.
J.R. was being wooed as an investor by the people behind this new hillbilly hotspot, so he got free VIP tickets to the opening night gala, at which none other than “Lynyrd Skynyrd” themselves played a concert! I say “Lynryd Skynrd” in quotation marks, because only one original member is still in the group — so it’s really more of a cover band. Still, they were great! All the classics were played, from “Gimme Three Steps” to “Sweet Home Alabamy.” And, of course…. “Free Bird.” Gooooooooooood times!
The best part of the whole show was seeing that fish-lipped beast Skanki Sue (she runs some kind of half-assed stripper school at the Excalibur)…but she didn’t have a VIP wristband, ha ha, so we had better seats than her herpetic, Ex-Lax-chafed ass). Score! We rocked the night away, swigging booze from Mason jars and getting jiggy with 
the bullriders, cow babes and washed-up Vegas detritus littering the audience (which included society cougars, young chippies and none other than Jose Canseco). It was great, except for at the end, when J.R. (who has been trying not to be such a sucker and easy mark for greedy bimbos) broke down and bought a round of drinks for a bevy of Rodeo babes. He asked me to sign the receipt for him (he didn’t trust himself not to overtip the busty bartender), and I wrote “SUCKER” on the signature line, as a joke. I thought I wrote it on his copy…but come to find out, I accidentally wrote it on the bar copy…so the pissed-off bartender threw away my ENTIRELY FULL drink while I wasn’t looking, in revenge. Bitch!
Incidentally, looking at all these Rodeo photos of myself…I realized I need a new, badass, GINORMOUS dinner-plate-sized belt buckle that says “WONDERHUSSY.” Hmmm!
So anyhoo, aside from all the yee-hawery, J.R. had mainly come to town for one thing: the Great Gift Giveaway at Caesars Palace. Every year, the casino has this big event where high rollers get to cash in their gambling credits for junk — just like back in the day at the arcade, when you won tickets and traded them in for crap. J.R. is a Seven Stars member, which is the Caesars version of the top tier (I think you have to gamble a minimum of $100,000 per year; next is Diamond, then it goes down from there)…so he had a TON of credits to cash in for crap.
Basically, it’s a ballroom filled with junk from the SkyMall catalog (I think the same people run it, actually, LOLZ) — stuff like toasters and tents and golf carts and TVs. J.R. was generous enough to share his credits with me, but all I wanted was a tool kit — I’m going to need a decent set of tools when I move, so I figured I might as well be practical. The tools I have right now are a joke — mostly free promotional screwdrivers and junk from trade shows; nothing that really works. J.R. himself bought all kinds of crazy crap…but since I’m about to pack up and move, the last thing I need is more crazy crap. Ya know?
Anyhoo, lest you think the last couple of weeks have been nothing but fun and games for me, be advised that I *DID* work as a plant in a couple of corporate scavenger hunts — I played a horticulturist in one, and a double agent in another. Good times, but nowhere near as good of times as this other scavenger hunt I participated in — as a contestant!!
Downy fabric softener was sponsoring the “World’s Biggest Digital Scavenger Hunt” on the Strip last week, and one of my media friends emailed me, asking if I wanted to team up with him and try for the $20,000 prize money. He didn’t have to ask twice! This friend is totally Type A, and verrrrrrrrrrry competitive…plus he’s really smart and a total go-getter (the little prick is younger than me by several years, yet has already published three books!)…so I knew he’d be a great teammate. And he was! He even made me come out and meet him at a Starbucks a couple nights before the game, to bone up on Vegas history and Downy trivia. Now THAT’s dedication!
On the day of the game, we had zero idea what would be required of us, so showed up woefully underdressed, in jeans and Uggs and totally un-runner-ish clothing. Meanwhile, all these other hardcore competitors were wearing Under Armour and Asics and shit. It freaked us out briefly, but we still smoked that fucking game, running up and down the Strip (ALL THE WAY from Venetian to MGM and back…over 3 miles!) for around 90 minutes. Between the two of us, we knew every shortcut and secret passageway, so we were able to beat out the other 400 contestants to win the $20,000!!! We got one of those giant novelty checks you always see on TV, presented to us by Miss Amy Sedaris, and it was crazy! (Yes, I know that’s a TERRIBLE photo of me, but I was tired and sweaty and as previously mentioned have been crying a lot lately.)
I had promised J.R. I’d take him to dinner if I won, so I made good on my promise and took him downtown to one of my favorite old-school restaurants, Binion’s Ranch Steakhouse, located high atop the ever-so-classy Binion’s Hotel in fabulous downtown Vegas. This is one of those places that hasn’t changed since 1969, and the maître d’ looks like a cross between Larry Flynt and Liberace. Need I really say more?! I told J.R. to order what eeeeeeeever he liked, and to spare no expense. For some reason this made him very nervous, and he spilled no fewer than three drinks over the course of the evening, LOLZ!
After dinner, I dragged him down the street to the Beauty Bar, a hipster hotspot I normally avoid at all costs, but which that night was hosting a faaaaaaabulous wrestling match featuring Jesus vs. Santa Claus!! “We’ll decide who’s REALLY the Reason for the Season!!”OMG, it was absolutely incredible. In addition to Santa eventually beating Jebus’s ass (with none other than Lucifer himself officiating), a big zaftig pinup chick in the audience stapled dollar bills to her twat. Just another night in downtown Vegas! Why would you ever bother going to the Strip (unless it was to win $20,000 in a scavenger hunt)??
Now, speaking of Santa and downtown Vegas, last Friday was the big semi-annual Santa Rampage, wherein hundreds of local kooks and freaks dress up like Santa Claus and go on a big pub crawl on Fremont Street. It was mostly Burning Man people at first, but more and more wackos caught on, and now all kindsa people participate. Last year I went as a Bettie Page Domme Santa, which was awesome, but I didn’t want to be unoriginal and wear the same thing twice. Thankfully, I had some leftover green hairspray from when I sprayed my pubes, so I rigged up a sort of sexxxy Grinch domme thing that went over fairly well. I partied medium-hearty from around 9pm-1am, then went home to bed. I’ve been too upset lately about my house stuff to really party…but today I decided that THAT is going to STOP immediately! Worry doesn’t help anything anyway, so I might as well eat, drink and be merry. Ho, ho, ho.
After all that excitement died down, the Rodeo left town…and now every night is a Silent Night. It’s creepy and weird, like the Rapture came and sucked up all the God-fearing, Jebus-lovin’ cowboys…leaving just us wrathful sinners languishing in Vegas, waiting for New Year’s. I personally LOVE this creepy, deserted window between Rodeo and New Year’s…I don’t care what Andy Williams says; this is truly the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! You can actually drive down the Strip in less than 40 hours, and parking is abundant. I personally feel like we locals should make this little period our own municipal holiday…all we need is a clever name for it. So far I’ve had suggestions like Foreplay, the Taint, Stripocalypse and Las Vacancy…any others?
Anyhoo, the town being basically deserted, even J.R. decided to finally leave. I took him to the airport this afternoon (I love the irony of my beat-up-ass old pickup truck rolling into the valet to collect his Seven Stars ass), and he hemmed and hawed the whole way there…FINALLY spilling his guts when I was already idling in front of the Southwest checkin: he had decided to stay a few more days! So I got back on the freeway, took him to the Rio, and then headed over to my next adventure: the Michael Jackson fan fest.
A word about Michael Jackson: I’m huge fan, but not really of his music or his treacly sappiness. I just dug his weirdness. I met him once, backstage at the Celine Dion show when I was taking photos of them together, and he was awesome (I wanted a pic with him so bad, but I could hardly hand my camera to Celine and ask her to snap one…she prolly woulda broke it).
He used to live down the street from me, in fact, back in 2008…I used to walk my dog over there now and then, hoping to catch a glimpse of him (it wasn’t even a gated community or anything, just this really weird old sort of Spanish mission-style compound near downtown). I never did see him — just an odd assortment of international fans, who would camp out in the street 24/7, waiting for him. Bizarre!
Anyhoos, ever since he died, everyone’s making a huge fuss about him and everyone likes him again. So much so that they created this abomination of a show based on his life, as interpreted by — who the fuck else — Cirque du Soleil. Bah! My most loathed of all pretentious Quebecois circus troupes, and they’re always meddling around my city, creating shows around this, that and the other. IMO, all their shows SUCK ASS, but on a sliding scale from Least Sucky (The Beatles’ LOVE, which is actually really cool, and Zumanity, which is OK) to Soul-Searingly Asinine (Viva Elvis, everything else).
My friend Guy is a huge MiJac fan, and ponied up the cash to see the new Cirque Michael Jackson show. He invited me, but I politely refused — I’ve been burned before, when my Arkansawyer girlfriend brow-beat me into going to see Viva Elvis with her in 2010 (the ONLY time I’ve ever paid for a show ticket, to my immense chagrin). Just as I suspected, he said the show sucked balls, but he invited me to at least attend the adjacent Fan Fest with him — a convention area full of Michael Jackson’s memorabilia, clothing, etc. It was pretty cool, I guess…but DEFINITELY not worth $35 plus taxes and surcharges. I did get to sit on the throne from the “Remember the Time” video, but that was about it.
One other thing I’ve been doing, now that Vegas is deserted, is try my hand at Acting. Yes, that’s Acting, with a Capital A — very serious business! I always thought it was just a matter of blowing the casting director, but come to find out there’s all this “technique” and “craft” involved…who knew? My friend Guy (from the MiJac thing) is a local actor, and has appeared in all kindsa fun stuff like Pirates of the Caribbean and Deadwood, so he convinced me to sign up for this acting workshop taught by none other than Gary Coleman’s old manager, a delightful old-school East-Coast Italian who actually had a lot of very interesting things to say. There were only about 8 people in the class, which was held in a local hotel room, but it was fascinating. The other students were straight out of “Waiting For Guffman:” besides my friend and I, it was a motley assortment of all ages and types, including an ardent Ron Paul supporter, a long-haired, thickly-accented bespectacled German named Günther, and this poooooooooooooooooor slightly chubby, homely chick with a fierce camel toe, who broke down in tears when the teacher critiqued her for her robotic delivery: “I don’t want to be a waitress forever,” she sobbed. WOW! It was STRAIGHT OUT OF A MOVIE — I even kinda had to look around for a hidden camera. Amazing!
As for my own budding acting skills, idk if I’ll make it…but it’s definitely interesting. I’ve been an extra in a bazillion movies, commercials and TV shows…and have had a few bit parts in student films and independent stuff, but I’ve never really Acted. So let’s see where this latest adventure takes me!
Ho, ho, ho… BAH! This is without question the shittiest Xmas I’ve ever suffered through. I couldn’t even afford a Christmas tree, and had to settle for painting my pubes green 🙁
This is a 2-part entry, because I waited soooo long to update that I did a million interesting things, and it would take too long to write it all at once. So first, I’m just going to tell you about how fucking miserable I’ve been! Seriously, I’ve been weeping, bawling, sobbing and screaming most every night…only taking the occasional breather to guzzle alcohol and inhale medicine to dull the pain. It sucked!
Anyhoo, I’ve never been a big Christmas fan, and I’m certainly no believer…but I generally enjoy the season anyway, what with all the hot boozy drinks, parties and time spent with my nutty family. Corny as it may sound, it’s a time of year for being cozy and loved and pleasantly buzzed in front of the fire.
But this year, it’s been shit. As you’ll recall, I can’t afford the mortgage on my insanely underwater house, and my bank won’t write down my principal…so I’ve decided to short sell it. My attorney listed it the day before Thanksgiving, so all weekend (including on the holiday itself) I was getting calls from all kinds of Realtors, wanting to come check the place out. I was at my mom’s house in California, so I told everyone to come by when I got back to Vegas on Monday.
So on Monday, starting at the UNDOGLY hour of 9:30am, a constant stream of Realtors and potential buyers passed through my house. The first guy showed up at 9:30 am (!!!), and from there one it was one after the other, sometimes two at a time, all…day….long. It was exhausting! Do you have any idea how demoralizing it is to have total strangers tramping through your home, poking into your closets and drawers and looking askance at your wigs and oddities?! I felt like I was running a fuckin’ museum! (I should have opened up a gift shop, to sell my panties!)
All types of people crossed my threshold — it seemed that all of Vegas wanted a piece of the action! Rightly so, since it was listed at $109,000 — a steal! I mean, a ridiculous steal — all day long people were asking me suspiciously, “So why are you selling this place?” as if I was hiding some awful secret, like, “Oh, because there was a mass murder here and the place is haunted by a thousand ghosts,” or, “Oh, there’s a mad plumbing problem.” The sad truth is, I’m selling it because I HAVE to! I don’t WANT to — I just can’t afford it. I LOVE my house, but I refuse to spend the rest of my life paying off a bum loan on it.
Of course I didn’t say all that to my potential buyers — I was trying to sell the fuckin’ joint, not freak people out. I even took care to cover up the ginormous DDD-size tits on my porn-shop mannequin — normally, as you know, I refuse to kow-tow to the bourgeois moral code of the day…but for propriety’s sake, I did cover her up with a scarf. And good thing– not one but TWO Orthodox Jewish families came in to look! One mother was pregnant with a toddler in tow — can’t have little Ari traumatized by titties at the crazy godless shiksa’s house! (Even though that little bastard Ari toddled into MY kitchen, and opened MY cupboard door, and took out one of MY Capri-Suns and put his drooly crumby lips all over it. Fucker!)
Yes that’s right, not one but TWO Orthodox families came to look — one of them even submitted an offer, mentioning on the offer that I should sell to them because their Rabbi lives down the street and my little side patio would be the perfect spot for them to build a Sukkot hut on Passover. Hmm! Wicca World is also down the block…maybe if I’d have mentioned that in the listing, I could have sold to a wizard!
I showed to several other parties, including a young Mexican couple in a Jarritos van (which probably freaked my neighbors out), an old Filipino couple, a trapeze artist from Cirque du Soleil and a wacky pink-haired drummer wearing those Vibram 5-toe shoes. All in all, your typical Vegas house-buying crowd. This went on and on and on until the last party left around 6:30pm…and by day’s end, I had eight offers. Not bad!
My attorney advised me on which offer to accept (the Mexicans in the Jarritos van, hahahahaha — they had straight cash, yo), so then I had to go back and fill out about 50 pages of paperwork, attesting to my broke-ass financial state and basically pleading with Friendly Mr. Banker the Buttfucking, Bloodsucking Ass Pirate to let me off the hook. *HOPEFULLY* they accept the offer and waive the remainder of my debt… but who knows? Even if they do (which I REALLY hope they do), it could be months before it’s all said and done! And meanwhile…I can’t make any plans for my own future. It SUCKS!
It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even stomach the sound of Xmas music — I’ll be driving around town on my miserable rounds, glaring at other people’s cozy houses with lit trees and decorations in the windows, and some dumb fuckin’ Peace on Earth Silent Night shit comes on the radio, and I start bawling my eyes out in anger, fear and JEALOUSY. Why did I fuck up so badly?! Arrrrrrrgh! I go home to “my” house, which isn’t even MINE, and half the shit is already in boxes, and I didn’t even bother putting up any decorations. What’s the point?
All I want is a cute little bungalow in a shitty neighborhood — so long as it’s MINE! I just want a place, however humble, that is ALL MINE, that no fucking banker will ever be able to gouge excess money from me for. Is that too much to ask? Out of idle curiosity, I did a search of the real estate listings in Vegas for all single family homes under $50,000 — and nearly 4,000 listings came up! Seriously!
NOW HEAR THIS: there has to be somebody reading this who can help me. I’m guessing that bastard Jamie Dimon didn’t read my last post (although, frighteningly, after I emailed him…someone actually called me the very next day! It was just a secretary, and she didn’t offer much more than a half-assed vow to “look into” my fraudulent mortgage…but still. After three years of banging my head on the wall, to finally get an answer totally blew my mind!).
Anyhoo, as I was saying, there has to be SOMEBODY among my readership with $50,000 to spare. If you’re out there, please buy me this house:
http://www.ziprealty.com/property/1300-GRIFFITH-AVE-LAS-VEGAS-NV-89104/42735544/detail#
If you don’t care for this house in particular, there are many more on my list, which I’ll gladly share with you. And I promise to pay you back in a timely manner, at 2% interest…or, if you prefer, you could just gift it to me out of the generosity of your heart. Or we could work out a trade where I write for you, model for you or vacuum your balls for you….or whatever!
All I’m saying is, because of my predicament, I won’t be able to buy a house myself, in my own name, for quite some time. And I’m gonna be forced out of my current joint sooooon…in the dead of winter, no less. Have a heart! Otherwise, I’m gonna end up living at one of those shitty weekly motels with all the hookers and drug dealers (seriously! I already have it planned out).
I fell like one of those unbearable sappy Xmas story characters: [spoken in a thick baby voice] “Dear Jebus [or Santa, whatever], all I want for Christmas is a home of my own.” I just wanna lay in MY OWN BED, under MY OWN roof, and not have to fucking worry anymore! Why, once I get my own home at last, I’ll even take a page from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and give my porno mannequin a name. All these years I’ve had her, I never bothered naming her, because as Holly Golightly said:
“Poor slob without a name! The way I see it, I haven’t got the right to give [her] one. We don’t belong to each other. We just took up one day…I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I’m not sure where that is but I know what it is like. It’s like Tiffany’s.”
Well, that’s where me and the fake-ass, bullshitting, false-hope-giving movies part ways: I would NEVER want to live at a place like Tiffany’s.
Unless you’re talking about Tiffany’s Cafe at the White Cross Drugstore in downtown Vegas. I’d live there anytime!
Part Two soon to come….stay tuned!