exquisite corpse.
For years I had felt a deep emptiness which extended to the very core of my being. No matter how happy I was, no matter how many times I went to see Motorhead, no matter how many cookies I ate, it was still there... gnawing away mockingly. I cried myself to sleep every single night screaming "Why? Why? Sweetest Satan, why hast thou forsaken me? What is this wound I cannot heal?".
This lasted from about the time I was 1 until late 1995 when I went to Las Vegas seeking enlightenment from an ancient and wise man known as David Bowie. Upon arriving at the airport I spotted a big rack of stupid pamphlets, I sauntered on over and stared away. There, in the middle of flyers for Hard Rock Cafes and giant waterslides, IT sat. The perfect image of the one and only Liberace stared lustily at my crotch and I knew then that I had found what I was looking for. I grabbed a couple of the ads for the Liberace museum and stuck them in my travelbag, vowing to one day return and investigate this terrible and splendid place. I couldn't visit it right away, as I was babysitting a drunken friend who had (has) a bad habit of wandering into traffic when left unattended. I thought about running off to see the museum and letting Smokey the dopehead die alone, but why allow HIM to gain an audience with Liberace in the afterlife when all I'd get to do was see the great man's earthly belongings? It didn't seem very fair to me, so I made the heart-rending decision to force dopey to live, if only for a little while longer. I freely tell him to die now, he's a vegetarian and that's just so hippie. Give me a fucking break!
December 1998. In the 3 years since my pilgrimage to Vegas, I had grown my hair, cut it, started dyeing it regularly, sometimes brushed it, and even ventured out into the real world once or twice (when I wasn't playing with my hair of course). On one of these trips out I met my (now ex) friend Colleen. We had been attempting to figure out a decent excuse to go exploring Mexico for a month or so when, for no reason, she said "How about Vegas instead?". Instead of being annoyed at this betrayal, I was thrilled. That was because the first image that popped into my head was that of a be-ringed closet-homosexual piano psychopath that just happened to hold the key to my happiness within the walls of his hall of memories. *WE* were going to Vegas, but *I* was going to make Goddamn sure *WE* also went to the Liberace Museum. I stated this right away, and was thrilled with the first vote : 2 for, 2 didn't care. I was in!
We left for Vegas by car after stopping at a few supermarkets, which delayed us by about 4 hours (just try getting Colleen to do anything on time. You'd have better luck getting a soccer trophy to donate sperm). I didn't care. I knew I was going to scratch an itch that had lingered with me for 3 long years the next day. We got there, screwed around a bit (New York New York Hotel and Casino, you SUCK!), got a room, I shared a bed with her sister (who snored like a locomotive), and couldn't sleep a wink. It wasn't just choochoogirl and the fearsome sexual tension that was so thick you could almost cut it with a knife, it was also insomnia AND the thrill of being so close to seeing IT. Each second that passed brought me that much closer to the culmination of my journey.
MY restful resting was interrupted by the sound of screaming children at about 9am, so I ran into the bathroom to get dressed (I was, for some reason, VERY modest around Colleen and her family. I was wearing thermal pants that showed off my goodies, themselves an interesting subject, and I really didn't want anyone to *see*). After breakfast, which I regularly interrupted with comments like "When's it open? Will his body be there? Can we go now? What time is it? When's it open?", we finally made the trek down Tropicana Blvd towards Mecca. After squirming around in the backseat (Me drive? HAHAHA! You don't know me!) and staring out the windows for what seemed like an eternity (or 5 minutes) I saw IT. We approached IT, parked, and entered IT. It was almost like losing my virginity, only I wasn't quite as bored by this...
The first thing I saw inside were cars. Lots of them. Lots of really ugly extravagant cars with mirror tiles and musical notes on them. It was both beautiful and revolting. I had to see more. A brief glimpse of bafflingly bad cars through a window wasn't enough for me. I gave them my $7 "donation", got my little red sticker, grabbed some literature, and flitted into... THE PIANO ROOM. There were about 20 pianos in all. Some miniature, some huge, some disgustingly ornate, some just really old. All of them had an aura though... an aura that could only have been gained by having the ass of Liberace plop down in front of them... just imagine the aura his bathroom must've had. The mind boggles. Some of the pianos were covered with tacky inlay. It was WAY beyond any piano viewing experience I'd ever had while in Las Vegas before, that's for sure. After the pianos came the dreadful cars. Wow, oh wow were they DREADFUL! Just take my word for it, there's no describing the terror one feels upon encountering a car completely covered in mirror tiles, turning away to avoid being transformed to stone, and then seeing a signed photo of Gerald Ford. Gadzooks!
After fleeing the hall of autos, one leaves the first building, crosses the parking lot, and enters building #2 : Liberace's weird memorabilia and unclassifiable shit! Among the marvels to be witnessed here: a script from the episode of Batman in which he played a villian named "Fingers" or something, a bronze casting of his hands (I REALLY hope he didn't do any fisting with those monsters. He'd have killed someone!), his silverware (sterilized hopefully), and maybe even his damn phone bill. After gawking at all this junk for 10 or 15 minutes it was time to head into magical building #3... what could possibly be so amazing that they'd hold it back until AFTER you saw the "Liberace Day in Las Vegas" proclamations? It could only have been one thing...
Well, after passing the closed Liberace Museum restaurant (CURSE MY LUCK! We should have come later in the afternoon!), we entered THE COSTUME ROOM.
One can never fully understand THE COSTUME ROOM unless one has experienced THE COSTUME ROOM. I'm so flooded with memories of the crimes against nature commited in this room that I'm having trouble singling any out for mention... how about his bicentennial hotpants? How about his Czar Nicholas suit? How about his 700 dead chinchilla body armor? How about his mirrored jockstrap? How about his star-spangled wifebeater with matching suspenders? How about his green vinyl Godzilla suit? How about (and the mere memory of this one makes me cringe) his studded red leather American revolutionary costume? Zoinks! Topping it all off in this room (and I am NOT kidding) was, sitting in a glass display case on a revolving pedestal with a light showing off it's magnificence, the world's largest... RHINESTONE. EEEEK!!!!!!! I almost peed from the sheer joy I felt upon realizing I was WITHIN INCHES of the WORLD'S LARGEST RHINESTONE. Was this the end of the fun to be had at the Liberace museum? NO!
In a room adjacent to THE COSTUME ROOM was a (as we were told many times) perfect recreation of Liberace's master bedroom from his Palm Springs estate. I was intrigued. I was looking forward to harnesses, rows of pornographic videotapes, a stuffed sheep, 3 Guatamalan cabana boys in thongs, and an industrial size jug of vasline but I didn't get that. What I got was grandma's room. Your grandma, my grandma... grandma's room. After the cars, costumes, and general obscenity of everything we'd just seen, this was a little bit of a letdown. Are we to truly believe that underneath all the flash, Liberace was a human being? I don't believe it. I refuse to believe it. Liberace was a superior creation, more impressive than even John Denver, and I can't believe that he just kind of happened. An Ozzy Osbourne just kind of happens, but not a Liberace. After leaving granny's bedroom, we passed through a hallway of cabinets featuring items belonging to George Liberace (you know, "I wish my brother George was here, ooooh yeth I do") including his military stuff and ads for his band appearances. He seemed like an accomplished man to be sure, but the lack of rhinestones or hotpants saddened me.
George's area led directly to the giftshop, which signaled the end of the visit. After browsing for a good 20 minutes, I decided to buy everything that was really cheap. I got a mug, 10 boxes of official Liberace Museum matches, a batch of hideous postcards, a couple purple balloons, and a gruesome 3-dimensional magnet of HIM which I have had over the head of my bed since the instant I returned home. With a tear in my eye and a tear in the back of my pants (long story, involves someone with a big butt wearing pants that belong on people with little butts, like me), I waved byebye to the spirit of Liberace. Much to my surprise, nobody waved back. It just goes to show you... the dead are unappreciative shitheads.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. Lots of bickering and greek food. I got home and refused to talk to anyone. Same shit as always.
The OFFICIAL Liberace Museum website
Get your own Free Home Pagewritten 3/19/99. last reworked 4/17/00. moved 7/6/99
