perfidy

It has been a busy few weeks for the Buckethead family. When I was laid off almost a month ago I dreamed that I would have a period of rest; a time to gather my scattered mental faculties into a pile, give them a light dusting and polishing, and sort them into neat ordered rows. I would do the job search, obtain remunerative and rewarding employment, and rejoin the working week. But as my personal savior John Belushi said, "But nooooo!"

Once I no longer had the excuse of going to work, I was expected to increase my participation in the management of the household. I was able to get several days' respite by "reorganizing the garage," but my wife soon saw through my cunning ruse. But even Mrs. Buckethead had to defer to my new master, the townhouse.

Long time readers will be aware that the townhouse has been something of an albatross for me. While it held out the hope of gleeful capitalist windfalls, it mostly was a black hole of time, effort and money. (Well, let's be fair - it was only a neutron star.) We had finally reached the point where we could rent the damn thing, when the dark clouds started gathering at the workplace. So, we did what any sensible people do when faced with uncertainty - grab for the cash.

But the process of selling our spare house, begun just before I was pink slipped, has proved to be just as much a burden as trying to rent it ever was. Fascist homeowner's associations, recalcitrant plumbing and the prejudices of others have kept me working until my fingers are nubs. One particularly egregious example: just yesterday Mrs. Buckethead and I disassembled our fence, and then immediately reassembled it six inches lower to satisfy an obscure codicil of the association covenant. All the while, my son sat in purgatory, or what toy sellers like to call the Megasaucer. A thousand minor details must all be attended to, so that weeks later, you (cross your fingers) get the cash. I'll need to get laid off from being laid off, just to recover from this harrowing experience.

Then there was the trip to Vegas. Naturally, the first thing one thinks of when one is unemployed is, "Hey, I need to go to Vegas!" What better use for now scarce funds than to buy an airline ticket a week in advance and fly to an entire city scientifically and methodically designed to devour every cent you have, or can easily borrow or steal? Normally, my common sense and prudence (also known as my wife) would preclude such a journey. Thank god for extenuating circumstances! My dear friend Jeff (an actual rocket scientist) had decided after seven years of dithering that the right time to get married was right after I became a government jobless statistic. I met Jeff in 1972. I was born in 1969. I have quite literally known him as long as I can remember. And he asked me to be in the wedding party. I had little choice but to take the hit. I had to go to Vegas.

I got up at 5:30 on Thursday to get to the airport. Arrived at 10:30 Vegas time. Goofed off, found the bachelor. Went to the bachelor party at eight in the evening. Met some fascinating women with wonderful personalities and lucrative careers in the arts. Got back to my hotel at 4:30am, twenty six hours after waking the previous day. Got exactly three hours of sleep before waking to a phone call from Mrs. Buckethead, who apparently didn't think too much about time zones.

Then we gambled. And drank. And drank and gambled. We saw the fountains at the Bellagio, the miniature Statue of Liberty, the smoked glass pyramid, the lions at the MGM, and the Venetian, which would have embarrassed even a Sforza. Outside, it was Times Square - old and new together - on crack. Hispanic street buskers handing out hooker's business cards. Silicone. Elvis. Inside, all the wonderful and clever cheese that is a thin disguise over some rather merciless interior design. Every path leads to gambling. It's uncanny. Free drinks as long as you're playing. Silicone, Elvis.

Then there was the wedding. I could tell you that it had a Brazilian carnivale theme. I could tell you that the minister was a transvestite Carmen Miranda and a Cuban accent. But you wouldn't get it. This picture will give you some idea of what was going on - this is the happy couple perhaps ten minutes into the holy and sacred institution of marriage:

The reception lasted until the wee hours of the morning. I had so much to drink, I even danced. I apologize to all those who had the misfortune to witness that. No one was permanently injured though, which makes it one of my more successful forays into interpretive dance. (By this series of movements, the white male shows his alienation both from soceity and himself. He demonstrates that even his body cannot be a comfortable home for his soul. Here, this movement satirizes the conventional notions of grace, aesthetics, and athleticism.)

In my spare time, I have read exactly one and a half books. All on the plane to and from Vegas. I have pursued the job search thingy - In fact I have a lead on what would be a stupendously fantastic job; failing that, there are still several other attractive options before me. All I have to do is survive until next Monday (when the deed is recorded and I get my cash) on $6.00 and the change under my couch cushions. Then, big money. And I apologize to all four of my loyal readers, who may have noticed my absence and suffered for the lack of a useful reason to say, "Jeebus, what a deranged mongoloid fuckwit!"

So that's what I've been doing on my summer vacation.