Lessons from La Liberace, Part I

From the desk of
Baroness von Bloggenschtern,
Kitschmonger, Bon Vivant, & Magpie



I really do not know where exactly to begin.

Like a curator that has stumbled upon the cache of the century, I am still circling around this trove of (questionable quality) photo documentation.

Looking at it in this light, in that light. Trying to figure out how to best position it to supply you with MSP (Maximum Shine Potential).

Let us first begin with the physical location of the museum itself.

From the information on the webpage, it looks pretty - dare I say? - spectacular:

Here's the 411.

This is a photo of the second, newer part of the museum.

Which is across the parking lot from the original building.

The original building? Not so fabulous. It kind of looks like funeral parlour from the outside. Imagine that.

Should you feel a tad parched after panting after all of the treasures housed in these time capsules, please know that there are a couple of options available within the same strip mall (yes, you read this correctly) to wet your whistle.

There is this:
which could be a slight misnomer. I cannot for the life of me even begin to believe that any good times have ever happened within this establishment.

Ironically, the clientèle we did see entering here looked as though gay-bashing would be high on their "Goodtimes" to-do list.

For those with a taste for the exotic, there is this oasis beckoning you:
I did not go in as, alas, I have no taste for the exotic.

And I would have been sorely disappointed if they did not sell: a) magic carpets or b) genie lamps.

Why chase disappointment?

Let me tell you what was not disappointing.

The Liberace Museum Phase I, that's what.

From the moment you hit the door, there were candlelabras and mirrored geegaws as far as the eye could see:

Candlelabra - what a fun word to say!

Say it with me in a silly British accent - Candle-ahhh-brahhh.
Now just the left side of the room.

Mirrored Geegaw #1
Where would be the perfect place to hang this?
Powder Room? Man Cave?
Or maybe.... over the bed...

But wait a minute - if we are to believe what we read here, this is an accurate replication of La Lib's bedroom:

Which begs two questions.

1. Can one be both gay and provincial?

2. Was the second bed for his mother? They were apparently quite close.

Speaking of instruments (?), let's move on to the King of Bling's vast array of pianos.

Yes, just pianos.

Not an organ in the bunch.

We start with the baby Liberace's Baby Baby Grand:
then move to the classical:

(of course I snuck a smell of the bench -
apparently Liberace's ass smells like old wool, lilac and coconuts...)

to the slightly creepy:

(WTH is behind that curtain? I'm afraid)

and work up to one of my favorites:

I have to tell you that this photo barely scratches the surface on the blinding prismatic rainbow surrounding this piece.

I think it might even have magical powers. Like, you place your fingers gingerly on the keys, and when you press down, BeDazzled unicorns leap out from underneath the lid.

So what have we learned thus far?

1. An indulgent spouse is the ultimate partner.
2. Just because you were beloved in life does not mean you won't end up at a strip mall in death.
3. It is just plain awkward having to explain to museum staff why you're sniffing a piano bench.

Coming up Monday - Lessons from La Liberace, Part II - Designing the Dream or Pimpin' the Pompadoured.

Thoughtful Thursday

May I just say that Tuesday, February 24, 2009 - was one of my personal best days. EVER.

There was sunshine and azure sky, there was warmth, there was leisurely strolling with a dash of economic stimulus thrown in. There was brunch at the Bellagio.

And then, just when I could not imagine it getting any damn better, it did.

The Baron and Baroness pilgrimmage-d to the place which is quintessentially Vegas.

The kitsch.

The costumes.

The shine.

The.

Freakin'.

Liberace.

Museum.

Today's TT presents to you the sign that all see at the outset of their tour around all that is "The King of Bling"; use it liberally at your discretion:

Just as I was honored to be your museum docent and provide you with a new spin on "aht" in my "Lessons from the Louvre", please join me for the next couple of days as I introduce you to the Swarovski-bedazzled world of fabulosity known as Liberace.

Day Camp

Much like the fabulous burger joint that I have yet to get to, The Baroness is In 'N Out.

I've have had a glorious sunshiney Clark County day out and about, and can't wait to share.

But wait I must.

For I have approximately 5 minutes to make-a de magic and get out the door once again to run to some officially-sanctioned schmocktail reception, but let me tease you with tomorrow's post.

Two words:

Liberace.

Museum.

Hon, Hold all My Calls

Greetings from the desert.

Please don't worry about me getting dehydrated in all of this dry air; rest assured that I am keeping my liquids up. Corneal damage is more of a concern - I cannot seem to look away from the shiny.

I will tell you that I had an extremely diffucult time staying on task today while trying to get to our hosted breakfast - we had to walk through the middle of the casino, you see. And all of the noises and glitter were very distracting. Fortunately, I was travelling with a pack, and also some human wranglers who kept the strays from, well, straying.

It is always fascinating to me being the "spouse" at these events. Keep in mind that "spouse" in this context takes on the definition of "extraneous human unit who cannot possibly have anything worthy of listening to".

Oh, if they only knew that I am sitting quietly, observing. Smiling coyly, nodding demurely. Filing their inane conversations away with the utmost efficiency in my spacious mental credenza.

Idiots.

Do not get me wrong - I am always extremely grateful to the powers that be who send us on these jaunts - they always do things up right.

So thoughtful were they of this "spouse's" needs, in fact, that they ensured that I had my own office for producing my fine literary works. Jane Austen should have been this lucky.

Thoughtfulness, Exhibit A: Two-line phone

(with hold button!)

Thoughtfulness, Exhibit B: Personalized Note Paper

(always a classy touch, I think)


Thoughtfulness, Exhibit C: 2 (!) Writing Tables

Table 1 -View of Room

Table 2 - For Personal Assistant to direct my calls

Ciao for now - I'm off to tend to some v. important economic stimulus business.

Gianmarco - hold my calls.

And I'm out of personalized note paper. Take care of that, would you please?

Good News, Bad News

Must be brief - the Baron is squawking at me to get. in. the. cab. now. Here goes:

The Good News:
We've got tickets to watch the Oscars.

The Bad News:
Our seats are a little far from the stage:

I hate our travel concierge. Asshat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Bad News:

As well you know, anything that ends in "A-Rama" holds great promise of shock, awe, and no small amount of shiny. One of the uber-kitsch sites I had hoped to explore:

is no longer.

Elvis has indeed left the building.

Permanently.

Wah.

The Good News:
This goldmine?
Still open for business. FABULOUS!!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Starting Monday, I will be sending missives from the road, in between visits to the $2.99 buffet and extremely kitschy lounge acts.

Viva Ya-Know.

Thoughtful Thursday

Apologies all around.

For the last week or so , I have been simultaneously maddeningly uninspired and happily distracted .

In the interest of finding today's entry, libraries have been visited, scouring and poring has been dutifully done; mostly to no avail.

The pressure is always there to find something unique, to present something as yet unheard of, to place in your hands a rough gem that will soon glisten as you turn it over and over in your pocket throughout the day.

These morsels usually present themselves; I do not seek them. But it is starting to appear that my increasing desperation only makes way for their exponential elusiveness.

So instead of today's TT tapping me gently on the shoulder, I have plucked one unceremoniously from the book "Abounding Grace" by M. Scott Peck.

In the section of "Strength", a quote comes from Joseph Joubert.

Monsieur Joubert, a blogger way before his time, was only ever published posthumously. Mostly, he wrote a copious amount of letters and filled sheets of paper and small notebooks with thoughts about the nature of human existence, literature and other topics.

So, in a time where many in our Western world cannot avoid the daily, the hourly, the minute-to-minute onslaught of bad news about our economic climate and its subsequent ill-effects, I encourage you to take a moment of stillness and a deep breath, and focus only on the beauty carried within each and every one of you:

"You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you"

Joseph Joubert (1754-1824)

Barry White, Troubadour of Love, And...

...apparently Jewish.

And I quote from one of the quintessential smoochey-face & miscellaneous related ensuing shenanigans songs - "Never Never Going to Give You Up",

"...Never ever going to quit,
'Cause quitting just ain't my schtick..."

Really, Mr. White?

Schtick?

Love it.

Welcome to the tribe, my soulful mischpucha.

Think of England

Opening scene:
Suburban family room, Anytown.

Pan over married couple sitting side by side on loveseat, watching the BBC version of "Wife Swap".

Couple is comfortably snuggled against each other, relaxed, joking.

Pan to television - stay here to allow viewers to appreciate scene to follow.

"Wife" 1 of Wife Swap - a single mom - instructs students on the fine art of pole-dancing, works out of her home (replete with poles in the living area), and teaches her children the fine art of self-sufficiency and independance.

Wife 2, from the inner city, is a stay-at-home mom who babies her hubby and adult children and insists that her lot in life is to cater to the men-folk, and she's happy to do so.

Scene 2:
Zoom in on television screen as Wife 2 prepares lunch for her family.

Her rib-sticking creation of Bangers and Mash looks not unlike a World War II sea bomb, something like this:

except with a moat of baked beans floating around the circumference of the mashed potatoes.

Suburban Husband Watching TV: (look of utter revulsion on his face like he's just walked in on Granny bumping nasties with her elderly "gentleman caller")
Oh. My. Gawd. Would you look at that? Who in their right bloody mind would eat something like that?

(sound of silence - clock ticking, dog snoring, crickets chirping)

Baroness? Did you hear what I said? Who would eat that? Would YOU eat that?

Suburban Wife Watching TV: (look of cherubic peace on her face)
In a heartbeat.

Suburban Husband (mouth agape, continued look of "I don't even know you" revulsion)

(End scene)

****
And thus presents the metaphysical illustration of the difference between The Baron and Baroness.

The culinary upbringings.

He: Hearty peasant food, diner-esque entrees, salad at every dinner. Shortribs, stir-fries, pot roast, spagetti & meatballs, ice cream, cookies.

She: Creamy, gloppy goo on a plate/in a bowl; high on beige, low on green. Beans on toast, shephard's pie, irish stew, roast beef & yorkshire pudding, custards, tapioca, rice pudding, lemon snow.

While she has ventured into his territory, he has no interest whatsoever in sharing her rich Celtic heritage.

Her rich, gut-busting, arterial-clogging Celtic heritage.

Whateth uppeth with that?

Thoughtful Thursday

Music and love.

Love and music.

While Lisa at Clusterfook loves the Rolling Stones, and iMom loves Pearl Jam, and Asthma Girl has even been backstage (sorta) at a ZZ Top concert . . . the Baroness?

She's a crooner kind of gal.

Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra? Their voices are balm to my soul.

And, with you-know-what just around the corner, my thoughts this week turn to music and love.

One of my favorite love songs is by Sir Francis O'BlueEyes. Listening to it always reminds me of making dinner in our old house, and simultaneously being slow-danced around the kitchen by the hubster. Pretty sweet.

And yes, for your information, when I laugh - it wrinkles my nose.

(And my eyes)

(Big time)

So as an early valentine to all my beautiful readers, who I'm sure look fabulous tonight and every night, may I present:

The Way You Look Tonight
(Jerome Kerns and Dorothy Fields)

Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you...
And the way you look tonight.

Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you,
And the way you look tonight.

With each word your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fear apart...
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,
It touches my foolish heart.

Lovely ... Never, ever change.
Keep that breathless charm.
Won't you please arrange it ?
'Cause I love you ... Just the way you look tonight.

Mm, Mm, Mm, Mm,
Just the way you look to-night.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

I am thinking that these dudes might have the right idea for F*cking February:

Stingrays on their annual migration
from Western Florida to the Yucatan in Mexico
(photo source: Sandra Critelli)

Migration....

Mexico....

Hmmm....

Where in the World is Carmen vonBloggenschtern?

I is here.

Sitting.

Stewing.

Self-editorializing.

Not unlike a painter sitting in front of a blank canvas, I sit - roiling - in front of my mostly empty computer screen.

I'm pretty sure that it's not writer's block.

Because - really.

I always have a lot on my mind.

Too much.

I do believe that I am under a black cloud of what my friend calls "F*cking February" (please note that "F*cking" here is an adjective, not a verb).

And like one of those highly amusing drug adverts on t.v., the side effects of this far outweigh the benefits.

But, also like the commercials, the downsides are left until the end. When we are settled in and awestruck by the possibilities of it all, when we are locked in to committing, lulled into the comfort of what could be.

Where the sweeping, uplifting music is played loudly, and the announcer speaks at a bracing speed only dogs can register, to avoid anyone really being able to grasp what risks we take.

Life in Baroness world has been steeping in meh-ness.

Note here that I say "Baroness World" as opposed to vonB World - the rest of the clan appears to be chugging along quite nicely, thankyouverymuch.

Me? Not so much.

I am so in a "why bother?" state of mind.

Why bother keeping a meticulous house?

Why bother organizing closets, cupboards, cabinets?

Why bother making delicious meals?

Why bother spending any time writing a stupid blog that will forever "languish in obscurity"?

Just.

Why.

Bother.

I have been mulling and turning this post over for quite a few days - because who really wants to hear about another blog writer struggling with the process?

Rebel that I am, I have broken one of the cardinal rules.

It should never be about the process - it should be about the product.

The sunny, amusing product.

No one wants to see behind the Emerald Curtain.

But.

Maybe you do.

Because maybe, like me, you crave validation.

You want to know that what you're feeling isn't horribly unique.

So, without further ado, may I present to you - The Ides of F*cking February.

Purple Reign

Because I truly am, deep down in my soul, a nerd. A Star Wars-lovin' nerd...

And because I had these hokey "inspirational" posters festooned around my boardroom walls, when I was in my "corporate" phase...(gah)

AND because I personally hold the belief that SLJ is the coolest actor on the planet EVER, I give you this:


Da-a-amn right!

Thoughtful Thursd-eh

I am feeling a little patriotic today, for some inexplicable reason.

As a result, there will be no explicabling.

Instead, I will offer up a primer on my neck of the woods.

(Because we're hosting the 2010 Winter Olympics, and I would hate for you all to feel uninformed of the city you could potentially be visiting - forewarned is forearmed)

(And I know you have a right to bear arms - I would surmise that forearms fall into that category somewhere)

(OK, that was really stupid - I really don't know how civil rights and physiology are even remotely similar)

(Must. Have. Coffee.)

In case you're interested.

Because you know, relations between our two countries are about to heat up, baby. New president - new game. I'm hoping for Nude Twister.

Our borders are already touching.

Without further ado (I'm a little short on ado today), a snippet from Will Ferguson's "How to be a Canadian":

"British Columbia: "Recycled, Free-Range, Hand-woven - and All Organic!" (Rust is organic, right?)

Location: Somewhere between California and Alaska, appropriately enough.

Main Industries: Forestry, whaling, tourism

Main Hobbies: Anti-forestry, anti-whaling, anti-tourism

Main Export: Beef

Main Import: Vegans

Provincial Flower: Mildew

Sunshine: Intermediate

Long-term Forecast: Not so good

Provincial Motto: "We don't think that's very funny."

...Lair of the Ogopogo and the place where the sun sets on the nation, BC is a land of tai chi and chai tea, where the trees are cedar, the condos are leaky, the coffee is Starbucks, the tie is dye, the poles are totem, the reviews are mixed and the stone-age neanderthal Sasquatch is real. "

The End of Innocence

"The Beer Barrel Polka".

"The Bird Dance".

"From the Indies to the Andes in His Undies".

Even my own theme song, "The Baroness" (lyrics here), which somehow manages to incorporate the oh-so-merry (yet-underutilized) word "asparagus".

All happy songs. Slap-happy, put a smile on your face songs.

They really do make the world go 'round.

So, imagine my dismay when I came across a half-page article in the paper regarding startling new evidence about one of my beloveds, "The Hokey Pokey".

Apparently I live quite comfortably under a rock in my corner of the universe, because there is big trouble brewin' in Britain.

Politicians, clergy, soccer fans - they're all getting into the fray.

None of this was mentioned in my latest issue of "Commonwealth Quarterly".

According to the son of the song's writer, a one Mr. Jimmy Kennedy, the inspiration for the song, originally titled "The Hokey Cokey", is based on a traditional Canadian folk tune.

Which in and of itself should be a source of pride for the Baroness and her fellow countrymen. Because we are trés, trés folky and very tuneful.

However.

Kennedy Jr. goes on to elaborate that the folk tune was sung by miners in the early 20th century as a drug anthem celebrating the therapeutic powers of cocaine.

So.

That's what it's all about.

Huh.