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xmag.com : November 2001 : The Gospel According to Viva Las Vegas

The Gospel according to Viva Las Vegas - "the laziest gal downtown"


So ya noticed. My naked ass is back in town. People keep askin' me why I came back and I feel obliged to provide a litany of excuses, when really I have no idea! I'm not sure where I am, who I am or how I am. So let's puzzle this out together.




I'm a spoiled brat and it's your fault.

I am totally addicted to stripping. I love it love it love it.
I work fifteen hours a week to enable my princess lifestyle and spend the rest of my time doing whatever the fuck I want! Part of the reason I left was to get off the sauce. Stripper rehab. But Kitty's words kept echoing in my head, "It's the best job out there, why not do it for as long as you can?"

By August it seemed clear she was right. Manhattan had given me everything I asked for. I was performing as a naked girl, guitar girl and writer girl. For the most part I made my own schedule and was Holly Golightly and a whole lot more. But my dark secret--that I spent two days a week as an advertising whore­was breaking my spoiled-rotten heart. I started to think that people who lived in New York City were all nuts. Deluded dreamers. Just like me. But I wasn't ready to submit and was not about to put in one more hour at a dreary office job doing brain-melting fuck-all, waiting to die. Especially after "the incident," when death seemed imminent--
a punishment for dicking around a midtown office against my better judgment.


My cats are spoiled brats and were three thousand miles away.

I realized there was no way I could shoehorn my fabulous Pornland lifestyle into a two-bedroom townhouse, much less a king(bed)-sized room in Brooklyn. But my darling children (Punk and Simone Ramone) were still living in the lap of luxury.

Could I convince them to relocate when I wasn't convinced myself? I decided this issue had to be resolved by the holidays. Cuz cats love Christmas.

Also, $2000 for a closet is unacceptable.


Those Damn Terrorists

Although I tell myself it wasn't a factor, who am I kidding? New York changed overnight. Within a month work had dried up, lots of folks had bailed and the entire island was settling into a very un-Woody-Allen schizophrenia of depression and anxiety. Those of us who relied on the subways got the added thrill of playing Russian roulette several times a day, with all the anthrax scares and bomb threats. The city's mood was most noticeably low on the subways, which were always rush-hour packed since service on the busy Broadway line had been rudely and permanently interrupted when a couple buildings collapsed into the Rector Street station. Packed but silent. Even the vagrants and crazies had seemingly turned inward with horror and sadness. Yeah, I'll say none of that mattered, but I made damn sure I got on my westward train before October 31st. The incessant Halloween warnings were just too spooky.


Wartime Stoicism

When Our Great President Bush told the nation to go back to work on September 12th, whether we were bonds traders, ballplayers, teachers, actors, prostitutes or David Letterman, I knew he didn't mean for me to go back to writing advertising copy. My nation needs me right now.... naked in downtown Portland! My vast array of important, famous and good-looking New York friends saw that this was true and gave me their blessing: "The goal ultimately is to be bi-coastal." Hmm. Indeed. With what I save on rent here, I can afford a plane ticket to go back to that city of dreams to work on mine. So I booked recording time with my pygmalion producer in January and in the meantime will be filing my Village Voice vignettes from my enormous clawfoot tub and doing my patriotic duty on the boards at the Magic Garden. Sounds eerily like exactly-what-I-wanted.


The Real Reason

All ifs, ands and buts aside, the real reason I returned to snuggle back into my spot in this wet red-lit heaven, honey, was you.






More Viva!









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