BEAUTY SHOP TALK COVER STORY
by
Vicki Charmaine Bunch
Vicki Charmaine Bunch takes you on a bird's eye tour of her lavish home in breathtaking Leftover Hills.
INTRO:
Bienvenido! Welcome to Amigoland--my elegant home in Leftover Hills--named for Amigoland Mall in sunny Brownsville. Just like at the mall, everything's for sale if the price is right. Amigo means friend, and friends get a special discount when they do their shopping at the Bunch house.
Nestled among multi-thousand dollar homes, the Bunch estate boasts 350 square feet of magnificent splendor. Our home is a sanctuary of blissful tranquility. Gathered around the piano on a Saturday night, my husband Sonny and I teach our children (Stormy, Destinee and little Jasper) show tunes, which I advise to any parent concerned about today's youth. Feel-good Family Fun, that's the Bunch motto.
Just as feel-good, family and fun all start with the letter F, the words in my decorating credo--Flashy, Festive, Fantastic!--start with F as well. I like Furniture that's ritzy but not too ritzy, in case someone spills a Bloody Mary. I can't tell you how many amigos I've shed over spilled cocktails.
With the aid of Weldon Blakewell, manager of the comforter department at Hyper-Bed, I transformed a modest bungalow on the banks of Cottonmouth Creek into a stunning showplace that shouts "Look at me!"
TRANSITION:
"The residence presented a daunting challenge," says Mr. Blakewell, adjusting his ascot. "It had to represent a blending of cultures--Sonny's rather drab existence as a soda pop deliveryman and the flamboyant lifestyle Vicki Charmaine embraces as a hairdresser. We sought to pay homage to the gods of avant-garde, while continuing the traditions the Bunch family brought across the county line in the 60's."
As you can see, Mr. Blakewell is a genius. He knows what it is that sets me apart from everybody else with their humdrum little lives. He and I are kindred spirits--reckless, headstrong, pretentious. In other words, brilliant.
GARAGE:
My husband Sonny and I are both passionate collectors. I longed for a space which would embrace my world-renown wig collection but he had completely different needs. That's when I got the idea of moving Sonny to the garage.
An elegant solution to a difficult problem!
Sonny's shrine to masculine pursuits is a masterpiece of Bohemian chic, a space for meditation as well as intimate conversation.
"This garage looked like hell when I moved in," says Sonny. "A real shock after Vicki Charmaine's fancy boudoir." Mr. Blakewell helped him create a space of quiet dignity, a home-away-from-home for friends just out of the penitentiary.
Sonny proudly gestures toward the collection of ice chests it has taken him a lifetime to accumulate. "I have my own refrigerator too." He beams.
Why all the ice chests? As a 20 year employee of Old Red Bottling Co., Sonny is entitled to 20 free cases of soda pop every month. His enchanted grotto holds other treasures as well--bikes and bike parts, a rusty brown lawn mower, empty paint cans, and the rear seat from a 1993 Chrysler minivan which serves both as seating and a bed.
CAPTION: Sonny also has a tv. [Picture of Sonny watching a tiny tv in the garage.]
ENTRY
Step into the lap of luxury. Oops--looks like somebody else got here first. This is the Grand Entry Hall, also known as the senile cat's litter box, where Mannequin Jenra stands sentinel. Jenra is named for my childhood imaginary friend.
At work or play, my inspiration comes from the deep subconscious. Some of my greatest ideas spring out of nowhere. For example, I was at a party in Hollywood and one of my friends--Tab Hunter I think--complimented me on the cute bug in my hair. It turned out to be a one of those flying roaches but it started the whole butterfly thing. I've always been a trendsetter.
This is my cat Blackie. You probably recognize her because her picture frequently appears in my column Beauty Shop Talk. Everybody keeps asking, "Has Blackie got the big head now?" Yes, Blackie was recently approached with a very lucrative movie deal--the role of the cat in The Incredible Vacation. It's like The Incredible Journey, except the animals go to Vegas.
I think she's excited but you really can't tell.
DINING ROOM:
My dining room is truly fit for a queen.
Perched on a gaily painted pedestal, a battery-powered hula dancer beckons you to enter a posh world reminiscent of 18th century France. Visitors gasp at the sight of an elegant dining table, anchored by a stunning bust of Elvis, opulent in glorious 3-D. Sonny's prize possession, a Tower of the Americas bottle of Jim Beam bourbon commemorating the 1968 Hemisfair in San Antonio, vies with Elvis in a spectacular arrangement accented by ashtrays, 8 track tapes, and one of those bobbing birds that sticks it's head in a glass of water.
"Vicki Charmaine wanted to recapture the grandeur of ancient Rome," says Mr. Blakewell. "The swags over the windows are made from real leopards her father bagged when he went to Zaire to wrestle George Foreman in 1972. He wrestled the leopards, too, so as not to mar the coats."
Today, leopard wrestling is frowned upon, as are bowling for penguins and whaling. I abhor the opinions of the masses, with their petty bourgeois morality and ostentatious use of real plates, etc. In our home we eat off found objects--and the kids know they better find something. It might be a hubcap or an old record album. Otherwise, no creme brulee.
This makes clean-up a breeze.
DEN:
The den is the focal point of our family life and Sonny is allowed there any time he wants.
"I can watch tv, drink one of my sodas, whatever," he says.
A glorious celebration of crass accumulation, the den features a tantalizing array of objets d'art [qc] Sotheby's can only dream about. The taco clock and pom-pom poodle. The four foot tall Our Lady of Guadalupe, the three foot cowboy pig, the blow-up sarcophagus. The ceramic banana, bowling trophy clock, and hand used for making rubber gloves. The carnival monkey, pink typewriter, and plate depicting Leda and the swan. These are just a few of our things.
"Where do you get your furnishings?" everybody always wants to know.
A lot of our decor was stolen, or just dumped in the front yard. Other stuff we found in the trash. Or we took it away from people who owed us money. We found this painting in a ditch.
At the end of a hard day at the beauty shop, I like nothing better than to stretch out on a beach towel in my colorful den. With two palm trees and hundreds of souvenirs from Matamoros, it reminds me of the sunny Mediterranean. In fact, when no one's home I often go topless like they do on the French Riviera!
Built to withstand hurricane force winds, the den is where we keep our most sacred treasures--the Aquarium of Barbie Dolls, our bowling ball collection, the bomb. Plastic masks of zebras, apes and rhinos adorn the walls, as if we needed to be reminded that we live in a zoo. Year-round Christmas lights create a merry mood.
Perhaps nothing has influenced my decorating so much as the cinema. This marvelous island paradise was inspired by my lifelong obsession with beach party movies. In fact, that's why I married my husband Sonny. He told me he was a prize-winning surfer who had appeared on "Wide World of Sports." Imagine my surprise on our honeymoon in Galveston when I discovered he can't swim! However, a real surfer came here once to fix the cable and he said our den looks very authentic.
In addition to the beach, other themes are in evidence. For example chairs. We have 20. But the main theme is the ocean. Whenever it gets sandy in here, I just hose the whole place down. In many ways, the den is a shrine to the Professor on Gilligan's Island. I consider him a brilliant innovator, much like me.
"It took me three days just to make the head," says Mr. Blakewell.
BOUDOIR:
Mr. Blakewell designed the master suite, a romantic boudoir of swanky chic any housewife could appreciate.
"A woman's pedigree is nowhere more evident than in the bedroom," he says, leering at me through his monocle. "My main concern was that it didn't end up looking like a whore house." Yards of pink chintz, held aloft by yards of Velcro, frame the fabulous queen size bed.
"You can really stretch out," says Sonny, wistfully.
The bed is surrounded by heirlooms from a simpler time. My grandfather's horse hair toothbrush. The blue jeans of a former boyfriend. A ceramic parrot.
With its coordinating comforter, throw pillows and dust ruffle from the Guinevere Collection, available at Hyper-Bed, my boudoir is quiet retreat from the workaday world, a place to fantasize about buying the towels that match the bedspread.
END:
My will stipulates that everything at Amigoland be left exactly in the condition and location in which it exists at the time of my death in perpetuity.
"That's all well and good," say my friends. "But what about Y2K?"
Like all of you, I realize Y2K will probably kill me and wreck all my stuff. However, I am a survivor, and my stuff is rugged survivor stuff, the kind of stuff you could take a sledgehammer to and it would remain in the same condition in perpetuity. It would take something a hell of a lot meaner than Y2K to destroy me or my stuff.
But if it did ruin my stuff, I would just get more.