ell, Debbie wasn't having any of that. "It was special, so brilliantly done," several celebrities (on the order of Juliet Prowse) were saying on television monitors outside the entrance, where a line formed. Funny, this. You'd think that once you paid admission to the museum, you be let right in. But admission was time-tabled, like a movie.

And that's sort of what it turned out to be. Once the doors were opened, ushers led us into a screening room with high-backed ultra-comfortable grey velvety seats. The room was airconditioned, smallish and oddly sterile, as if you were visiting a cinema in your grandparents house: in the absence of popcorn smell or refreshment litter, there was a feeling of being watched, of omniscient authority.

I took a seat in the next-to-last row. Scanning the crowd, I noticed that it was pretty much the expected blue-hairs. Sitting solitary, with my long hair and semi-bad tude, I definitely felt the odd one out. I looked up at the blank screen and I thought again about Carrie Fisher. What would it be like if your mom suddenly opened a museum?

Vivian delicately exhaled some smoke, looking mischievous. "I found a site for the museum finally. It's in a hotel just off the Strip in Vegas. For an unbelievable price. I mean, now is such a fantastic time to buy. It's practically a steal." Cora stood and walked to the window, opening it a crack. "How much?" she asked nonchalantly, returning to her chair.

Vivian leaned forward conspiritorially. "Two million," she whispered, then sat back, a satisfied expression playing across her face. Cora paled. "Two million?" she echoed. "For a museum?" "No, dear," said Viv patiently. "For the hotel. The museum will be in the hotel."