Vegas. Take 2.

It may surprise or bewilder you to know that my plans for this, my second trip to Las Vegas within a 6-month period, did not include further displays of on-stage nudity or food tours. The Hot Urologist was to be shuttered away in hotel convention rooms listening to other medical professionals gab about the perils of erectile disfunction, while I cool it solo. So, what to do? Good question.

Much to my complete chagrin, the Hot Urologist secured seats on Air Greyhound once again for expediency of travel. As is the custom of this flight company, one must check in quickly to secure a numerical place in the holding pen for boarding. I set an alarm and watched the seconds tick toward the witching hour. As the clock struck 8:35 AM, the requisite 24 hours before departure, I immediately tapped the check-in button. I received the boarding position of B 49. B 49 ensures that you will enjoy a middle seat 12 rows away from your urologist husband next to a woman feverishly working her adult coloring book and her 9 AM double bourbon.

We installed for the second time at The Palazzo at the Venetian as this was to be the home of the American Urology Association’s 2025 rendezvous. Faux Venice bustled with three distinct groups of visitors, each on a mission. Bearded hippie olds clad in tie dye assembled to commune with the remaining dregs of the Grateful Dead. Heavily tattooed 50 somethings in denim cargo shorts and chain link wallets awaited the deafening splendor of AC/DC. And the coat and tie briefcase brigade descended to log continuing medical education hours at the urology nerd festival. I abandoned them all and went in search of the ghost of Liberace.

As one who eschews gambling, large quantities of alcohol, and fun, I opted instead for a peek inside the life of the man who helped build the Las Vegas strip one rhinestone at a time. I booked a private tour of Liberace memorabilia inside a home dubbed “The Thriller Villa.” Because recession and global pandemic forced museum closure, Liberace’s legacy is now displayed in 8500 square feet of underground bunker beneath a house owned by an El Salvadoran “diplomat” who once leased the property to Michael Jackson.

My tour guide graciously sent an Uber to collect me from the Palazzo. Having not ordered the Uber myself (and having recently binged a Netflix documentary highlighting the misdeeds of the Long Island serial killer) I harbored some mild trepidation that I was being setup for kidnapping and dismemberment. But I threw caution to the wind and buckled up for the drive to an unassuming residential neighborhood a world away from the strip.

I had expected to be the only person aboard my private tour, but I was joined by a young couple I took to be Amish missionaries. Our tour guide spun tales of Liberace as a child musical prodigy and his life en celebritè. The history was fascinating, but I had come for the costumery. After a full 3 hours of wandering through Liberace’s life in artifact, the moment arrived. The greatest rhinestone horde known to humankind was accessible only by lock and key. Held captive behind two enormous black iron gates and displayed on mannequins the exact size and stature of Mr. Liberace himself was the promised land of full body glitz.

I was allowed to stroll unchaperoned between the rows of magnificent costumes. Neither glass nor plastic barrier separated me from the grandeur. Capes laden with heavy beading and dinner jackets dripping with blinding sparkle were there for the viewing. It was all I could do not to tear my clothes off and wrap my naked body in a suit outfitted with working light bulbs, ostrich plumes, and a 20-foot train. I passed a pink sequined ensemble finished with mink ball tassels. Though I refrained from juggling the balls, I may or may not have copped an illegal feel of the forbidden monkey hair screaming at me from the back of a black jewel encrusted velvet cape.

The 5 hours and $175 I spent to wander through the remnants of Liberace’s life in sequin was a paltry price to pay for the blissful moments I spent communing with this obscene level of showbiz glam. But it accounted for only one of my 3 Vegas days. The others I spent simply spectating.

I made it a daily habit to add to my step count and take in the tropes of Americana moving up and down Las Vegas Boulevard. I passed Carl and Karen rolling forth on rented scooter transport whose T shirts offered the public service announcements of “This Guy Needs a Beer” and “Ya’ll Need Jesus,” respectively. Their scooter baskets were filled with a buffet of beverages housed in colorful plastic yards. Two girlfriends on the corner across from the Treasure Island sported pink T shirts signaling themselves to be Bitch 1 and Bitch 2. I made a valiant search for my old pal cigarette smoking oxygen tank Elvis but sadly came up empty.

On my final day in Vegas, I ventured into the casino for reconnaissance and found myself in God’s waiting room. Monday morning beckoned a crowd of aged women working the slots from wheelchairs with sluggish abandon. I spent a moment talking with Jean who was intent on slapping enough buttons to win the red sports car slowly revolving above our heads. I asked Jean where she would enjoy driving the car if she were indeed to win. “Oh, I ain’t gonna drive it, I’m gon’ sell that thing and then come back here and make me some REAL money.” A solid plan to be sure. I wished Jean bon chance and trotted down the boulevard to the Forum Shops at Caesar’s Palace to quell a bit of boredom in the Maison Margiela boutique. I left with a new pair of Tabi flats that resemble the shape of cow hooves.

Once your footwear begins to mimic the barnyard, perhaps it is time to depart. As one who enjoys a nightly bedtime of 8:30 PM, it’s possible I may not be the target demographic for Las Vegas frivolity. But let me offer this. If should you find yourself looking for alternative entertainment in the Nevada desert, pony up the cash to feast your eyes on that monkey fur.

You’ll thank me.