Doin' the Crabwalk in Vegas on Saturday Night

Back in my hotel room, after the book signing, I sat on the arm of the chair by the window, with the lights out. I looked out over the top of the parking garage, admired the lights and the mountains, so different from the mountains I'd left back home.

I sat there for awhile, perfectly content to remain there. I started thinking... ya know.. this is stupid. It's Saturday night, it's Vegas, you're already all gussied up. Get your ass downstairs and have fun. I'd noticed a band playing at one of the bars down in the casino. In my youth, there was nothing that made me happier than to find a live band playing somewhere, get off in a corner with a cold beer and just enjoy the music. I decided I'd do just that.

I went back down in the elevator and headed for the casino, then realized that if I were going to drink, I'd better eat something. I hadn't eaten since about two o'clock and I hadn't had alcohol in any way, shape or form in at least five years. I was asking for trouble. I stopped at the gift shop and grabbed a tuna sandwich and a Pepsi from the refridgerated case in the back. I didn't feel like sitting in one of the restaurants. The only problem is, there isn't anywhere to sit unless you're either feeding your hard earned money into a machine or sitting in a bar. It would have been nice to have a place to just sit and "people watch." I ended up standing by one of the wall payphones, laying my drink and my sandwhich on the shelf provided. It made a handy makeshift picnic table.

I only ate half the sandwich, tossing the remaining half in the trash, then made my way over to the live music. As I walked, I thought to myself, "something's missing." This just didn't seem like the Las Vegas I expected. I suppose if I'd been at one of the bigger hotels closer to the strip, I may have felt differently. Where were the drag queens? The Italian men with questionable business connections, pin stiped suits, fancy hats and big gold rings? The celebrities? There was something familiar about this place. The over sized, jazz instrument playing alligators at the casino entrance, flashing lights and young couples pushing strollers. I hate to say this, but it felt strangely similar to another place closer to home.

It felt alot like... Dollywood.

Of course, Dolly Parton's face wasn't plastered all over the place, but Craig Ferguson's was. I'm not complaining, I kinda liked it actually. There he was greeting you at each entrance, by the gift shop, on the wall in the hallway leading to the elevators and by the ladies room.

As I neared the bar entrance, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a man with a ball cap pulled down over his face. Admittedly, it was probably as much my fault as it was his. I was looking around and not paying attention to where I was walking. He turned to look at me. "Hey!! That's... thats... THAT GUY!!!" (don't worry, I didn't say it out loud) It took me the rest of the evening to figure out where I knew him from.

I stood by the bar and listened to the band for a few minutes, trying to scope out a seat. I spotted a few tables over in the corner (gotta blend in ya' know) and decided I'd go for it. But, just then, That Guy with his magical, celebrity issue, invisibility ball cap, appeared and sat in the same area.

Well shit.

Now, if I go over there and sit, he's going to think it's because I recognized him and I'm trying to hit on him. So I stood there a bit longer, and got a really good look at this guy in the process. I'm convinced it was Carson Daley. He was hunched down in the seat, hat pulled down over his face, trying to hide. He didn't stay long. When the attractive young lady who was fronting the band recognized him and started making googley eyes at him, I suppose he figured she was going to draw attention to him, so he left. I was relieved, now I could go sit down and enjoy myself.

That first sip of nice, cold Michelob was the best tasting thing I've had in my mouth in forever. (There's a smutty joke in there somewhere, just begging to be told, but I'll refrain.) The band was pretty good, playing old dance songs and a few newer ones. It took me back, lemme tell ya. I was having fun watching everyone dance and laugh. I noticed a couple of men across the room, because of the way they were dressed. Silky shirts, gold chains, spiffy hats, like they stepped right out of a B movie Godfather ripoff. As my luck would have it, these two *cough* gentlemen eventually (and individually, I wasn't looking THAT kinky, sheesh) approached me and asked me to dance. I declined, it wasn't an offer I couldn't refuse. (har har)

I looked skyward and thanked who or whatever you want to call He/She/Them. One celebrity..check. Two old school mobsters...check.

Ya'll can guess what happened next. As I sat there, sipping beer and sorta chair dancing, I noticed this woman, obviously drunk off her ass, prancing back and forth between the two bar entrances. Damn, I thought, she's really toasted. Then, I saw that her hair, a short Liza Minnelli-esque bob, had gone sort of.... askew.. atop her head. Hmmmmm. I watched her more closely, especially when she passed under the lights over the bar and I realized that what I was seeing wasn't a drunken, middle aged female, but a really, really BAD drag queen. Now, let me interject here that I normally ADORE drag queens. Any man who can look that good as a woman has my utmost respect. God knows I try like hell, as a woman, to look half as attractive as they do. But this little guy... well.. bless his heart. That's all I'm sayin. It didn't take long though before she'd attracted the attention of an elderly man and they were cutting a rug out on the dance floor.

I smiled. They were happy. Who cares what plumbing they were born with, which sex they were attracted to. They were happy and they weren't alone. All was right with the world.

There was a point in the evening when I glanced to my left and as the crowd parted beyond the bar entrance, I saw one of those huge Craig Ferguson posters staring back at me. Something drew me in the other direction and as I turned right, there was another huge picture of his smiling face on the opposite wall, next to the door to the ladies room.

I giggled. I snorted a little.

Fergiewood.

Yeah, I was shit faced. It was time to do the crab walk (when you're trying to walk straight, but you keep going sideways) back to my room.

I went up and turned on the t.v. I have no clue what was on, it was more for background noise than anything else. I hadn't slept well the night before, but I knew from the way my head was splashing around on the inside that I'd sleep well now.

I picked up my autographed copy of "Between the Bridge and the River." I looked at where he'd signed it, smiled a little, then turned the pages until I got to my favorite part of the book. The chapter titled "The Midwife."

Now, before I continue and ya'll get to feeling all sad for me, it's important that you understand something. When I drink, I am a total fucking moron. Granted, I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed coldstone sober either, but I do some stupid shit when I drink. This is one of the main reasons I don't do it anymore. Having said that and hoping ya'll will see the humor in this, Lord knows I've giggled over it for the past few days, I'll continue.

I turned to the story I love and began reading. It's a lovely story, with knights, swords, heros, tragic death and the knight's rescue by the not-quite-so-beautiful maiden. All of the things hopelessly single, middle aged women's dreams are made of. Because of my drunken state, I was maybe just a TAD bit more emotional than usual. When I got to the following passage, I began sobbing, throwing myself in classic drama queen style upon the bed until I finally fell asleep. I was convinced that this was some sort of prophetic writing on his part and that he'd somehow foretold what he'd seen earlier that very night....

"He saw the warts on her fat neck, her broken, spreading nose, and her piggy little eyes framed by her blonde eyelashes. He saw the pockmarks and liver spots on her skin."

Of course, everything looked better with the light of day. It always does. Well, after you take a shower and get that alcohol/tobacco/stale perfume odor out of your pores and get the fuzz off your tongue. I can guarantee it'll be AT LEAST five more years before I drink again.

Things started falling into place for me on Sunday. Small, quiet prayers were answered. But you'll have to wait until tomorrow for the details. There's nudity involved, of a certain late night television host.

*snort*