You Can Take the Hillbilly out of the Hills but...

I know it's a little confusing, telling a story from the middle rather than the beginning, but the rest can wait, all that really matters is Saturday night at The Orleans in Las Vegas.

I had taken a nap that afternoon, I'd only slept a couple of hours the night before and I knew it would hit me that night, right about the time that Craig Ferguson was scheduled to take the stage. When I woke up, my eyes were bloodshot...again. They stayed that way the entire time I was there, I looked like I'd been on a drinking binge for a week. I used so much Visine this weekend that I think I had the crap oozing out of my pores by the time I made it home.

I got in the shower, trying to wake up and get my aching joints moving again. I hadn't been taking my colchicine on schedule (for the FMF) with the flying around and everything so my body was trying it's best to give me hell. As I washed my hair (which is still way too short for my liking) I thought, for the umpteenth time in the past month, "What the hell am I doing here?" It was then that I remembered the phrase that I'd read in a transcript of a radio interview a few weeks earlier, a phrase that I'd repeated to myself everytime I'd had second thoughts about this whole trip.

"Just show up, even if it's ridiculous."

I took a deep breath, got out of the shower and proceeded to attempt to make myself at least partially presentable. Now, this is no easy task, given what God's given me to work with. I'm sure He's got a plan, but it would be REALLY nice if He'd let me in on it occasionally. I worked on my hair, then stood with my face over the ac vent to cool back off. The blow dryer in my room must have had a freakin' heated turbo engine, stolen from a NASCAR reject because I thought it was going to blow me bald.

I'd been outside earlier, where it was extremely hot, taking pictures of the marquee. I had to stand there for a while, waiting for the screen to change to shots from The Late Late Show, then missing the shot a few times because of wayward drunks and parents chasing runaway children. It didn't take that long, but apparently it was long enough for me to develop a nice rosy red sunburn on my face. Not having planned for this, I was a little disturbed when I applied my foundation, which was perfectly matched to the color of my complexion when I left home, and found that I now looked remarkably like a damned Geisha girl wanna-be.

I worked my magic as best I could. I spackled, painted, filled, dusted and brushed. When I apply makeup it's more like a home improvement show than a make over. I probably spent a good thirty minutes on my eyes alone. I used to have killer eyes which with one look, could bring a man to his knees within seconds. Learning the wonders of makeup application from your hoochie mama, stripper friends when you're seventeen has it's advantages. Unfortunately, time has taken it's ugly toll on those formerly fabulous eyes. I did the best I could to bring them out, but without much success. A forty year old hag who's spackled, painted, filled, dusted and brushed for an hour, just looks like an old hag who tries really hard.

At the very least, it was an improvement over no makeup at all.

The Amazon had made me pinky swear that I'd take pictures of myself before I went to the show, so I did my best to comply. I can tell you this, there is nothing more ridiculous feeling than standing alone in a hotel room in Vegas taking pictures of yourself in a full length mirror. I looked positively shell shocked in all of them, they're all from weird angles and I resembled a bull dog that got into her master's makeup bag.

I walked over to the dresser and retrieved my copy of Craig Ferguson's book "Between the Bridge and the River" to take with me. I'd stressed over whether to lug it along on the trip and it was a good thing I had because as I wandered around the casino floor Friday night and found the showroom entrance, I discovered a large sign by the front door announcing that Barnes and Noble would be hosting a book signing after the performance. I'm sure I stood there staring and dumbfounded for a minute because earlier in the week I'd made an inquiry about this very thing, an inquiry made to someone who had to have known this was taking place, yet offered no clue that it might be to my advantage to bring my copy along.

It was just one of many mysterious unanswered questions, most of which I can't go into which presented themselves during this little adventure of mine.

I knew I'd feel a bit foolish walking around the casino carrying his book, like a chubby little school girl full of childish expectations, so I grabbed a bag I'd gotten from the gift shop earlier to put it in. I made my way to the elevator (which was a fuckin' hike, let me just tell ya) and made my way from the 17th floor down to the lobby. I said a silent prayer as I walked because I tend to break out in an embarrassing fit of facial perspiration when I'm nervous and this was my greatest fear through all of this. I'm not sure if it's something to do with the FMF, just nerves or what. It's not (as some people have speculated) due to my um... rubinesque form, the same thing used to happen when I was fabulously thin or at least, substantially less fat. It may just be one more way in which I'm a freak of nature. There's a laundry list, believe me.

I was apprehensive about approaching the box office. In my heart, I knew what was going to happen and this time, I was right on the money.

Due to certain circumstances, I can't go into a lot of detail here. I wish I could because it makes a great story, but I made a promise and I keep my word, even when my brain is screaming not to. Let's just say that there was an "incident" at the box office. Well, maybe not an incident exactly, that's a little harsh. Let's call it "a situation." I can tell you that there was no record of a ticket in my name, that there were implied accusations made by the box office staff, idle threats and a sudden miraculous resolution of the situation (and I have NO clue what changed) which was followed by the most beautiful display of backstroking ass kissing I've ever seen. The ass kissing, although justified, did little to repair the embarrassment and humiliation of the situation. For obvious reasons, I like to blend into the wood work. If I feel I've drawn attention to myself in any way, I go into panic mode. Find me the nearest rock and let me crawl safely beneath it where I'm protected and I don't have to deal with anyone. Other patrons in line at the box office were looking, they were whispering, there was a gathering of box office employees at the rear of the room shaking their heads, shuffling papers, digging in the trash can for God's sake, all while on the outside I was calm, smiling patiently and on the inside silently screaming, fighting the urge to flee, waddling like the wind back to the safe solitude of my hotel room.


I could have, I suppose, whipped out the plastic and just paid for another ticket, but I was already worrying about what I'd spent, my credit cards already on life support. Eventually, I was given a ticket. Thank God that was over. It was still an hour before showtime, so I waddled my fat and now embarrassed ass over the cafe for coffee and a quick call to a friend back in Missouri just for the satisfaction of saying "I told you so!!!!!" That and I needed to calm myself down all over again.

Feeling a bit better after having vented to my Missouri friend, who by now was probably debating on whether to answer her cellphone anymore until I got back to North Carolina, I headed back to the showroom.

I was lead to my seat in row H, by a nice older gentleman. I sat down, nervously holding onto my camera, my purse and the huge gift bag, trying to figure out where to put them. Eventually I got situated and relaxed. Flash photography wasn't allowed inside the showroom, which I kinda figured anyway, and although I could have taken some without the flash, the way things were going I didn't want to chance accidentally setting it off and getting kicked out on my keister. I was still a little addled by the whole box office experience and I didn't think it was a good idea to push my luck.

I watched as people filed into the theater. It wasn't a full house but it was a nice sized crowd. As showtime approached, I began to notice something. The row I was in was completely empty other than myself and one couple on the other end. There was no one sitting in at least six seats to either side of me. Maybe there would be late comers, at least that's what I hoped, but no. So there I sat, wanting to blend into the crowd, where there was no crowd. By now I was beyond getting freaked out, I had to smile and shake my head at the obsurdity of this entire adventure.

I don't remember the name of the comic who opened the show, something Kagan I think? He was okay, funny enough I suppose, truthfully my impression was probably more a result of my state of mind at the time than the result of the talent of the performer. Other people were cracking up, the lady behind me sounded like a leopard seal with it's tail caught in a vice.

Finally, Craig Ferguson took the stage. He came out like a bullet and he didn't slow down through the whole performance. He worked himself into an honest to God hissy fit, taking us all along with him, full of energy and ending winded and wiping his brow. Kind of how you feel after a round of really good, acrobatic sex. It was a great show and worth every single moment of embarrassment I'd gone through. He touched on his first experience witnessing gay porn ("stop!!! he's gonna hurt him!!!), his Jewish/Scottish wedding, childbirth films with giant ungroomed coochies, which included sound effects and nearly had me in the floor, doing ether at a rock concert, Scrappy Doo and why it takes ten weeks to get a sofa from North Carolina, where sofas are apparently born (who knew?)

For the first time since I'd set foot on that plane in Knoxville, Tennessee the day before, I was grinning like the Cheshire cat after a bong hit.

Of course it was over too soon, as these things always are, but I had a great time seeing him unrestrained by cameras and the all seeing eye of network censors. Ya'll go see for yourself some time :)

The book signing immediately followed the show and yes, I've got more to share about my brief encounter with Craig Ferguson, but it's after 4pm and I'm still in my robe, I had to do laundry before I could get dressed. We're out of toilet paper and I'm almost out of smokes (yes I intend to try to quit again), so I'm going to have to make a run to the dollar store soon. Check back tomorrow for the continuing saga of......

"Mahala Does Vegas"