I have tickets to see Liza at the Morongo Casino on July 18th.
I know. It’s almost too much to process.
Liza with a motherfucking Z, lisping and trembling and stumbling across the stage like some kind of ancient chihuahua in a sequined poncho. Nothing but jazz hands and pant suits, as far as the eye can see. I am beyond excited. I only hope to be as drunk as she is.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that I almost didn’t buy these tickets. When I first saw the billboards on the way to Palm Springs a few months back, it just didn’t click. Oh, I snorted and laughed, but the gravity of it all didn’t really sink in.
This morning, however, someone sent me a message on Facebook, asking me if I was going to go. And suddenly, the clouds parted.
Three little words popped into my head. Three words that made the difference. Yes, they were only three words, but what a story they told.
Am I right?
Because there has to be one. There has to be some sort of slapped together, rushed, emotional tribute, and this is the time to see that hot mess. Now, when it’s still fresh, and she knows why she’s crying.
Obviously, I can’t say for sure what’s going to happen in this part of the show, but I think there are going to be slides. That’s what I think. Slides of them through the years; with Halston at Studio 54, at The Wiz wrap party, drinking Shirley Temples at Benihana, wearing leg warmers and rehearsing with Peter Gennaro, all those happy moments, all the way up to this freakfest:
That’s what I’m thinking.
And I think she’ll be dressed in a glittering pantsuit, perched on a stool and bathed in a single light; and when the band eases into a slowed-down version of “The Way You Make Me Feel”, she’ll bring the microphone up to her lips and that’s when we see she’s wearing one glove.