Liza was performing at the Morongo Casino in the steaming shithole known as Cabazon, though Liza repeatedly referred to it as “beautiful Palm Springs” (proving conclusively that she’s still on Vicodin).

Before I tell you about the show itself, I’d like to take a moment to describe the ambiance of the Morongo Casino. Paint a picture with words, if you will. I just hope I have enough brown.

Yes, this is one craptastic shit box, all right. It springs like a turdblossom out of the shimmering nothingness; a big wedge of concrete and glass, surrounded by an overly optimistic amount of parking. As John said when we looked out the window from our room on the 18th floor, “This would be a great view if there was anything to look at.”

That’s the first problem with the Morongo: there is nothing else there. Part of the fun of a place like Vegas or Reno (or even Laughlin, for God’s sake) is being able to leave the casino and go somewhere else if it’s too crowded or your luck isn’t with you. At the Morongo, you have no such option. Oh, you could walk over to Hadley’s in the 110 degree heat and get a bag of dates, but that’s hardly the kind of thing the Rat Pack sang about.

Of course, if the Morongo were laid out a little better, you wouldn’t want to leave. And this is the second problem with this place: it isn’t player friendly. You can’t find a free machine and you can’t get a drink. In fact, there are only two bars in the whole place. I’m no Bugsy Siegel, but even I know that’s not how you build a casino.

Fortunately, Morongo has devoted a big corner of the casino to a food court. So thank God for that. Who needs the revenue from a sports book when you can have Panda Express? We all know that’s how Steve Wynn made his money; ripping out the slots and putting in a Quizno’s. Next year they’re going to replace the poker room with an Olive Garden.

This kind of thing is bad enough during the week, but when you add weekend crowds to the mix, the whole thing gets very tedious. If I wanted to walk around in circles, smelling stale food and looking for a place to sit, I’d go to a soup kitchen.

And it gets exponentially worse when you have someone like Liza in town. I mean the casino is minutes from Palm Springs, what do you think is going to happen? Every homo within 200 miles was there that night. Which wouldn’t be noteworthy except that I didn’t know any of them. That was weird.

I think my point is best illustrated by our waitress, who took our dinner order at 6:00 and still hadn’t brought our food at 7:40. When I pointed out that we were seeing Liza at 8:00, she said, “It’s always like this when someone big plays here.” So that made us feel much better. It wasn’t just us, everyone gets shit service when they’re busy.

And so we got up from our table full of half-eaten steaks and unfinished champagne, and hustled our way down to the casino, where the line for Liza was already moving into the beautiful, air conditioned theater.

Or so we thought.

I turns out the Morongo isn’t equipped to deal with a theater crowd, either. We suddenly found ourselves walking outside the hotel, herded uphill in the 100 degree evening heat, past the pool, past the elderly people with oxygen tents stopping to rest, past the one small concession stand selling Coronas and into a tent.

They put Liza in a tent.

My god this was dreary. Hundreds of crappy chairs lined up in a big white tent in the middle of a parking lot. It was like the worst county fair you’ve ever been to. I kept looking for the butter cow.

And how do you keep a tent that size cool? A tent full of people and lighting equipment in the middle of the desert? Why you use an air conditioning system that sounds like a jet engine, of course. So optimal conditions for a 63 year old woman with two fake hips, bad knees and a hernia.

But the tent wasn’t the only surprise in store for me that night.

I expected this to be a full evening of laughing at you, not with you. Liza is, in my mind, the musical equivalent of Jerry Lewis, and this was going to be as awful as anything I’d ever suffered through. And while it was every bit the train wreck I was expecting, it wasn’t funny at all.

I think I started shifting my perception earlier in the day when John came back from a massage. He said the masseuse mentioned that she had given Liza a massage the night before, and that she “had a nice room.” And I started thinking of her in the same unremarkable hotel we were in, looking out at the same windmills in the desert, getting her broken down body rubbed by a hotel masseuse who was probably more impressed by the room.

By the time I realized they had put her in a tent in the parking lot, a sort of sadness had settled in for me. I hadn’t really counted on the pathos worming its way into me, but it sobered me up pretty quick.

The crowd was, of course, on their feet from the moment she entered. There was no shortage of love in the tent, but it was so exaggerated that I felt like I was at her wake, not her concert. It was like the person had already departed, and we were celebrating her memory. Which I guess, in a way, we were.

The feeling was helped along by some of her patter, which was less than cheery: “Everyone I ever cared about has joined the choir.”

And then there were the terrible, hokey oldies she dredged up, from songs about her mother (we know who she was) to Liza with a Z, which she should never do again. It’s much too fast for her to keep up with, and her “S” and “Z” now unfortunately, sound exactly the same.

The whole performance seemed really taxing. She told the audience that her knees hurt and she had to sit for a few songs, giving showstoppers like Maybe This Time all the excitement of a fireside chat. And she was completely out of breath after every number, due in part to having to sing over the air conditioning. But she didn’t help herself by bringing along a full orchestra playing at top volume. She shouted over them for an hour, until I got a sore throat just from listening.

When it was time for the encore, I had no idea where she could possibly go. She was hoarse by this time, and she’d already done New York, New York. And when she came out for one last song, she came out with only her piano player.

The lights dimmed, and the tent went silent, except for the 1350 hp air conditioning system. Liza sat down on the piano bench and sang Every Time We Say Goodbye, and it was absolutely perfect. It was what was in her heart, and without a blaring orchestra to sing over, she sounded clear and strong and full of emotion.

That was the last surprise of the evening. I already knew I wouldn’t be able to get a drink in the casino.

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 pancho. 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.

MICHAEL

JACKSON

TRIBUTE

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.

But what you may not have realized is that even idiocy has to be rehearsed. And while the idea of gays getting married is frightening, it’s not so scary that NOM was able to find real people who are scared by it.

So here are some leaked audition tapes of shitty actors, pretending to be terrified by the prospect of complete strangers making a legal commitment to each other which will affect them in no way. Scary!

Auditions for marriage lie ad from End Marriage Lies on Vimeo.

What I love about this is that it’s even more moronic and pathetic than the commercials themselves; something I would not have thought possible.

And what a wonderful revelation it all is! Because anyone can see that this is not about salvation. This is show business. Beneath all the passion and the piety, this is a cheap production on green screen, and somewhere, someone has this on their reel.

I’d throw in a Wizard of Oz reference, but that would be so gay.

There are two things in this world that I find hard to believe:

1. Someone didn’t know that Clay Aiken was gay
2. Someone gives a shit

And yet, today there is a flurry of activity in the Claynation, as the Claymates try to come to terms with the fact that their favorite little American Idolator is a bonafide twink.

What kind of people, you may wonder, actually have to process the sexual orientation of a complete stranger? Who in their right mind needs emotional support from other strangers, to accept someone else’s private life? What kind of narcissist turns everything into something they personally have to overcome?

Well, the kind of people who have sexual feelings for Clay Aiken. Or more precisely, Christian women of a certain age, who today are sobbing into their Laura Ashley bedspreads and wondering why no one loved him enough to pray the gay away.

For God’s sake, will no one pray for ranaeaiken? Hasn’t she been through enough? She made someone she never met a Christian role model because she liked him on TV. Now what is she supposed to? Learn how to spell “pedestal”?

And maybe it does sound dramatic, but those are her honest feelings! And everyone is entitled to their real, honest feelings, even if they make you uncomfort– wait.

Fortunately, not everyone is taking this approach. NClayolina, for example, is just plain mad. And who could blame her? After all, Clay Aiken ruined Christmas.

How can she listen to O Holy Night, knowing he desires unholy nights?

How can she listen to Santa Claus is Coming, when he might be coming on Clay’s face?

How can she look at gaily wrapped packages?

How can she stuff the turkey when Clay is probably getting the same treatment in a hotel room near an air force base? It’s enough to turn a girl Jewish.

Fortunately, she has resolved to look past Clay’s charity work so she can ridicule him forever, which is all any of us can really ever do. She’ll just stand up and say, “Lord, grant me the serenity to mock the things I cannot change.” She used to be able to pray on her knees, but that’s something else Clay ruined for her.

By the way, isn’t it interesting that people decrying homosexuality always use the expression “shoving it down my throat”? Just once I’d like to hear someone say, “I’m sick and tired of having their alternative lifestyle lubed up and repeatedly shoved up my hot, willing ass.”

Number 9:
Bobby Cox
Atlanta Braves

Number 8:
John Buck
Kansas City Royals

Number 7:
Nick Swisher
Oakland Athletics

Number 6:
Richie Sexson
Seattle Mariners

Number 5:
Bartolo Colon
Boston Red Socks

Number 4:
Quinton McCracken
Arizona Diamondbacks

Number 3:
Ross Gload
Kansas City Royals

Number 2:
JJ Putz
Seattle Mariners

AND THE NUMBER 1 MOST HOMOEROTIC NAME IN BASEBALL:
Albert Pujols*
St. Louis Cardinals

*Not only because it’s pronounced “poo holes”, but because his nickname is “Prince Albert”